by Jim DeFelice
Getting past the first barrier just before dawn had been easy: Kharon slipped the first man who approached a few euros and they were waved around the bus that half blocked the highway.
The gate at Birak several hours later was another story.
Birak Airport was some 350 miles south of Tripoli. During Gaddafi’s reign it had been a major air base, with a good portion of the Libyan air force stationed there. Though the planes had been moved, the airport remained a government bastion, with temporary quarters set up in the revetments where fighter-bombers were parked. These quarters consisted of RVs and tents, with a few larger trailers mixed in.
A civilian city had sprouted just south of the base. Populated by family members and “camp followers,” as the age-old euphemism would have it, it was even more ragtag, with shanties and trailers clustered around tents and lean-tos that were more like lean-downs. The sun hit the white roofs of the trailers, creating a halo of light in the desert, a glow that made it look as if the settlement was in the process of exploding.
The road past the airport was a straight line of yellow concrete that ran through an undulating pasture of rock and sand. Grit and light sand covered everything, making the surface as slippery as ice. The path and nearby terrain were littered with vehicles. A few were burned-out hulks, set on fire during battles and skirmishes too insignificant to be remembered by anyone but the dead. Most were simply abandoned, either because they had run low on fuel or the keepers of the gate refused to allow the occupants to proceed with them.
Or proceed at all. Low mounds of sand not far off the road covered dozens of decayed and picked-at corpses. Hawks and other birds of prey circled nearby, drawn by the prospect of an easy meal.
The government forces had a “gate” on the highway, which they used ostensibly to keep rebels from coming south but in reality existed only to extract a toll — or bribe, depending on your perspective — from travelers. To reach the gate, a driver had to first weave past the abandoned vehicles, and then run the gamut of a de facto refugee camp populated by travelers who either couldn’t pay the toll or were waiting for others to join them from the North.
The camp had swelled since Kharon’s last visit, barely a week before. It had consisted then of no more than a hundred individuals, most of them living in their own vehicles under broad canvas cloths stretched for cover. Now it seemed to be ten times the size, extending from the shoulders to block the road itself.
Fezzan took their four-wheel-drive pickup off the road, moving west as they threaded through the ad hoc settlement. Kharon raised his Kedr PP–91 Russian submachine gun, making sure anyone looking toward the cab of the truck would see that he was armed. Fezzan had one hand on the wheel; the other gripped his own PP–91.
In truth, the pair would be easily outgunned in a battle here, if only by the sheer number of potential opponents. But brandishing the weapons made it clear they would not be casual victims, and that was enough to ward off most of their potential enemies.
A small group of children ran up to the truck, begging for money. Kharon waved them away, yelling at them in Arabic, though he was careful not to use or point the weapon — he feared inciting the parents.
They were in sight of the barrier to the west of the gate — a row of abandoned tractor trailers, augmented by the wrecked hulk of a Russian BMP and a tank that had lost its treads — when their pickup slid sideways in a loose pit of dirt and got stuck.
Fezzan tried rocking it back and forth, overrevving and making things worse. Jumping from the cab, Kharon sank to his knees in the loose sand. For a brief moment he felt a wave of fear take him; the unexpected hazard had left him temporarily without defenses.
He pushed his knee up, then shifted his weight to the right, wading through the sand to firmer ground.
By now a considerable audience had gathered, children in front, women in the middle, men to the rear. Most of the men were gray-haired and silent, glum-faced.
“Push us out,” Kharon commanded. “Get to the rear. Five euros for each person who helps.”
Five euros was a good sum, but no one moved. Finally, two of the children ran toward the truck. A woman began scolding them, but as soon as Kharon took out a fist of bills, two women went over and put their hands to the rear of the vehicle. Soon the entire crowd was there, pushing amid a cloud of sand.
Fezzan managed to get the truck out with the help of the crowd. Kharon could have just hopped in and driven off — he suspected many would. But he expected to be passing through this way again, and welshing on his promise might gain him more enemies or at least more notice than he wanted. And so he walked over to a clear spot and began passing out cash. He gave the children ones — giving them the same as the adults would have caused consternation — then doled out fives to the women.
Six men had helped; four others joined the queue. To the men who had helped, he gave ten euros apiece. The others he waved a finger at.
When they began complaining, he put his money back in his pocket, then rested his hand on his gun. They moved back.
“I would not have paid anyone,” said Fezzan when he climbed into the cab.
“Then most likely you would be food for the buzzards,” said Kharon.
* * *
Fezzan recognized the sergeant in charge of the men at the gate, and the “toll” was quickly negotiated down from fifty euros to twenty. Once clear of the gate, they sped down the highway to Sabha, an oasis city in the foothills about forty-five miles south.
