Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys]

  ***

  "Are you sure?" My question was inaudible over the roar of the engine and spraying of sand against the windscreen. The modified Cessna bucked and churned down the gravel-packed runway, gaining speed in a frantic attempt to lift itself from the earth. As a final resort, I ducked my head and held tightly to the bottom edge of the narrow front seat.

  "Here we go, Horn!"

  "Baron!"

  "No need for formality between us now, eh chum?" Kamir pulled back on the yoke and with his effort came a great series of cracks and groans from the rear compartment stuffed full of cardboard boxes. "There. I think we are in the air now."

  "I hope we remain for a while."

  "Ho, ho. Me too. Much easier driving on the ground, you know?" He popped the side window and casually lit a smoke. "We get to Tunis okay if we have enough fuel."

  "Enough?" Would my time airborne always be spent in a constant state of panic?

  "We added two tanks for Tunis. We make it," he said, taking a deep inhale, "if they are full."

  "Very well." The filling of petrol not having been my assignment, I had no choice in the matter. "Assuming we survive our flight to Tunis, what should our strategy be on the ground?"

  "Good of you to ask, mate. We are marketing a line of gandoras bearing emblems of your American football squads. Quite popular, they are." Kamir cut the thrust and allowed our flight to level off at an stimulating thirty feet above the deck of dunes below. "Go Bears!"

  "I wouldn't have pegged you as a Second City fan, honestly."

  "Casablanca and Chicago. Sister cities they are."

  "And gandoras with NFL team logos on them? Would not have guessed that, either."

  "Incredibly popular, Horn. Lions sell out, every time. Go Detroit Rock City!" He flicked his cigarette butt out the window and sealed us back in. "Except for now. Troubles."

  "So sorry to learn of that. By the way, do your troubles include flying so low?"

  "Not at all, chappie! Better this way, yes? Below the radar, no missiles or fighter planes to shoot us up. Maybe too close to those waging jihad on your unholy ass, but tough toenail as they say, right?"

  "All the way to Tunis at this token distance from the ground?"

  "Hmmm. A bit higher over Algiers," Kamir conceded, "but not by much. Now, about the troubles I am seeing --"

  "Quite. Sorry, my good man, to have sidetracked us on something as insignificant as a healthy altitude." I watched a flock of sheep scatter through a pasture at our approach. "Your football team colored gandoras. For both men and women?"

  "Both genders, yes. But is not problem," Kamir said, his voice trailing off in embarrassment as he toyed with the stabilizer rudder, causing the plane to careen from one side to the other.

  "Let me guess. You have no agreement with the owners. The apparel is unlicensed."

  "That is true. But I am also unlicensed to pilot plane and it still flies. Having a license is not the end all, eh what? And still that is not our problem."

  "Your problem seems not to harm your business."

  "Hardly, wanker. Our trouble began by putting New Orleans Saints' logo on gandoras. Not one. Not one hundred. Thousands! And machine would not stop! Gandoras galore with House of Bourbon on them. Spoiled fruit for our marketplace. What to do now?"

  "Unstitch them?"

  "Your capitalistic inspiration lags, old wog. Wasted material and labor beyond comprehension, never to be claimed back. Khalid will mightily disapprove. There will be much grief. Much grief, followed by death and more grief."

  "Khalid need not know, right? Be green, recycle them. A mistake is but once rectified when no one notices."

  "Our number one problem, chief. We deliver the entire mistake to Khalid tonight. On this plane. The mistake and problem becomes known when we land."

  "Why in the world would you --"

  "Kamal's decision."

  We flew, as it were, as few moments in silence. "Kamal wants you to look bad in front of Khalid. Kamal's blaming you for all of this because you decided to market the fleur de lis. He wants Khalid to think you exercise poor reasoning."

  "Like when I bring you to Oran," Kamir said grinning. "I make entrepreneurial choices with instinct. Kamal is a simple corporate bum licker."

  "Now I'm your point man when Khalid inspects the goods."

