Early Warning Read Free Page A

about nine or ten in the morning, but here, where the Mediterranean ended and Asia began, it was darkening and reddening toward nightfall.
    He had dropped off, but it had been a restful if alert sort of doze that not only reminded him of his time in North Africa but made him remember what it felt like to be twenty-one rather than thirty-three. He undid his seat belt and stood up, allowing himself to yawn. He cocked his head to the side and slid toward the bathroom, opened the door, went in. He gave himself a bit of time, but not too long, and then he stood up, flushed, waited another moment. He unlocked the door. Louis was sitting just as he had been most of the trip, rereading his copy of
The Saturday Evening Post.
Frank saw at once that the angle of the folded top of the third bag forward on the right—Frank’s side—was slightly different. And the middle of the three clasps had not been twisted as tightly as before. The other clasps were unchanged. This was why Arthur had hired him—to notice things. Frank sat down again. Louis paid no attention to him. Frank had no idea what Louis’s self-defense skills were. Frank also had no idea how his own skills might have deteriorated since he was actually twenty-one and could grab some guy’s fist almost before the guy decided to pop him one.
    The Comet landed in a different kind of dark from American dark—much deeper, no glow of nearby cities or streetlights or even headlights making their way from one empty spot to another. Wherever they landed—it was August 13 here, almost the 14th—Frank knew they were somewhere in Iran, but it was not a base or an oil field. It was a quiet place, dry-smelling. The door opened. Three men came up the stairs and began carrying away the sacks. When the man picked up the last two of the ten sacks, Louis stood up to follow him. Frank stood up to follow Louis. Louis had his jacket on, and when he came to the top of the stairs, he slipped into his coat, but that didn’t stop Frank from noting the rectangular outline just barely discernible against Louis’s chest.
    At the bottom of the stairs, Louis broke into an easy trot. The three men with bags were dim in the dark, almost out of sight. Frank was on Louis in a moment, grabbing his wrist and pinning it high and tight behind his back. Louis grunted. Frank said, “I can break your arm, Louis, easy as pie.” Louis twisted, and Frank lifted the arm even higher. Louis bent over, and Frank reached around with his left hand and slipped it inside Louis’s coat and jacket. He felt the stiff rectangle and pulled it out. There was only one. He stepped away from Louis and flipped through the packet. Louis stumbled forward, caught himself, but didn’t do anything other than press and rub his right shoulder with his left hand. He said, “You dislocated it.”
    “Want me to put it back in?”
    “What the fuck do you care, Freeman? It’s not your dough.”
    Frank smiled. Arthur had rebaptized him yet again.
    A car pulled up—something nondescript and old, but heavy. The driver got out and opened the trunk, and the ten bags of money were piled in it. The trunk was closed. The driver then opened the back door on the passenger’s side, and Louis got in. The driver closed the door. The driver had a beard. He didn’t say anything. The three men who had transferred the bags came over and stood rather close to Frank—as close, say, as New Yorkers would stand, closer than Iowans would stand. He felt mildly uncomfortable. After about two minutes, the passenger door of the car opened again, and Louis got out. The man to Frank’s left gestured for him to get in. Frank got in. The door closed with a thud.
    The fellow in the car was wearing a U.S. Army uniform, two stars on his collar. He held out his hand, and Frank shook it. “Mr. Freeman. Thanks for your help. Arthur speaks highly of you, and, my Lord, we couldn’t do a thing or take a step without Arthur. If this shebang goes over, we have Arthur