They drove to Sabha’s airport. Unlike Birak, the base here was still manned by the government’s air force. MiG–21s were parked on the apron near the commercial terminal building, and batteries of antiair missiles and their associated control vans were stationed along the road into what had been the military side of the complex. There was no “gate” here, only a pair of bored soldiers who gave a cursory glance at the letter of admission Kharon carried before waving them on. Fezzan drove slowly through the complex, turning north toward the administrative building. Here another pair of guards blocked the road with a pickup truck and a fifty caliber machine gun. Kharon opened the door and got out.
“I will let you know where to meet me,” he told Fezzan, banging on the roof of the truck after slamming the door closed. As the driver made a U-turn, Kharon walked to the guards, slinging the submachine gun on his shoulder and holding out his hands to show that he came in peace. They eyed the submachine gun suspiciously. Kharon had twice lost weapons at government checkpoints, more because the men wanted his gun than for security reasons. The Russian weapon, used mostly by policemen, was unfamiliar and required special bullets, making it less of a prize. Still, the soldiers made him remove the magazine before proceeding.
A second set of guards near the building were not as lackadaisical; here he had to surrender the weapon, giving it over to the custody of a corporal who came barely to his chest. Kharon was given a tag in return; he interpreted this to mean that he might actually be able to liberate the weapon for a small bribe on the way out.
He resisted the urge to trot up the steps of the main hall of the building after he was admitted. Instead he made his way as leisurely as possible, walking slowly down the hall to large office overlooking the airfield, where he found Muhammad Benrali frowning over a desk covered with Arab-language newspapers.
General Benrali, the commander of the government’s Second Air Wing, wore a tracksuit that appeared a size or two too small; his sleeves were rolled up his arms. The suit was a present from a Russian arms delegation the first week of the war; Kharon suspected it was the only thing Benrali had gotten out of the meeting.
“You are late,” Benrali snarled as he entered.
“There were delays on the road.”
“I lost four aircraft and men because of you.”
“I warned you not to engage the aircraft,” said Kharon calmly. “I told you only to get its attention and divert it over the vans.”
“You said it was a reconnaissance plane.” B
enrali’s Libyan-accented Arabic was curt. “Reconnaissance planes do not fire on others. They run away.”
“I said it was used for reconnaissance. There is a difference. I warned you,” added Kharon. “I was very explicit about the power of the forces you’re facing. And by this point you should realize that.”
Benrali frowned.
“Where are the trucks?” Kharon asked.
“Two miles from here. You have several things to do for us first.”
“Several? I know of only one.”
“You must fix the radar installation, and arrange for the Russians to resupply us with missiles.”
“I’m prepared to fix the radar,” said Kharon. “But as for missiles — that was not part of our deal.”
Benrali rose from his desk. He had been an air force colonel under Gaddafi, joining the revolution only in its last weeks. In Kharon’s mind that was why he was more objective than many of the others he had to deal with.
“We’ll get something to eat and discuss it,” said Benrali. He began rolling down his sleeves. Kharon noticed he was wearing fancy Italian shoes.
“We can talk, but any help with the Russians is separate from our agreement,” warned Kharon. “I have no power with them.”
“You have influence.”
“Not at all.”
“My people say you meet with them all the time.”
“I meet with you. Would you say I can get you to do something you don’t want to do?”
Benrali chuckled. His mirth was as explosive as his anger.
“You have a silver tongue,” he told Kharon. “Come and let us eat.”
* * *
A few hours later Kharon drove a borrowed jeep through the low hills south of the city to a cluster of hills exactly one mile east of the power line that ran through the desert. He drove by GPS reading; there was no road here.
Two large tractor trailers sat on the southern side of the hill, seemingly abandoned. They had in fact been driven here immediately after the air raid on al-Hayat, having captured important telemetry for Kharon.
He wasn’t sure how much Benrali understood, let alone if the Libyans had figured out what he was truly up to. They knew that the devices in the trucks were modified radar units; he’d had to request a trained crew and demonstrate a few areas where the radar differed from the Russian gear they were familiar with. They knew they were recording something, and they knew it must involve the Tigershark, which had been engaged by the fighters.
How much beyond that, who could say?
Kharon circled the two trailers, trying to see if anyone was lying in wait for him. In truth, it was impossible to be certain — a practiced assassin could easily hide himself in the sand. He knew that the Americans had such men; his only real protection against them was the fact that they didn’t know what he was doing.
After two circuits, he drove over to the trailers. Leaving the engine running, he got out of the jeep with his submachine gun — it had cost him ten euros to retrieve — and walked quickly to the trailers.
His key jammed when he tried to open the padlock on the first trailer. He jiggled it back and forth, pulling and prodding, nearly despairing — the alternative would be to shoot through the chain, possibly damaging the gear inside.
Finally he got the key in and the lock clicked open. He pulled it apart and unlatched the door.
A thick loaf of warm, stale air greeted him. He lowered his head and pushed in as if he were a football player.
The trailer was the back of a Russian radar station, upgraded from the Soviet era, sold to Libya in the 1980s, and since then updated at least twice more, not counting the pieces Kharon had added himself. In a way it was a fascinating display of technological evolution, with bits and pieces remaining from each of its active periods.
