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“Doubtful,” Jeremy says. “Like most politicians in this part of the world, he was taken out by a car bomb. Rami, over there—to the left.”
“Over there” turns out to be a small hangar with a two-engine jet aircraft nearby, painted white with red and blue markings, the tricolor of France painted on its tail. Rami slows down and stops the BMW. Armed men in tan uniforms wearing red berets stand by the roll-up stairway to the aircraft.
“Here we go,” Jeremy says, opening his door. I follow, and both of us sling our MP5s over our respective shoulders. There’s not much else to carry, but I put my SIG Sauer in my waistband as Jeremy talks low to Rami, shaking his hand. I go over to Jeremy and Rami extends his hand. When I take it, Rami quickly kisses my own, then steps back, laughing.
I decide not to slug him.
It’s warm here, the salt smell of the nearby Mediterranean mixing in with the heady tang of aviation fuel, and I enjoy stretching my legs. Up the way are two Airbus passenger jets bearing the cedar-tree logo of Middle East Airlines.
Jeremy gestures to the two-engine jet. “Our flight out of here.”
“Very nice,” I say. “A charter?”
“A favor,” he says, as we walk toward the ramp. From the open door to the fuselage, a young woman in a black skirt and a white blouse with captain’s epaulets quickly descends. Her hair and eyes are black. Her skin is tanned. She doesn’t smile as she gives us both the once-over.
“We need to leave,” the pilot says, speaking English with a slight French accent. “The control tower is wondering what’s taking us so long. So move, please.”
“Sorry, dear,” Jeremy says, but she’s having none of his charm offensive. She points to us and says, “I won’t have those machine guns on board. Leave them behind with our guards.”
I feel like putting up a fight, but I follow Jeremy’s lead as he takes off his MP5 and hands it to the nearest guard. I follow up and say, “We’re going to bill MI6 when this is done.”
“Stand in queue,” Jeremy says. “There are many unpaid bills in front of you.”
He trots up the stairs and I follow him.
I enter the cabin and just stand for a moment, taking in the luxury. Padded light-brown leather chairs. A pair of couches with throw pillows. A small dining table. A vase with fresh roses in it. A plasma-screen television hanging from the bulkhead. Luxurious white carpeting beneath our grimy feet. It looks like someone imported a suite from the Waldorf and slapped wings on it.
“You guys must have one hell of an expense account to charter something like this,” I say. “This looks like an Embraer Lineage…made in Brazil.”
“Our expense account is nearly nil,” Jeremy says, taking off his dirty and bloodstained coat, wincing as he does so. “But our favor bank is nearly always overflowing. This private jet belongs to a senior official at Total SA in France. Last year an SAS squadron helped the French rescue his son and two other hikers who’d gotten lost in Libya.”
“Hell of a place to get lost.”
“True,” Jeremy says. “Still, it was a good job all around, and the senior official said he was eternally in our debt. Corporations love stability and open borders. They hate terrorists and their supporters as much as we do. When they can, big business passes along information to us, the French, and no doubt Langley.”
No doubt,I think, though I wonder what the average Frenchman filling his Renault with petrol costing about $5.50 per gallon would think of his nation’s largest oil company springing for a luxurious flight like this.
There’s a cheerybonsoir,and a male steward comes forth, holding two shopping bags that he places on the floor. He’s slim and smiling, but his nose wrinkles for the briefest of moments and I wonder just how foul Jeremy and I must smell to this young man in black shoes, slacks, white shirt, and a necktie featuring the swirling, colorful logo of Total SA.
There’s a quick flicker of French between Jeremy and the steward—Jean-Paul—about when we’re to take off and other flight details, then Jean-Paul goes forward.
Jeremy picks up the two shopping bags and hands them to me with a grin. “For you, courtesy of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”
One bag has a KM logo on its side; the other says Clarks, a shoe company. I’m impressed that Jeremy got someone to go shopping on my behalf during our road trip to Beirut, and now I remember his seemingly innocent comment about my shoe size back up in the mountains.
Good tradecraft.
“For real?” I ask.
He gives a quick point to the rear of the aircraft. “If you head aft, there’s a loo available for you. Have a go—change into something clean and comfortable.”
I carry the bags with me and walk a couple of feet, then plop my tired butt onto the nearest couch.
I smile up at Jeremy. “Once we’re at cruising altitude, I’ll do just that. I’d hate to be in the loo while you run out to get some lamb shish kebabs just as the jet decides to take off.”
He says, “Still don’t trust me?”
“Please, Jeremy. I don’t want to hurt your feelings in public.”
