Part 11 (1/2)
Roducci gave an expressive shrug. ”Life is far too brief to be so upset.”
They made it to a lounge maintained by a consortium of international airlines, paid a fee, and entered. The room was a narrow rectangle. Ancient armchairs upholstered in an orange industrial fabric, tattered and stained, lined one wall, and laptop power stations lined another. After the plush accommodations on Stark's private jet, the spartan room felt depressing.
Travelers occupied most of the chairs and all of the power stations. Some read, while the vast majority talked on their cell phones. A group of Arabs sat in a far corner, the men wearing business suits, the women head scarves and black, cloak-type dresses. To Emma's right, a long counter held a Coca-Cola fountain and an industrial coffee-maker. Plastic-wrapped sandwiches sat on a battered tray. At the far end of the coffee counter was a hallway that led to the washrooms.
”I'm going there.” Emma pointed to the sign.
”I will await you here. I understand that your second contact is due to meet you in the next hour.” Roducci s.n.a.t.c.hed a newspaper from a nearby rack and settled into a free chair.
The bathrooms matched the outer area, in both age and cleanliness. Fluorescent lights cast a bluish gray glow onto the tiled walls. The far end contained three shower stalls. Yellowed vinyl curtains hung from a horizontal metal pole spanning each entrance. Emma moved one aside. White ceramic tile with gray specks and grout colored black with mold encased the interior. With a sigh, she headed to a sink. She dropped her duffel on the floor beneath it. The soap dispenser of the first was empty. She pushed the second, also empty, as was the third. At the third she depressed the handles of the cold and hot water faucets. A weak stream of tepid water poured out. It stopped after twenty seconds. She washed up as well as she could, repeatedly hitting the handles while splas.h.i.+ng water on her face and cleaning her hands.
When she stepped into the main room, Roducci was gone. She headed to the counter, grabbed a shrink-wrapped m.u.f.fin and a carton of yogurt. A display held individual servings of cereal. She chose a box of granola, ripped the top off the carton of yogurt, and poured the granola into it, then wolfed down the mix. When she was done, she took another quick look around for Roducci. She had twenty minutes before the second contact was to meet her at the rendezvous, so waiting for him to reappear was out of the question. She'd have just enough time to hustle back to the landing field.
On the tarmac once more, she received another bad turn of luck. The Price jet was gone. She walked a little farther out to check the names on the long row of private planes currently resting in Nairobi. None matched the Price jet's configuration. At the tenth jet, she reached the very end of the airport. A chain-link fence rimmed the runway. Beyond that was a frontage road. Cars whizzed by. She stood for a moment, perplexed, when she felt a touch on her arm. A man in a bright yellow reflective vest frowned back at her. He waved toward the aluminum door.
”I was just looking for my jet,” Emma said. The man asked her something. She didn't know what he was saying, but she took a stab in the dark. ”It's the Price Pharmaceuticals jet.”
He walked her to a small booth situated next to the aluminum door. A stool, a counter, a telephone, and a clipboard filled the tiny area, barely leaving enough room for the man once he stepped inside. His foot kicked a wastebasket on the floor. He muttered and shoved it up against the wall with the toe of his boot. He consulted the clipboard before picking it up and showing it to her. At the top was the name, registration number, and time of embarkation for the Price jet.
”It wasn't supposed to fly anywhere. This was its destination,” Emma said. The man shrugged, either not understanding her or not caring.
The aluminum door behind her slammed. She jerked around to see Roducci. He, too, glanced around as if searching for the jet.
”No Price jet and no contact. I've been stood up,” Emma said.
Roducci's eyebrows. .h.i.t his hairline. ”The contact did not appear and the disagreeable man left? I don't believe it!”
Emma didn't either. She looked at her watch. ”Let's give it some time.” She moved to lean against the terminal building to wait.
Thirty minutes later she decided that the contact wasn't going to show. Roducci sat on the ground next to her, his head against the wall. She tapped him on the shoulder.
”Do you have a secure contact number for Major Stromeyer?”
Roducci shook his head. ”She calls me on mine. She purchases prepaid phones for temporary use and gives me the latest number. Currently I can only contact her through the Darkview offices' line.” He frowned. ”Not a good idea, as it will immediately reveal our location to anyone listening.”
