Flight

by Adam Thorpe

  This hope was summarily dealt with by a call from Al one Monday morning. Bob was walking down Crowthorne’s main street, on his way back from the dry-cleaner’s with his pilot’s uniform. The gold twist on the cuffs had, as usual, cost him extra: after all, it was silk. Sand had fallen out of the pockets, they said. The only other customer was a BA first officer, who tried to talk shop.

  ‘Bob. It’s Al. Bad news. What the hell’s that in the background?’

  ‘We’ve declared war on Germany. Phone back after the all clear. Five minutes.’

  The wail of the sirens contracted and dilated in its usual manner. He ducked into a shoe shop to escape the noise, which still tended to trigger a vivid horror montage on a loop: hairy hands around a little girl’s neck, big teeth chomping on a finger, all blurring into a flash of personal memory that he would rather not be reminded of. Overreaction or therapeutic recycling?

  The shop was empty and too quiet. He phoned back from the street.

  ‘It’s over, Al. Peace in our time. The weekly Broadmoor test.’

  ‘Talking of which. Pedro Diez, the skipper with the eyebags.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Details scanty. Location was Riga, a sixth-floor balcony was involved, and drink. Day before yesterday. RIP.’

  Shoppers, harmlessness, gum-spattered pavements. A bus wheezing. Normal life.

  ‘That is definitely bad news, Al. More details, please.’

  Al scampered through them. The Latvian authorities had ruled out foul play, despite bruises: several grams of alcohol were found in his blood, there was a bottle of vodka in the room, and his reputation had followed him down. Bob’s visitors had not forced vodka down his own throat. Al wasn’t reassured by this. ‘You know what I’m doing? Painting my old Toby lures. Gloss black and gold. To hook up the big, fat salmon. That’s us, skipper.’

  Back home, Bob tapped in ‘Pedro Diez’ and ‘pilot’. There were several reports of Diez’s death in various languages, and a freight dogs’ blog forum from six months earlier in which Al had said what a gas it was flying with ‘Pedro Diez, Bob Winrush and Hans Schmitt’ and regaled the following story:

  Pedro, fresh from Click Air, never went anywhere without this vintage porn mag from the good old days when they showed the boobs on the cover. One time he waved it at the ramp agent during push-back. The RA waving the gear pin and ‘Manuel’ (as we called him) waving the porn mag, the agent in fits. ‘I’m gonna read this during my flight!’ Crazy. Pedro told me he did the same when he was with Click. Presumably they gave him the push. Anyone heard from him recently?

  Strange, Bob thought: Al had seemed not to recall him when asked. Maybe he was losing his memory under the strain.

  It wasn’t until the next morning that the latest from Tim Sightly appeared, to the same search words and in pole position. It was in the AAW’s main newsletter, and described the untimely departure of Diez, ‘a colourful dog of war from Mexico’ and the ‘ruthless carnage in Africa’ facilitated by the arms trade. Bob read the rest with a wincing attention. Citing the web address of Al’s blog entry, Sightly confirmed that

  Diez’s regular crew included Hugh ‘Al’ McAllister and First Officer Hans Schmitt; the latter recently died in suspicious circumstances during a freight flight (see November’s post). Might there be a link between the ‘accidental’ deaths, over a period of six months, of Schmitt, arms broker Lennart Burström, Captain Pedro Diez and Israeli investigative journalist Matt Sharansky? If so, what is it?

  One possible link is a single return flight from Istanbul and Turkmenbashi, suspected of delivering arms to the Taliban via a final overland leg across Turkmenistan to Afghanistan. Burström arranged this flight, and the crew included Schmitt and Diez. Significantly, it was this flight that Sharansky was investigating when he was killed in Radom (Poland) by a hit-and-run driver.

  Before we rush into speculation based on the ownership of the aircraft, we have to establish the identities of the lessee and the charterer, and these are hidden behind a complex web of holding companies. The list of usual suspects drawn up by Sharansky is long, and in certain cases surprising, even unlikely. However, a simple arms-smuggling exercise could not explain why any of these would wish to eliminate an entire freight crew and thus add homicide to their crimes, as well as unwelcome attention.

