Collateral Damage d-14

by Jim DeFelice

  A fierce wind struck him as he stepped outside. It was so strong it pushed him back through the threshold, and slammed the door against his outstretched arm. He fell back into the corridor, stunned.

  Kharon rose slowly, surprised by the pain. He went back to the door, and this time pushed out onto the white stone ledge.

  The stones rimming the ledge were wide but slick, and he felt his feet starting to go out from under him. He put his hand up to grasp the wall but couldn’t find his balance.

  Down he went, down face-first, chest slamming against the stones.

  He was still on the ledge.

  The city screamed in front of him, the noise of its traffic rising above the wind. The ocean roared in the distance, and the sun looked down from on high.

  Kharon crawled closer to the edge. Oblivion seemed to beckon. He was inches away from the end.

  Something rose inside him then, a sense of rage — how unfair it was, for Rubeo to ruin not just his mother’s life, but his life as well. To destroy him: Was he going to end things like that?

  He pounded his fists on the stone. He was a coward. He had proven himself to be a coward, impotent and toothless.

  Was that one moment all that defined him? Being caught off guard — taken by surprise, fooled by a man he knew was nothing short of a demon? A man who had insisted that his mother work in an unsafe lab, then stood idly by as she died?

  Is this who he was?

  I’m not the little boy who cowered in the closet, afraid to hear the truth. That isn’t me. That isn’t the way I am.

  Kharon began to tremble.

  He couldn’t let Rubeo win. Not like this.

  He pushed back slowly from the edge, then took a deep breath. As calmly as he could — slowly, to show himself that he was in charge — he rose. After three more very deep, slow breaths, he walked to the service door and went back inside.

  * * *

  Finding Foma Mitreski proved more difficult than Kharon had anticipated. The Russian spy master made a regular tour of the city’s bars and hotels, and was not in the more popular places where he looked first. He finally found the Russian having lunch in the bar of a hotel a few blocks from Tariq Square. Kharon made sure to nod, then went over to the bar and ordered himself a bourbon.

  His mood had changed dramatically. In effect, he decided, he was already dead — so nothing that happened next mattered. It was a strange and liberating feeling.

  The bar counter was made of old wood, and bore the marks of millions of glasses. Thick scrollwork hung down from the rafters directly above, holding a pair of mostly empty shelves. A quartet of American whiskey bottles were spaced out there; the mirror at the back of the bar was so old and the light so poor that the bottles were reflected only as oblique shadows.

  While the hotel had been popular with European tourists looking for bargains before Gaddafi fell, its dated decor and cramped rooms upstairs made it an unlikely place for the generally stylish Foma to meet anyone. But that was very possibly its attraction — it was close to the last place anyone, even Kharon, would look.

  Foma concluded his business in a few minutes, then got up with the others and left the bar. Kharon ordered another drink.

  Twenty minutes later, glass empty, he wasn’t sure whether to stay or not.

  The bartender came over. Kharon nodded, accepting a refill. The bartender mumbled something Kharon couldn’t understand; he gave a noncommittal grunt.

  Halfway through the drink the Russian returned.

  “Ah, I was worried that you would have gone,” said Foma, speaking in Russian.

  “I knew to wait.”

  “We can use English.”

  “Better Russian. Less chance of being understood.”

  “More mystery for others.” Foma smiled at him, then ordered a scotch.

  “Dalmore,” said Foma. “Very good.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “What do you have there? Not scotch.”

  “American bourbon.”

  “Americans always think they know better.”

  They sat for a moment, Foma swirling his liquor in the glass before downing it in a gulp.

  “I have a new proposition,” said Kharon.

  “More information?”

  “No. Everything I promised. But I need extra help. I need someone to cause a diversion, and I can’t be connected to it. So you’re going to arrange it.”

  “Something too dangerous for you, but not for me?”

  “Danger is all around us,” said Kharon coldly.

  Foma pushed his glass forward for a refill. “You are in a bad mood today.”

  “No. I’m in a good mood.”

  Foma’s glass was refilled. Kharon waited for the bartender to leave. If the Russian wouldn’t help him, he would find another way. Fezzan could certainly find someone. But for something like this, he trusted the Russian more.

  “Well,” said Foma finally, studying his drink. “Tell me what it is, and then I will tell you if it can be done.”

  16

  Benghazi, northern Libya

  As much as he tried, Rubeo found it impossible to stay behind his bodyguard as they walked through the narrow streets filled with outdoor markets. Jons finally gave up trying to nudge him back and let him walk at his shoulder.

  Jons had tried very hard to talk him out of coming along to meet Halit. But Rubeo was determined to see the man for himself in his own environment before they hired him. You could only learn so much from a sanitized meeting in an office or at the airport.

  Both Rubeo and Jons were armed — Rubeo with a pistol hand made by a colleague at Dreamland years before, and Jons with a pair of weapons made by Rubeo’s companies. Both guns employed so-called “smart bullets”—microprocessors inside the ammunition received target information from the aiming mechanism at the top of barrel, and could adjust the flight of the bullet via a muscle wire: actually a piece of metal that changed the bullet’s shape and ballistic characteristics.

