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 small 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.