  It has been alleged (email confidential source) that a large quantity of heroin was carried on the return flight – a flight still technically under the same charterer, though flying back to base empty. Arms dealers and drugs traffickers do not generally mix, the latter being wholly illicit; they might, however, use the same transport infrastructure. Could it be that, in this instance, there was no structural or logistical connection between the two deals, and that the heroin shipment was opportunistic and not officially cleared by the original (arms-only) dealer? This would not go down well with the latter.

  Watch this space.

  Bob sent the piece on to Al, ran himself a deep bath and reflected in the steam. Tim Sightly had kept his promise: no mention was made of Robert Winrush. He turned the hot tap with his toes and felt a warm sense of relief.

  When he dressed in the bedroom, he saw his uniform in its dry-cleaner’s plastic and wondered if he would ever wear it again. The idea of twiddling his thumbs in a cold, wet and far-off place became less attractive suddenly. Was flight necessary any longer? These guys were energy saving: they only did what they had to do. Eliminating Captain Winrush was an optional extra. They didn’t usually bother with optional extras.

  The phone made him jump. It was Al. He was not happy about the article.

  ‘Why weren’t you mentioned, Bob?’

  ‘I never flew with Diez.’

  ‘He wouldn’t know that, not from my blog. He just left you out.’

  ‘Come on, Al,’ said Bob, trying to keep it light. ‘I didn’t fly the Turkmenbashi leg.’

  ‘I suppose so. You haven’t been talking to this saintly Slightly guy, then? Some kind of deal?’

  ‘Sightly. I don’t know him from Adam. Most of his info must have come from the late Sharansky.’

  ‘Isn’t David part of their outfit? The Arms Agin Weapons gang?’

  ‘Al, don’t go there. Do you really think I’d want David to be involved?’

  ‘It’s a bitch. You were lucky, not being mentioned. I’ve never felt more bottle-shaped. Made of fucking glass, I am.’

  Bob told him that the Outer Hebrides was no longer a draw.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You know why. I think they’ve lost interest in me.’

  ‘Happy you. Then where are you planning on going?’

  ‘Back into freight.’

  ‘I thought you wanted a life change, skipper.’

  ‘I made the mistake of taking my uniform to the dry-cleaners.’

  ‘And I’ve gone to all that trouble. The house was yours. Great views, fantastic fishing, empty beaches. Whale spotting.’

  He was jogging in the woods near Crowthorne, feeling reasonably good in the circumstances. A vibration against his thigh. It was Olivia, calling him a fucking bastard. He asked her, breathless from the fierce pace he’d set himself, if this was the result of something specific or was she just giving herself a rush. She asked him in turn why he was panting. He explained.

  She said, ‘Thank God I don’t have to put up with all that macho stuff any more. Aviation jargon, machines. Thank God I don’t have to hear any of that again. Those fucking oicks you hired to ransack the house not only broke the lock and one of my porcelain jars but left mud all over the white carpet. Or did you do it yourself, knowing we were house-hunting in Shropshire?’

  ‘A break-in? When?’

  ‘Oh, you sound so surprised.’

  ‘Olivia, I swear on my life that I didn’t hire anyone to do anything. Nor have I put a foot in our – I repeat, our – home since you bawled me out. Why the hell do you presume I had anything to do with a break-in?’

  ‘Because most of the mess was in your study. V
ery clever. Undoing all Ben’s sorting. And nothing was nicked. I’ve told him he should just chuck it all, willy-nilly. We’ve got the message. Now you can get ours. Leave us alone.’

  The woods stretched wintrily all around. He scanned them. For the first time since the balcony incident, he felt a trace of fear.

  ‘I can see why you think I had something to do with it, Olivia. But I didn’t. I’ll come over at a time that suits you. I’ll put the stuff in store. And don’t chuck it, not a single paper clip. That’s against the law.’

  ‘So is breaking and entering. We’ll be out all day tomorrow. You’ve got a key. Don’t touch anything that’s not yours.’

  That didn’t leave much – except perhaps Zip Man’s photographic equipment and organic aftershave – because the estate was not yet divided, but he didn’t think it wise to point this out. Instead, he got on with being a meek (rather than fucking) bastard, hired a white van and drove over to Worcestershire in awful traffic that made him feel sympathy for all earthbound creatures who hadn’t ever driven the sky.