Kharon wasn’t here to admire it. He took a small LED flashlight from his pocket and moved quickly to a console at the far end of the trailer.
Two hard drive enclosures sat atop metal gridwork just below a radar console. The drives were held in place by a small plastic bracket at the side. He pushed the long handle in, swung the arm out of the way, and then picked up the first drive.
Wires at the back stopped him after a foot and a half. He undid the wires — the connections were the same as those used on Ethernet cables — then scooped out the second drive and did the same.
The trailer was extremely hot. So much sweat poured down his hands that he thought he was going to drop the two boxes. He went over to the door, leaning out to catch his breath. He dropped to his knees, resting for a few moments. Then he backed into the trailer, moving on all fours.
There was a small tool kit on the second console on the right side. He found it, removed it, then made his way to the back.
There was a CPU unit under the bench against the back wall. He couldn’t see one of the bolts holding it to the floor and had to squirrel around with his hand to get the wrench on it. It took him nearly ten minutes to get the one bolt off. By the time he was done he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He dragged the CPU out, yanking the cords out of the panel. They were superfluous at this point anyway.
He was so exhausted when he put the gear into the Jeep that he considered leaving the other drives in the second trailer. But he needed all the data, and so he pulled himself together. He went back to his vehicle and drank half of his bottle of water. Feeling a little better, he went to the other trailer.
This time the lock was easy. He pulled it off the latch, then jerked the door open. As he did, he turned and saw the eastern horizon had turned gray. White clouds furrowed above.
A sandstorm was approaching.
He pushed into the trailer and closed the door. A howl rose in the distance.
The drives were located in the opposite side in the trailer, along with a small flash memory box he also needed to retrieve. He had them ready within a few minutes.
Back at the door, Kharon stopped when he heard what sounded like pebbles slapping against it. The storm had arrived, and it was a fierce one.
Going out in the sandstorm was not advisable. Kharon put the devices down and sat in the center aisle, listening to the wind as it whipped the sides of the trailer. He played the flashlight’s narrow beam around the interior of the trailer, trying to trick himself into thinking it was massive.
* * *
He hated dark, confined places. They reminded him of the closet he hid in the night they came to tell him that his mother had died.
His hands shook.
Kharon turned off the light and tucked his head down. He was well protected from the storm, and yet felt that it was enveloping him, as if he was its prisoner and there was no escape.
He’d known who they were and what they wanted. At nine years old, he was precocious in many ways. And it didn’t take much to guess something was very wrong.
His mother never left him for long without calling. That night, she was already several hours late, without any word, without even a note.
Home from school, he had done his homework and waited. When it was an hour past dinner time, he fed himself a sandwich, the only thing he knew how to make. He watched the cartoon channel after that — a special privilege ordinarily reserved only for days like his birthday or holidays or times when he was sick.
Then he spent an hour at the window, his fears and worries becoming so strong he could no longer keep them away.
Another hour. Two more.
A dark blue sedan pulled up. Two men in uniform got out.
He ran to the closet, knowing what had happened, hoping that if he didn’t let them in the house, everything would be all right.
But it wasn’t. His mother had died, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Until now.
* * *
Huddled in the dark, Kharon tried to clear his mind of the memories. He put his head down on his knees, eyes closed. He believed in science, not God, but even he felt the moment as something like a prayer—let it stop.
When it didn’t, he thought of Ray Rubeo.
He saw Rubeo’s thin face, his ascetic frame. He saw the sneer in his eyes — Kharon loathed that sneer.
I will do you in.
Whatever it takes. I will ruin you.
* * *
It took a half hour for the storm to pass. Grit covered everything outside.
Kharon, back to himself, put the drives in the jeep and headed back to the city.
He called Fezzan and told him to have the car waiting near the Red Sand Hotel, a place where they had stayed before.
“You want to drive north tonight?” asked Fezzan. Clearly, he didn’t want to.
“That would be ideal.” Driving at night through the desert did entail some risk, but in Kharon’s experience it wasn’t much more than during the day.
“There are many reporters in town,” said the Libyan idly. “They are all talking about going to al-Hayat tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“The commission investigating the bombing accident will be there. They have experts coming along. Americans and French.”
“Americans? Who?”
“I can ask. It didn’t come up.”
“Interesting,” said Kharon.
“Should I get rooms?”
“I don’t know that al-Hayat would be of any interest to me.”
“Most reporters are going. If you want people to think you are a reporter—”
“Thank you, Ahmed. When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it.”
“Just a suggestion.”
Of course he was right. There was no sense being pigheaded — this was an opportunity.
“Get the rooms,” Kharon told Fezzan. “Two of them. Make sure you get a good rate.”
“I’ll be in the bar when you get back,” said Fezzan.
Like a good Muslim, thought Kharon, hanging up.
3
Sicily
Danny Freah rubbed his tired eyes, trying to clear the fatigue away. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to go to Africa,” he told Rubeo. “Nobody can guarantee your safety.”