  The bullets couldn’t change direction, nor were they able to find their own target or do anything outrageously fancy. But the weapons simplified aiming, while at the same time increasing their lethality. The shooter pointed his gun at the largest part of his target — generally the torso. The finlike reader on the top of the gun automatically adjusted the aim for its target’s face, and put the bullet there. Not only did this avoid the problem of bulletproof vests, it made even novice gunmen dangerous no matter what the situation.

  Rubeo wasn’t a novice — he had acquired a taste for hunting long ago — but he certainly wasn’t combat-trained, and the weapon made it much easier for him to be sure that he would protect himself. Levon Jons, on the other hand, disliked the idea that the gun would aim on its own.

  “What if I just want to wound someone?” he often complained to Rubeo.

  This was an entirely theoretical complaint: Jons himself would be the first to admit that when his gun came out, it came out to be used, and when it was used, it was only with the intent to kill. But he didn’t see the contradiction, and more often than not turned the smart technology off.

  He had it on today. Benghazi was not a place to worry about purity.

  “Left,” suggested Jons. The bodyguard was listening to directions from his earpiece.

  “Mmmm,” said Rubeo. He kept walking, sensing that they were being watched. Like most of the Libyans on the street, they were wearing Western clothes; more traditional dress would have highlighted them rather than made them blend in.

  Rubeo wore his thin protective vest beneath his shirt as well as a light jacket that concealed his pistol. Jons had a bulky sweater. The copper-boron web vests used a layer of glass filaments to reduce their thickness, but they restricted the wearer’s body subtly, and even though his vest was tailored to his chest, Rubeo felt as if his arms were banded. His discomfort annoyed him, but at the same time it heightened his watchfulness, and as he continued past the street where they were supposed to turn, he picked out a smal
l boy staring at them from across the way.

  Rubeo stopped at the nearest stall, where a man was selling leather goods. He picked up a wallet and glanced at the boy from the corner of his eye.

  “Kid watching us,” he told Jons.

  “Probably a pickpocket.”

  “Maybe.”

  Rubeo gave the wallet back, then started walking again. The city was patrolled by members of the rebel militia, or at least men who claimed to be so. Most wore civilian clothes, but were identifiable by red bandannas on both arms. They were armed with rifles, AK–47s and AK–74s for the most part, though the one Rubeo saw at the end of the block had an M–4.

  “Let’s turn,” he said.

  He led the way through the thin crowd about halfway down the block, where he found a small store selling groceries. He pulled open the door, turning casually in the direction they had come. The boy was there, looking at them.

  “Maybe he is with our friends, and maybe he is not,” said Rubeo. “But let us find out.”

  “Your call,” said Jons, in a tone that let Rubeo know he disagreed.

  “There’s a door in the back.” Jons moved to check it out.

  Rubeo rummaged through the front of the store, looking at the shelves of dusty canned goods, making sure the boy could see him. The store owner came over, delighted at having a Western customer. Rubeo nodded at him.

  “This, very good one,” said the man, stumbling in English.

  “Nice.”

  “You like?”

  “No.”

  “You buy this one, then?”

  “No. I’m not buying anything,” said Rubeo flatly.

  The man went off, offended. Rubeo turned his attention back to the street. The boy saw him and started to back away — right into Jons’s arms.

  Rubeo came out of the store. The boy kicked and wiggled, but Jons held him firmly.

  “How old are you?” Rubeo asked in English. “Eight? Nine?”

  The boy didn’t answer.

  “I cannot speak Arabic well,” said Rubeo. “But this device will translate for me.”

  He took out his phone and queued up a translation program. He pressed the large circle in the middle of the screen, scrolled through his most recent lines, and highlighted the questions. The machine repeated them in fluent Arabic.

  “Go to the devil,” said the boy.

  Even Rubeo’s Arabic was good enough to figure out what he had said without the program. He reached into his pocket and slipped out a ten euro note.

  “Would this help?”

  The boy grabbed at it.

  Rubeo pulled it back. “Tell them I’m coming.” He double-tapped his screen without looking; the machine gave the translation almost instantly. Then he handed the boy the money.

  “I say he’s a purse snatcher,” said Jons as the boy ran off.

  “That is why you are the brawn of the company, Levon.” Rubeo flicked the app on his screen to the tracking display. While holding the kid, Jons had placed a small video fly on his shoulder. The fly transmitted his location, displaying it on an overhead map.

  He ran straight to the alley where they were supposed to meet the men. Rubeo brought up another app, and images appeared on the screen.

  “All right. I’m an asshole,” said Jons glumly as he took the phone from his boss.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later Rubeo and Jons climbed over a short fence that ran behind the building where the boy had run. Jons knocked on the back door, then put his shoulder to it, breaking it off its hinges. Rubeo walked inside.

  The three men the kid had reported to were still questioning him about Rubeo.

  “Excuse my dramatic entrance,” Rubeo told them. “I was somewhat disconcerted by the fact that you had a child shadowing me.”