  The study was awash. Stuff was spilling out into the corridor. They’d entered neatly by the French windows: no doubt professionals looking for copies of the logbook and diary or anything else relevant to the Turkmenbashi flight and its potential embarrassment to the present government of Israel (eerily, he heard all this in Sharansky’s voice). He repacked and threw it all into the back of the van, running up and down the stairs furiously with black plastic sacks until sweat dripped off his nose. He hoped Olivia and her art nerd would come back in time to see him, because he wouldn’t have stopped: he was a muscular machine, pure manic male. But he did it all alone, with imaginary cross hairs in the middle of his brow. And nothing happened. Nothing could happen in this village, bar mindless yobbery and fierce mutterings between neighbours.

  He took a turn around the leafless orchard, stroked an exposed beam and the lowest edge of the thatch as a kind of farewell handshake and drove out to a self-storage warehouse on the edgelands of Reading, wheeling his junk on a trolley down the aisle to a grey cell with a steel grille for a ceiling. He was given the key by a large wheezing storeman called, according to his plastic name-tag, TAG.

  ‘Thanks, Tag,’ Bob joked, nodding at his chest.

  But Tag didn’t see the joke: that was his name.

  He told Al all about it. There was a big sigh.

  ‘At least you’re still standing,’ Al said.

  Bob reckoned aloud that just because they’d done some further research didn’t mean the heavies were out to get him personally. All Al said was, ‘Let it go, Bob, let it go. Head down, mouth shut. Make your surface area as small as possible.’

  ‘See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.’

  ‘You said it, friend.’

  Bob reassured himself that they couldn’t know about the Crowthorne address. They showed no signs of doing so. Neither did Bensoussan and his testicular knees show any signs of life on the Internet, the last article about him written in 2008. You will be dead by Monday was already past its sell-by date – by over two years. Bob had experienced having his room turned over once before, back in 2004, in Somaliland, in a hotel run by a retired vice consul from Cheadle who’d taken him scuba-diving. Perhaps it was something to do with the gangly pirates hanging around in the harbour, or with the naughty green boxes he was delivering onto the massive strategic runways in the middle of the bush. He took a couple of days’ sick leave – the intruders had bashed him about a bit, grunting in the darkness – and was fine.

  The long and the short of it was that he was concerned, but not yet headless-chicken.

  Al phoned back the next day. He wanted a final confab, in person. Bob couldn’t see the point, but Al insisted. Phone calls could be hacked, tapped, whatever.

  ‘And I can be followed,’ Bob said.

  ‘You’re not a target, you said so yourself.’

  ‘Not a primary target.’

  ‘Anyway, you’ll know it soon enough on those winding wee lanes. Hit metal. Vulva, twelve thirty tomorrow. I said vulva. Remember? I’ll buy you one. We’ll wish each other luck. Would you be interested in seeing the horse?’

  Ulverton was in the vicinity of Al’s farmhouse retreat. Bob briefly debated with himself whether to stay overnight again at the Old Rectory and check out the Estonian receptionist, but his sensible side won.

  The day dawned grey and sleety, with a blustery wind; the last thing he desired was to battle out to the country, but loyalty was a precious thing. The slip road remained empty in his rear-view mirror as he left the M4 early to cut up through Bradfield and Yattendon into his and Olivia’s old courting ground of chalky downland. He stopped the car on a long stretch of country lane and waited: no one. Woods. Leafless branches. He wanted to cry; he blasted himself with some Eagles instead.

  Who is gonna make it?

  We’ll find out in the long run, in the long run.

  He parked the Healey on the gravel behind the pub, and had fifteen minutes to spare. The wind was even worse here, so he visited the church: Olivia had liked the atmosphere, and he remembered her long fingers stroking the smooth stone of the ancient font and how much he had craved her then and there. A sob rose in his chest, which had never happened before. Gather up the threads and cut them.

  Apart from a couple of flat-screens, the pub was much the same, all old farm tools and sepia shepherds. It was surprisingly crowded: smart braying types in shooting jackets vied with morose elderly couples picking at the day’s special sprawled on rectangular plates. He’d come in bang on schedule, but there was no sign of Al.

