Lawson gathered the Filipinos. Halit had been dismissed. Abas was to stay with Kimmy, the helicopter pilot, in case they needed backup.
Jons suggested they tell the alliance what they were up to. Rubeo rejected the idea out of hand.
“They’ll only tell us not to,” he said.
Rubeo went to the front seat of the truck, brooding. He was fairly sure now that the Sabres hadn’t been interfered with from the ground, so why even bother going back?
Was the risk worth it for fifteen percent of doubt?
If that wasn’t the cause, though, what was? The sabotage theory seemed even more improbable.
His sat phone rang. Rubeo looked at the number, and at first he didn’t recognize it. But then the last name came up.
It was Kharon.
“This is Rubeo.”
“Ray, hi, say, um, I kind of need a little help.”
“What is it, Neil? What can I do?”
“Well… I kind of flew in to Tripoli and I got into a little problem at the airport. I was wondering if you could call one of your connections and maybe talk to them to get me sprung.”
“You’re in Tripoli?”
“Actually, I’m at passport control in the airport. I should be able to just go — it’s an open city, right? But they’re questioning my stamp from Italy. I guess the guy who stamped it there didn’t stamp it right.”
“Where are you?” asked Rubeo, still not quite believing what he had heard.
“Passport control. In the terminal. Tripoli. Maybe if, like, you could get one of the officials or somebody you work with—”
“Wait there. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“You? Here?”
“Just sit tight.”
Kharon hung up the phone. It had been easier than he thought.
“He’s on his way,” he told the passport officer. “You know what to say?”
“Of course.”
Kharon held up the one hundred euro note. The man eyed it greedily.
“Soon,” promised Kharon. “When you release me, I slip you the passport to stamp. It’ll be between the back pages.”
The man nodded. Bribing your way through customs was a time-honored practice in Tripoli.
A few minutes later Kharon spotted a dark-haired American strutting through the hallway as if he owned the place. He stopped and asked someone near the lobby for directions. The man pointed toward the small desk where Kharon and the customs agent were standing.
He sent one of his people, rather than coming himself. I should have known that.
“You Neil?” asked the man, spotting him. His voice was very loud, as he was shouting across the hall.
“It’s me,” said Kharon.
The man walked over, grinning. “Name’s Lawson. What’s the trouble?”
“Passport, this not correct,” said the customs agent quickly. His English was actually quite good, as Kharon had learned earlier; he used fractured grammar for effect.
“Well we can fix that, can’t we?” asked Lawson. He winked at Kharon. He switched to Arabic. It was a little stiff, but grammatically correct. “I have heard that the paperwork can be corrected on the spot by the proper authority,” Lawson said. “Naturally, there are fees involved.”
“This is true,” said the passport officer softly.
“Perhaps we could do that in this situation.”
“Very well.”
“What is the fee?” asked Lawson.
“One hundred euro.”
Lawson didn’t bother trying to talk the man down. He reached into his pocket and pulled out two fifties. The customs man’s face fell — he realized he could have gotten more.
The rest of the transaction was completed swiftly. Kharon handed over his passport, and got it back stamped — and a hundred euros lighter.
“Not that I think he’ll change his mind,” Lawson said, starting away. “But let’s not give him a chance.”
“Is Dr. Rubeo in Tripoli?”
“He’s waiting for us outside.”
Rubeo saw the young man trailing along after Lawson, looking a bit sheepish. He was smart, undoubtedly, but a bit naive. Surely a simple bribe would have gotten him out of trouble immediately.
But perhaps he didn’t have the money.
“Neil, I didn’t think you were coming to Africa,” said Rubeo, opening his window as he approached. “What brings you here?”
“I thought, since I was so close, I should see what was going on,” said Kharon. “You actually inspired me.”
“How is that?”
“I thought if a famous scientist like you was going to visit the country, then I should, too. An adventure.”
“This is hardly the place for an adventure. We’ll take you into town. Do you have a hotel?” Rubeo asked.
“The Majesty, in the old section.”
“I’m sure we can do a little better than that,” said Rubeo. He turned to Jons. “What about the Citadel?”
“Yeah, something along those lines.” The foreign hotels in the new sections had much better security.
“I, uh, really can’t afford that—”
“You’re my guest. Think of it as part of the interview travel. Unfortunately, I have to do some more traveling, but I’ll be back by tomorrow, and then we can talk. Some of my men will come with us and you can see the city, and have your little adventure.”
Kharon slid into the truck. A dark-skinned Filipino sat next to him. The man was silent, but had an AR–15 between his legs, pointed at the floor.
The closed space of the unfamiliar SUV began to bother him. He felt the first tingle of fear rising along the back of his neck. He turned toward the window.
“I need some fresh air,” he told the others, and opened the window.
They weren’t paying attention. In front of him, Rubeo adjusted his ear set and told the men in the second car that they would meet them on the highway south. The driver, Jons, was clearly unhappy.
“I’d rather they rode behind us.”
“I don’t want the bots exposed,” said Rubeo. “The less they’re seen, the better.”
“They’re tarped. It just looks like equipment in the back.”
“And that won’t raise questions?”
Jons didn’t argue. Rubeo was the boss.
They drove away from the terminal, heading toward the Al Amrus Highway.
“I don’t want the truck driving all through the city,” Rubeo told Jon as they reached the highway.
“I don’t like splitting up.”
“It’s only for a few minutes. The bots are safer at the airport.”
The traffic was light. The truck sped around the circle and onto the highway.
Kharon sat back, waiting.
Rubeo realized he was getting testy, and that was affecting his judgment. He ought to let Jons do his job.
“I’m sorry,” he told him. “Call them to catch up.”
“Good,” said the driver. He took his foot off the gas and reached for the mike button on his ear set.
A moment later there was a sharp pop at the front of the truck. Jons gripped the wheel tightly, holding the truck steady as it jerked to the right.
“Blowout,” muttered someone.
There was a flash. Rubeo felt himself lifted into the air, then spinning.
“Damn,” he said, cursing for one of the very few times in his life. Then everything went black.
PRISONER OF CONSCIENCE
1
This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go!
The voice screaming in Kharon’s head refused to be quiet. He pressed his arms over his head, trying to run away, even though he was held tight in his seat as the SUV tumbled over.