Collateral Damage (11 page)

15

Tripoli

K
haron never ceased to be amazed at the power of money. It was both corruptor and motivator, an incredible genie with almost unlimited ability. A hundred euros could influence a man to take incredible risks, like flying from the safety of Benghazi to the open city of Tripoli.

“Open” meant claimed by neither side, but not entirely neutral—it would lean to whomever had the most power nearby, which at the moment was the rebels. Nor did it mean completely without risk—gangs from both sides fought openly in the streets several nights out of the week, and occasionally at the airport as well. A portion of the terrain southwest of the city was held by government forces, which had repulsed several attempts by rebels to clear them away.

A hundred euros, plus the regular fees of fuel and airplane rental. That was all it took to enter the outer ring of hell.

Kharon was taking the same risks, flying through a war zone, in an area where theoretically anything flying could be shot down. The fact that the allied air forces had not yet fired on civilian planes did not necessarily mean they would continue to hold their fire.

But the risk was nothing for him, a necessary part of his plan: twenty minutes along the water, a beautiful flight in the dusk.

K
haron knew he would be followed from the airport—everyone was—and so he went straight to a hotel, using the alias he had established two weeks before. The room he'd rented had been bugged by two different agencies. He gave it a quick look and saw that the bugs were still in place before changing and heading back downstairs.

Things were going well, but hubris was a killer. Kharon reminded himself of this as he walked down the steps to the Western-style lounge. He was a little early for his appointment, but this was as planned—he always liked to survey the environment at leisure.

It was a swamp. Besides the mixture of journalists—Kharon was masquerading as one himself—there was a thick mix of foreign agents and men who euphemistically referred to themselves as “businessmen.” Most were arms dealers, eager to strike an arrangement with the rebels who did business in the open city, or arrange transport south to the government-held territory.

There were women businesspeople, too. Their business was older than war.

“There is my friend!” declared Foma Mitreski as he approached the long bar. “Tired from his long journey and in need of scotch.”

“Foma.”

Kharon was not particularly surprised to see the Russian spy; while this was not Foma's normal hangout, he often made the rounds of the hotel bars in the city. His presence was inconvenient, but Kharon knew he could not afford to alienate him. The Russians were important partners, and Foma personally oversaw much of the relationship.

“How is the reporting going?” asked Foma. He knew of course that Kharon was not a reporter, but then Kharon knew that Foma was something more than the lower level embassy employee Foma pretended to be.

“The usual pronouncements of victory from both sides.” Kharon spoke just loud enough to be overheard. He pushed away the stool that was next to the Russian and leaned against the bar. He liked to move around easily, something that wasn't possible while perched on the stools here.

A few inches shorter than Kharon, the Russian was nearly twice as wide. He was a good decade and a half older, with hair so black, Kharon assumed it must have been dyed. He had a very red face, the sort associated with heavy drinking.

As always, Foma was dressed a little formally for Tripoli, with well-tailored trousers and a collared pullover shirt. His hands seemed too stubby for his body, thick, as if pumped with air or fluid. He had a small signet ring on his left pinky, and a larger black opal inset in gold on his ring finger.

A wedding ring as well. On the right hand, in the Eastern Orthodox tradition. But in the two years they had known each other, Foma had never spoken of his wife, or of any children. He did his best to present a blank slate to Kharon and the rest of the world.

“Scotch?” asked Foma. His English had a double accent—southern Russia and London, where according to his classified résumé he had both gone to school and served as a spy at the embassy. “They have some very old Glencadam,” he said. “Here, we will share a few sips.”

A few sips typically meant half a bottle. Kharon nodded indulgently, then waited as the bartender came over with a decanter of 1978 Sherry Cask Glencadam—a rarity even outside the Muslim world.

Foma took the glass after the whiskey was poured and held it to the light.

“Amber,” he said in English. Then he said a few words in Russian that further defined the color. Though adequate, Kharon's Russian was not quite good enough to capture the nuances of the words.

“It never fails to surprise me that I am drinking scotch with a Russian,” said Kharon, holding up the glass.

“Za vas!”
said Foma, offering a toast.

“Your health as well.”