  A table in the nook near the toilets was free, and he sat without ordering. Twelve thirty-five. Al was never late. Twelve forty. Never. He didn’t think he should call or text: one never knew with satellites, tracking systems, mobile pinging. A thick-necked man in his thirties shared the cushioned bench at the next table, drinking what looked like lime soda and studying his iPhone. He was faintly worrying: something military about him, an efficiency in the way he drank, scanned the room, spread his knees and made the bench rock.

  Bob caught his eye and tried a friendly nod. The man leaned towards him and said, not looking at him, ‘Captain Winrush?’

  ‘Not in the slightest.’

  ‘I’m Andrew,’ said the man, in a nasal voice that didn’t go with the rest of him; maybe because he was talking out of the side of his mouth. ‘He’s in the toilet. I saved you the table.’

  ‘You’re the bodyguard.’

  ‘Close protection officer, more low-profile. More covert than overt, but that might change. Pleased to meet you.’

  A hand was proffered, hidden by the tables from the normal life beyond. Bob shook it, gingerly. A firm grip, but damp and smooth. It felt like a gay assignation.

  ‘He’s been in there at least ten minutes,’ Bob pointed out.

  ‘Nine,’ said Andrew, checking his Rolex. ‘Retention. Nerves. Psychological.’

  ‘He’s filled you in, has he?’

  ‘Indeed. A complex one.’

  ‘That means bloody nasty.’

  ‘Oh, I’m recently back from CP work in Iraq.’

  ‘Miss it, do you?’ joked Bob.

  Andrew fixed him with the full five-yard stare, but from five inches away. ‘I’ve no intention of ever going near the place again.’

  Al emerged from the toilets, looking flushed, in a whiff of close air and soap. His proffered hand was limp and dry.

  ‘Fucking Ducks and Drakes. What a nonsense. I thought duck was male, drake female, found myself inside the skirts’ cubicle. I gather you two’ve met,’ he said, slumping into the chair. ‘Christ, I stood there, desperate, and nothing came out. Maybe it’s the prostate.’

  He seemed to be breathless. It was worrying, Bob thought.

  ‘Psychological,’ said Andrew. ‘Now pretend I’m not here. The Unknown Soldier. That’s my nickname.’

  Bob found the lunch peculiar: Al was not himself, huffing and wheezing, mumbling
into his pint, leaving half the gristly steak.

  ‘Death by horseradish sauce,’ joked Bob.

  ‘I’ve got nae appetite. Hardly surprising.’

  But he did confirm that the croft-house paperwork was done. ‘It’s safely yours to rent from whenever you fancy it. If you change your mind.’

  ‘Thanks, Al, but I doubt I will. I’m going back to work. Work keeps you from moping.’

  ‘I hope your confidence is not misplaced, skipper. Just because you weren’t mentioned by Tim Unsightly, a fact which still bothers me.’

  ‘Why should it?’

  ‘I’m a jealous man. These bad guys make Andrew here look like Snow White. Och, he’s told me stories. The man’s worked in circles where tearing someone off a strip is meant literally. Guys with all-body tattoos. Georgians, Chechens. Can’t recall their name.’

  ‘Vory V Zakone,’ said Andrew unexpectedly, out of the side of his mouth. ‘Worse than whom there is none, except for the Baltic guys, the Israeli mobsters, the Italians, of course, and maybe the Bulgarians.’

  Bob nodded. Andrew’s jugular lay on his thick neck like a rope.

  ‘A lot to choose from,’ he said.

  ‘Plus the Jamaicans, the Indians, the Chinese, the Corsicans, and the Nigerians,’ said Andrew. ‘Along with the Albanians.’

  ‘You’ve omitted the Mexicans.’

  Andrew nodded. ‘And many others of like ilk.’

  Bob turned to Al, who was staring at his drink. ‘You forget I’ve already met the bad guys, Al. Full frontal.’

  His former crewman smiled. ‘Well, things can boomerang,’ he said. Bob felt something being put in his jacket pocket. ‘The number to use when phoning me, and no other. It’s safe from big ears.’

  ‘How is it safe?’

  ‘You’ve forgotten I’m an engineer, with a degree in electronics. You’re just a spanner-and-grease man.’

  ‘Actually, I hadn’t forgotten.’

  ‘Learn it and swallow it. Or whatever. Think of it as your credit card number.’

  Bob felt the slip of paper in his pocket. ‘I never had a boomerang. As a kid.’