So calling Stromeyer was out. ”Any idea who the contact may be?”
Roducci shrugged. ”There are four Darkview personnel in Nairobi. Perhaps five. I know two.”
”Can you call them?”
”Of course.” Roducci dialed his phone and waited. Hung up. Dialed again and waited. Hung up. ”No answer at either.”
Emma looked at the jets all around her. ”I'm standing in an airport. Seems to me I should be able to get my own flight to Hargeisa, or at least closer to it, don't you think?” she said.
Roducci's eyes lit up. ”I have just the thing. A good friend of mine is a member of a fine, upstanding family. They have their own jet that is parked here. I will contact them to determine what it will cost for you to charter it.” Roducci whipped out his BlackBerry and began thumbing it furiously.
Emma started back to the terminal.
”Where are you going?” Roducci jogged next to her as he held the phone to his ear.
”To check the monitors. There may be a commercial jet leaving soon.”
”Please, please, not necessary, not to mention not likely. Who goes to Hargeisa anyway? Just let me discuss this with my friend. I urge you to settle down. All will be well.” He followed her into the terminal, chattering into his phone in a language Emma didn't understand. She headed to a customer-service desk manned by two agents. Above the desk hung several screens that contained scrolling flight information. She stood in front of the monitors, watching the green letters advance across the display. Roducci continued with an animated conversation. He lowered the phone.
”My friend says that you can use the jet. He can have a pilot here within the hour.”
Emma kept her eyes on the schedules. The flights to Mumbai were scrolling by. ”How much?”
Roducci held another conference. He lowered the phone. ”Two hundred thousand dollars. American.”
Emma gave him an incredulous look. ”Are you joking?”
Roducci seemed offended. ”It is a two-hour flight from Nairobi, and the cost of fuel is astronomical at the moment. The fee is for a round-trip, because once you are delivered there, the plane must be flown back here, and that is a.s.suming you don't get shot down on approach. The insurgents are firing upon aircraft.”
Emma raised her eyebrows at him. ”What a lovely thought,” she said. ”But that's in Mogadishu, not Hargeisa.”
Roducci gave a dismissive wave. ”Nonetheless, we are discussing Somalia, so anything is possible. My friend would like to receive his jet back in one piece. And by the way, the jet you are paying for is the top of the line. A Gulfstream of the latest model. My friend a.s.sures me that it has all the comforts of home. He bought it from a very extravagant Russian billionaire who is now dead.”
The screen completed its circuit. There were no flights to any destination in Somalia.
”Tell him thank you very much, but the cost is too high.”
”Major Stromeyer will perhaps a.s.sist you in paying for part or perhaps all of it.”
”I doubt that.”
”I can arrange it very quickly. I am able to procure whatever you desire. I have a corresponding agent in Africa who is quite good at this.”
Emma had no doubt that Roducci could arrange anything in any part of the world, but now she was much more concerned about his prices. ”Who would pay for the procurement?”
”Why, the American government, of course. Major Stromeyer sees to it that my invoices are paid. She is not as generous as some contractors who hire me, but she is fair.”
”I would have to run any charges past her and Mr. Banner first.”
Roducci grimaced. ”Mr. Banner and I do not always see with the same eye. I prefer to negotiate with Major Stromeyer.” A smile creased his face. ”She is a beautiful woman, is she not?”
”Major Stromeyer is very nice. As is Mr. Banner, once you get to know him. I'm sorry you don't always see eye to eye.”
Roducci shrugged again. ”It's no problem as long as Major Stromeyer is there.”
Emma stepped up to one of the women behind the customer-service desk. ”I need a flight to Hargeisa.”
The woman shook her head. ”All flights from Nairobi have been suspended. Ethiopian Airlines maintains flights, but you will need to connect in Addis Ababa.” She tapped on her keyboard. ”A flight there leaves in two days. You'll have a twelve-hour layover, and you will arrive in Hargeisa late that evening.”
”Is there no other way? It's very important that I get there.”
The woman paused. ”The United Nations relief organizations fly their personnel into Hargeisa. Go back to the main ticketing counter in Terminal One and look for this sign.” She wrote on a small notepad, tore the sheet off, and handed it to Emma. It bore the letters UNHAS.
”What does it stand for?” Emma said.