“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.
Fezzan 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.”
The 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 LIBYA 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.