Kharon drained the tumbler and returned it to the bar. Foma immediately asked for a refill. Kharon knew his own limits; he would sip from now on.

“So, a good scotch, yes?” asked Foma as they waited for the bartender.

“Good, yes,” agreed Kharon. “Very good.”

“It is complex.” He took the refilled glass and held it up, knowing from experience that Kharon would not have another. “Someday they will have good vodka in Tripoli. Until then . . .”

He drank.

“So, you have had a successful trip?” asked the Russian after he drained his drink.

“It was interesting.”

“Benghazi is peaceful?”

“More or less.”

“The princess? She is back from Sicily?”

“Yes.”

“I hope you gave her my regards.”

Kharon hadn't told Foma that he was seeing the princess, but he merely shrugged.

“You see, my friend, I am always gathering little details,” said Foma.

“I wouldn't worry too much about anything,” said Kharon. “Eventually, you will get what you wanted.”

“What has been paid for.”

“Not in full. And you already have quite a lot of information, thanks to me.”

Foma pushed his glass forward, silently requesting a refill from the bartender. “When will the delivery be made?”

“I'm working on it,” said Kharon. “Soon.”

“A man such as yourself with many contacts, back and forth—”

“I know where my best interests are,” said Kharon.

“I heard that a Chinese man was looking for you.”

Kharon didn't bother to answer. He would never do business with the Chinese—they were too apt to turn on their helpers. Say whatever else you wanted about the Russians, they honored their commitments.

“You're not drinking.” Foma gestured at Kharon's glass, still half full, as his own glass was refilled once more. “You are going to have a way to catch up.”

“I could never keep up with you, Foma.”

The Russian smiled, as if this was a great compliment.

“You are going south?”

Kharon shrugged.

“I assume that is necessary, no?” said Foma. “But being on both sides is difficult for you.”

“No more difficult for me than you,” said Kharon.

Kharon saw his contact coming through the door. Their eyes met briefly. Then the man saw Foma and slipped to the left, going over to the other end of the bar.

“So, we will meet again very soon?” asked Foma, putting down his glass.

“I'll call.”

“I must go. Much business today.”

“Naturally.”

“Enjoy your meeting.”

Kharon smiled tightly. Foma left a pair of large bills on the counter to cover his drinks, then left.

F
ezzan barely looked up when Kharon came over and sat down at his table. Though he was Muslim, Fezzan had two beers in front of him, both German Holstens.

“What did the fat Russian want?” asked Fezzan in Arabic as Kharon pulled the chair in. Between the local accent and Libyan idioms, Kharon sometimes had difficulty deciphering what the man said, but his disdain for Foma had always been obvious.

“He wanted to say hello,” Kharon told him.

“You talked long for people exchanging greetings.”

“It's polite to spend time with people who buy me drinks,” he told the Libyan. “Including you, Ahmed.”

Fezzan had used the name Ahmed when they first met. Kharon knew it was not his real name, but it was convenient to continue the fiction. In fact, it felt almost delicious to do so, a kind of proof to himself that he was far superior to the people he was dealing with.

Hubris is a killer, he reminded himself.

“You wish transport south again?” asked Fezzan.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“As soon as it can be arranged.”

“Tomorrow then. At four.”

“In the morning?”

“Afternoon.”

Kharon shook his head. “Too late. I want to be there before noon.”

“Noon.” Fezzan made a dismissive sound and picked up one of the beer bottles. He emptied it into his glass. “Who would even be awake then?”

“If you can't do it, I can find someone else.”

Fezzan scowled at him. “I have other business.”

“That's not my problem.” Kharon started to get up. He noticed a young woman in a silk dress eyeing him at the end of the bar. She might be useful.

“All right.” Fezzan thumped the empty bottle on the table. “You know, you are not always a welcome person behind the lines.”

“No?” Kharon glanced over at the woman, studying her. It was difficult to tell her age in the bar. She could be anywhere from fourteen to thirty.

Most likely on the younger end of the scale, he decided.

Fezzan followed his gaze.

“You should be careful,” warned the Libyan. “Some fruit has terrible surprises inside.”

“Best pick it before it rots, then.”

