“There’s nothing that would contradict that,” said Zen. “Perhaps with a little more work we can identify it. But the teams working on it haven’t succeeded yet.”
“Hmmm.” The general seemed temporarily lost in thought.
One of the general’s aides approached quietly. Zen noticed him first, and glanced in his direction. Zongchen looked, and apparently saw something in the young man’s face that told him it was urgent.
“Excuse me, Senator.”
“Of course.”
Zongchen spoke to the aide in Chinese, then turned to Zen in surprise.
“A member of the Libyan government is on the phone and wishes to talk to me. He speaks English—which is good since Cho here does not speak Arabic.” Zongchen smiled. “Come, you should listen as well.”
Zen wheeled himself from the large room to Zongchen’s suite office. He stopped a few feet away, waiting as the Chinese general put the call on speakerphone.
“I have another member of our committee here with me,” Zongchen said before he even greeted the other man. “Senator Stockard, from the United States.”
“The man in the wheelchair,” said the Libyan. His English was good, with an accent somewhere between Tripoli and London.
“The senator lost the use of his legs in an air accident many years ago,” said Zongchen, glancing at Zen. “But he has had quite a career since then. He was an excellent pilot.”
“I am pleased to talk to him, or anyone else you designate. Allow me to properly introduce myself. I am Colonel Abdel Bouri, and a few hours ago I have been designated to head the military portfolio of our government.”
“I am pleased to speak to you,” said Zongchen.
“The security breakdown was deeply regrettable,” said Bouri. “And a fault of the previous minister. Things have changed. The government has . . . reorganized. I have been asked . . . Let me find the proper words here.”
He paused, speaking to someone else in the office in soft but quick Arabic.
“I have been authorized to speak of a peace arrangement,” said the minister in English. “We are prepared to hold discussions with the rebels, if the proper conditions can be arranged. These talks would lead to a new government. Elections would be established.”
Zongchen and Zen exchanged a glance.
“The president himself cannot make this statement,” Bouri continued. “But I have full authority to conduct talks. This can only occur at the most confidential . . . under the most quiet circumstances.”
“Pardon my skepticism,” said Zen. “But given the events of yesterday, and much of what has been happening over the past week, how do we know that we can trust you?”
The minister began protesting, saying that he was a man of integrity and had not been involved with the leadership in the past. To Zen it seemed a clear case of someone protesting too much.
“We do want to trust you, but trust is something that is earned,” Zen told him. “You should declare a cease-fire—”
“If we stop, the rebels will continue,” said the new minister. “You have seen them. They are animals.”
Not exactly the sort of opinion that was going to pave the way for peace.
“Perhaps your government could begin with a very small gesture,” said Zongchen. “Perhaps you could begin with apologizing for the attack on the committee yesterday. That costs you nothing, yet is rich in symbolism.”
Bouri didn’t answer.
“You have already apologized to me,” said Zongchen.
“Yes, but you are asking for something different. The president would have to apologize.”
“Since the government has already fired the defense minister, it’s going to be clear that mistakes were made,” said Zen. “A public statement won’t cost you anything.”
“And it will earn you a great deal,” added Zongchen.
“It will cost much,” said the Libyan. “But I will see what I can do. In the meantime, let us establish a proper procedure for these conversations. The talks between your committee and I. They will be strictest confidence, yes?”
“Of course,” said Zongchen.
“We’ll have to talk to others in order for our work to mean anything,” added Zen. “We have to talk to the UN leaders, our government, and eventually the rebels.”
“Carefully,” said Bouri.
“Quietly, you mean?” asked Zen.
“Yes, both. Carefully and quietly.”
Zongchen agreed that would be wise. The two men spoke for a few moments more, deciding how they would contact each other, and establishing a routine of “regular” calls twice per day.
After Bouri hung up, Zongchen turned to Zen. “This is an interesting development. Perhaps our being attacked has had a positive result.”
“Maybe,” said Zen.
“You don’t think this is genuine?”
Zen wheeled himself back a few feet. His substitute wheelchair was powered, something he didn’t like. But it would do for now.
“I suppose our best option is to treat it as if it is genuine,” he told Zongchen. “The question will be more the rest of government—does he speak for it? Hard to tell.”
“Hmmm.” The general was silent for a few moments, thinking. “It is very late, and we have not eaten. Let us go and find something. Deep thought is better on a full stomach.”
He spoke to his aide in quick Chinese, then led Zen out into the hall.
“It is interesting,” said Zongchen as they waited for the elevator. “Two former men of war negotiating a peace.”
“Interesting, yes.”
“But peace was also our aim,” added the general, “even if not our profession.”
8
Sicily
Turk fell asleep in Ginella’s bed after they made love, but only for an hour. He slipped off the side onto the floor, trying to be quiet and not entirely sure what he was doing here. He hadn’t forgotten what had happened; he just didn’t believe it. Sleeping with another officer was one thing; sleeping with a colonel who was at least temporarily his boss . . .
Ginella lay with her head turned toward the wall, dozing peacefully. She had put on a T-shirt, but it was pulled halfway up her back, revealing her curved buttocks.
It was a nice curve. She was good in bed—a little more assertive than he was used to, but definitely a woman who knew how to please and be pleased.
But not quite his type. Older than he was.
And his boss.
What had he been thinking?
He hadn’t been, was the answer. He grabbed his clothes and got dressed, then slipped out without waking her.
The bright lights of the hotel hallway stung his eyes. Turk walked quickly to the elevator, but as he pressed the button he realized someone might come out and see him waiting, or worse, be in the car when the doors opened. He didn’t want to deal with any questions that might raise, so he used the stairs.
Outside, he realized it was too late to get a car. He had to go back to the desk and ask them to call a taxi.
By the time Turk got back to his own hotel, it was nearly three. He collapsed on the bed, even more tired than he had been the night before.
The next thing he knew, his phone was ringing. He had left it on the desk opposite the bed, and by the time he got there, the call had gone to voice mail.
It was Chahel Ratha.
“Didn’t you get the text? We need you here by 0800. It’s five minutes past.”
Turk made it to the Sabre hangar a few minutes before nine.
“Need some O2?” asked one of the guards at the hangar. Pure oxygen was a common cure for a hangover among flight crews.
Turk shook his head and went inside. He found Ratha and one of the lead engineers fussing over a pot of coffee at the side bench.
“Sorry I’m late,” he told them.
Ratha shook his head. “It’s just static tests anyway.”