  "Don't feel too special, old boy. Point man or not, Khalid is efficient. As he says, the bullet passing through bodyguard is good enough to kill target." Kamir hastily throttled the nose of the plane upward to pass over a rising dustbowl. "I'm in it deep, chum. Welcome to the club. May your knowledge of American football be our saving grace, right o?"

  "Which is why you plucked me to safety at the airport."

  "Not at all. I saw Frenchmen chasing fellow Trowbridger. Give me that much, will you, hard case?"

  The remainder of the flight passed with little exchange as I contemplated having slipped free one noose only to feel another fit just as snugly around my neck. The first priority would be solving, if possible, Khalid and his dilemmas. Once that minor miracle was performed, I could sink my teeth into deciphering Final drive! Carthage links. Tunis. The puzzling phrase played over and over in my mind as the Cessna droned on, at times hypnotic enough to ease me into the trance of sleep as the desert sky around us transformed from rose to indigo to solid black.

  What was Angel trying to tell me? Assuming, of course, it was Angel who wrote the note.

  "That orange glow is Algiers," Kamir said, breaking the silence while lighting another cigarette. "Big city, Horn. Tough city. We avoid."

  "Algiers, Algeria," I remarked sizing up the expanse of distant lights. "Similar to the Jonathan family naming their son John."

  "More like Abdullahs calling first born Abdul," he corrected me.

  "Precisely what I meant," I agreed.

  "Three or four hours more we make it."

  "Given there's enough fuel in the tanks."

  "Oh yes, bloke," Kamir laughed lightheartedly. "The least of our worries. You keep planning how to explain your marketing plan to Khalid, what ho?"

  As the metropolis faded away behind us, I closed my eyes and summoned forth the remarks made by Ethelene on our Slipstream flight to Casablanca. At some point, while I struggled with napping, she had babbled to Pat about Bridgework suffering a number of attacks through the years. Safe deposit boxes had been compromised. Bribes offered and dismissed by her husband. Various homes ransacked while vacant. She was certain they were tailed while visiting countries the world over. It all culminated in the past year with vacation trips to Mount Rushmore, Machu Picchu and other tourist venues.

  Including Tunis and Paris, and during which time the dancing deaths occurred.

  My only conclusion reached was Bridgework harbored fear someone had breached the Loo's privacy. His kingdom was under siege from within, prompting the course of action to prepare and load a global financial holocaust onto four flash drives, which were then hidden away around the world. No use for bank deposit boxes or wall safes behind oil paintings this time. Bridgework dotted four points of the globe with digitized information that would alter the course of humankind, while using Ethelene as the dodge to rid himself of an officious inner circle. And when he was prepared and ready, he returned to collect the flash drives, cashing in his chips and -- under Chip/Silly's supervision --living forever to enjoy and control his endless wealth.

  Insanity. Another detached madman in the parade of many who desired to rule the world.

  In what felt like only a matter of minutes passing, the plane gave a sudden jolt and its engine sputtered to a stop. I raised my head and rubbed my eyes, hoping to see we were safely coasting along on the smooth surface of a runway. "What the --"

  "Gliding in now," Kamir said, looking as though he himself had just awoke. "No noise. Not to wake the neighbors."

  "But the runway is where?" I gripped the dashboard with both hands, peering into the confusion of lights we were rapidly descending upon. "We're going to cras
h into those buildings!"

  "No, no, no," Kamir was the essence of calm. "Khalid's airport is in the suburbs. A tight fit but a doable one, chum."

  I braced myself for the inevitable collision and watched as the darkened windows lining an alleyway touchdown flashed past. "Kamir!"

  "Is on the job, matey." With that, we bounced down on a rough surface, tipping the plane to and fro. "Now for the tricky part!" Kamir yelled. He pulled the flaps back to slow the craft and with a violent jerk we instantaneously came to a halt. The nose of the plane dipped forward, dislodging our cargo and burying us in a flurry of cardboard boxes.

  "Thank Allah," Kamir uttered in a low voice. "This one is never easy. You okay, Horn?"

  "Yes. Yes I am. And thank Allah, indeed."