T
he girl was gone by the time Kharon finished with Fezzan, but that was just as well; he had much work to do. He went upstairs and caught a taxi to the Tula, a tourist-class hotel on the ocean about a half mile away. The hotel had a spectacular view of the ocean, and a restaurant on the roof some thirty-five stories high. But for Kharon, the attraction was the computer in the alcove just off the lobby.

There were two there, generally used by patrons to confirm airline reservations and print out boarding passes. But the Internet connection was not limited to this, and within a few moments Kharon had disabled the timer as well.

He went to Yahoo News and did a quick recap of the stories on the bombing attacks on the government city.

Two hundred thirty-eight stories had been published in the past twelve hours. But none included the video he had uploaded the night before.

All of that work—not to mention expense—for nothing?

That was not true. The same man who procured the video had also introduced the worm; it was a package deal. But still, it was disappointing that the video had not been used.

Most of the stories were vague about what had happened. Kharon decided he would have to help things along. Choosing one at random, he went to the comments section. He created an account and then began typing:

THE VICIOUS ATTAK ON THE TOWN IN
L
IBYA WAS CONDUCTD BY A AMERICAN DRONE . . .

He liked the typos. They would stay.

Kharon wrote a few more lines, then posted it. After repeating the process on a dozen other news sites, he turned to his real work.

Opening the text editor, he began pounding the keys:

THE ATTACK THAT WENT WRONG IN THE LIBYAN CITY YESTERDAY WAS LAUNCHED BY AN AMERICAN UAV USING AUTONOMOUS SOFTWARE TO MAKE WAR DECISIONS. IT WAS DESIGNED BY RAY RUBEO, A PROMINENT AMERICAN SCIENTIST WHO CREATED DREAMLAND . . .

Kharon added the slight inaccuracies in Rubeo's biography—he did not create Dreamland, nor did he profit there, as Kharon wrote further down in his missive—out of design rather than spite; they would provoke questions about the scientist. The fact that Rubeo was no longer associated with Dreamland—the project was now under another arm of the Department of Defense—was immaterial. The press knew what Dreamland was. Saying the name gave them a bit of red meat to chew on.

Kharon signed the e-mail with the letter F, then sent it to the address of the
New York Times
national security reporter. He retrieved the text, made a few small changes, and sent it to the
Washington Post
.

He sent it three other newspapers, and to reporters at several blogs. Then he backed out, erased all of the local memory, and rebooted the computer.

Work done for the day, Kharon looked at his watch. It was well past midnight—too late to bother trying to sleep. He thought of the girl he had spotted earlier in the bar. Perhaps she would have returned by now.

He made sure the computer screen was back to the hotel's front page, then went out to find a taxi.

16

Sicily

T
urk's fourth beer of the night finally got him off to sleep. He dozed fitfully, curled up at the side of the king-size mattress, huddled around one of his pillows. His dreams were gnarled images that made no sense—an A–10, an F/A–18, Ginella, Zen, buildings, and endless sky.

His phone woke him up, buzzing incessantly.

He had no idea where it was, or where he was. He pushed around in the bed, disoriented. His head hurt and his legs were stiff.

The phone continued to ring. Its face blinked red.

“Turk,” he said, finally grabbing it.

“Captain Mako, I'm sorry I woke you.”

It was Ginella. Her voice was officious, almost quiet.

“Not a problem,” Turk managed.

“I'm down two pilots, Grizzly and Turner. I'm told you're available, if you choose to volunteer.”

“Yeah, uh, well uh—”

“I just spoke both with your Colonel Freah and Operations. It's entirely voluntary.”

“When do you, uh—when do you need me there?”

“We'll be briefing the mission at 0600,” she told him.

“Um, sure. I guess.”

“That's a half hour from now, Captain. Can you make it?”

“Yeah, um, I'm at the hotel,” he said.

Her voice softened a little. “I realize that, Captain. Would you like me to send a driver?”

“Man, if you could do that, it would be super.”

“Be in the lobby in ten minutes,” she told him. “He'll have coffee.”

“Ten minutes?”

“He's already on the way. I knew you'd say yes.”