  Jons held his gun on the men, but that was superfluous: they were all too surprised to react.

  “Which one of you is Halit?” asked Rubeo. He had practiced the phrase several times, and said it smoothly.

  A man in a white-and-blue striped sweater raised his hand.

  “These are my brothers,” said the man in English. “They have just been here with me, to keep company.”

  “I’ll bet,” said Jons. “Come here.”

  The squat Libyan tried to suck in his gut as he got up. He wore a gray warm-up jacket and black jeans, along with black shoes polished to a high shine.

  “Spit,” said Jons, holding out a small device with what looked like an air scoop on the edge. “Into it.”

  Halit did so. The device analyzed the DNA in the spit, uploading parts to a database back at Rubeo’s company headquarters. It worked quickly, picking out only small parts of the complicated code, looking for signatures that would be compared to known agents, terrorists, or criminals in the federal database.

  The system was not foolproof. From a scientific standpoint, there was too much potential for a bad match: about 122 chances out of 65,000; roughly the standards law enforcement had used for preliminary DNA matches with limited markers just a few years before. But it was fine for Rubeo’s purposes.

  The small screen on the device went green, indicating the sample was sufficient to be tested. A minute later the screen blanked, then flashed green, yellow, then green again. Halit was not a criminal or a known terrorist. Or anyone else in the U.S. data banks, for that matter.

  A start, at least.

  Rubeo reached into his pocket and took out a few euros. He threw them on the floor.

  “Halit comes with us. The rest stay, or that money will be used for your funerals.”

  Rubeo looked at his phone, where the feed from the video fly was still operating. The boy was outside; the area was clear.

  Jons took hold of Halit’s elbow and they went out the front door. Rubeo, more relaxed, walked behind them, looking back and forth.

  There was something invigorating in dealing with danger, he thought. He liked the way his heart pounded in his chest.

  They brought Halit to the truck. After checking the monitoring system to make sure the vehicle had not been tampered with, Jons put Halit in the backseat.

  Rubeo climbed in the front. He let Jons drive.

  “Do you know the head of the guards at the gate below Tripoli?” Rubeo asked Halit.

  “I know them, yes. Why do you treat me like a prisoner? I was told you need a guide. I am a guide, the best.”

  “I don’t trust you,” said Rubeo. “You used a child to spy on me.”

  “Only to see when you are coming. My son.”

  “He wasn’t your son,” snapped Rubeo. He hated being lied to.

  “My son, yes.”

  Rubeo stared at him with contempt. The two couldn’t appear more different. The boy had been rail thin, with light features and blue eyes; the man was dark and pudgy, very short, with curly hair where the boy’s was straight.

  Which was worse? The fact that he would lie on such a petty matter — or that he would think it OK to put his own son in danger?

  Or any child, now that he thought of it.

  Rubeo found most people venal and petty. A good number were stupid as well. Navigating around them was one thing; inevitably, though, there were situations where you had to count on them.

  Jons had found three men capable of getting them south into the government-held areas. Halit was the most highly recommended.

  Rubeo couldn’t help but imagine how horrible the other two must be.

  “Your job is to get us past the guards,” he told the man as they drove. “You will stay with us at all times. If you say anything beyond what I ask you to say, if you attempt to leave us, if you do anything that puts us in danger, you will die.”

  “A lot of words,” said the Libyan, holding his hands out. “I don’t understand.”

  “Let me explain,” said Jons. He pulled one of his pistols out and pointed it toward the backseat. “Fuck up and we kill you.”

  * * *

  They drove back over to the airport. Two associates were waiti
ng, sitting on the front bumper of a large Ford 250. The diesel-powered pickup had been flown in only an hour before.

  The taller of the two men sprang off the bumper as they approached. Rubeo had met him when he’d helped pull security for him during some travels in China. His name was Lawson, and he had been a Ranger in the Army. He was personable, a talker — rare for the profession, in Rubeo’s experience.

  The other man was Abas, an Iranian-American who had been a SEAL and done some work for the CIA before joining a private company Jons often called on for backup. Abas was silent to the point of being rocklike. He never smiled, and if he blinked his eyes or even closed them, Rubeo had never seen it.

  “Boss, how’s it going?” said Lawson, stalking over. He was tall and thin. His right knee had been torn up in Afghanistan. For some reason it didn’t keep him from running, but he walked with the slightest of limps. The others sometimes called him “Igor” because of it.

  “Where is everybody?” asked Jons.

  “Siesta in the warehouse,” said Lawson. “And Kimmy’s out with the helucopper.”

  Lawson thought his mispronunciation was funny and began chuckling. The men in the warehouse were four Filipinos, trusted by Jons but unknown to Rubeo. Between them they had plenty of firepower, ranging up to a pair of automatic grenade launchers.

  Unlike Rubeo and Jons, the team used commercial weapons and tactical gear. The only thing supplied by Rubeo’s company were the com units — small ear sets with a pocket broadcast device. The units linked through a satellite connection and could share data; they worked solely by voice command.

  “Go wake them up,” said Jons. “When’s Kimmy getting back?”