“I—I just want to say that I know what I saw.”
“I’ll take it into consideration.”
Unsure what else to do, Turk started to leave.
“One last thing, Turk,” said Ginella as he opened the door. “It’s always best to answer your phone.”
It took every ounce of his self-control not to slam the door on the way out.
8
al-Hayat
Rubeo hadn’t known exactly what to expect from the families hurt in the attack, but he thought he would see some outer sign of grief or at least chaos; if not direct mourning, then some sadness or grim resolve. But the family the boys took him to see were cheerful, happy, and grateful to have visitors.
Which was strange, because there were eight of them crammed into what looked like a 1960s travel trailer, the sort that would be used back in the States only as a derelict hunting shack, if not the target on a shooting range.
Two of the family members—the mother and a girl about three years old—had been wounded in the bombing, which damaged one wall of their house. The mother had a cast on her arm and her head was bandaged. The little girl’s leg was in a cast. They spoke freely about the accident, telling Lawson—he had instantly made friends, with the help of the boys—about the disaster.
Rubeo listened attentively, interested in every detail. The sudden explosion, the darkness from the cloud, the grit falling down, the surge of fire—listening somehow made the strike more scientific to him, more real. If it was real, it could be understood more readily.
Curious neighbors began gathering outside. Jons was getting more and more agitated. He’d posted Abas and the Filipinos a short distance away, with their guns out, but the team would be very easily overcome if a large crowd gathered and became hostile.
“What about the other day?” Rubeo asked the woman. He made Halit translate. “Ask her about the riot.”
“Thieves hired by the government. Many of them soldiers,” said Halit.
Rubeo looked at Lawson. “More or less, I think,” he told him.
“Find out if they have a bank account,” said Rubeo.
“I can tell you without asking, they don’t,” said Halit.
“Look around,” said Jons. “These people don’t have anything.”
Rubeo dug into his pocket for his roll. He unfolded ten ten-euro notes.
“See if you can find some contact information,” he told Halit. Then he bent toward the grandmother and slipped the money into her hand.
“I have to go,” he said as she stared wide-eyed at the bills.
“What are you going to do?” Jons asked a few minutes later in the truck as they left the village, heading west in the direction of the missile site.
“We’ll find the people who were victims,” said Rubeo, “and get them new homes.”
“The allies will handle compensation.”
“What I do is independent of the government.”
“Ray, this is not a good place.”
“I’m not going to stay here and do it myself, Levon. You needn’t worry.”
“Yeah, OK, good. It’s not a horrible idea.”
Jons, clearly relieved, checked his mirrors quickly. They were in the lead, their escorts a few dozen yards behind.
“It’s just going to be tough to figure out who truly deserves it, you know?” added Jons. “Once word gets out. Especially here, with the government crumbling. Everybody’s going to have their hand out.”
“It doesn’t look particularly endangered to me,” said Rubeo.
“Don’t fool yourself. They don’t have much of a grip. Things can turn around in an instant.”
Rubeo looked out at the countryside, a vast roll of undulating sand. The encounter with the families had taken his mind off the problem of the UAV and what had gone wrong.
He wondered why he hadn’t thought of helping the people before. It was an obvious thing to do.
Dog was right. That was why he suggested I come. He didn’t say it, because he knew I would only appreciate it if I reached the conclusion myself.
So good at giving others advice, at balancing their problems against the world’s. But he couldn’t overcome his own demon.
His loss was far greater than theirs.
“I want to go back to the radar site,” Rubeo told Jons. “There are two other structures I need to look at. I want to see what’s in there.”
“Inside them?”
“Yes. I need to know if they have equipment in them.”
Jons frowned.
“You think that’s a problem?” asked Rubeo.
“It’s a big problem. We’ll never get inside there. I don’t even want to go close—they’ll be on their guard after finding the two UAVs. We can’t, Ray. Absolutely not.”
“I wasn’t considering marching up to the gate and demanding access,” Rubeo told him.
What he had in mind, however, was every bit as dangerous—they would sneak in from the south side of the facility, go to the building, and inspect it firsthand. Ten minutes inside each should be enough to eliminate the possibility of anything having been beamed from it. Once that was done, he could pursue what he saw as the more promising theory. But interference had to be ruled out first.
“You’re not going in,” said Jons. “If I have to physically hold you back, you’re not going in.”
“Of course not. And I’m not going to risk you either. I intend to send a pair of bots in,” Rubeo told him. “All we need is someone to get them past the fence.”
“I don’t know.”
“Please—there are dozens of people who live in that little hamlet. None of them can be bribed to change places with someone?”
“Well, that we might be able to arrange.”
“Good.” Rubeo took out his phone and called up a satellite map. “There’s a road ahead to the right that gets lost in the desert about two hundred yards north. If you are careful, we can drive across the desert and completely miss the gate. It’ll save us considerable time.”
“I don’t think we need to be in a hurry.”
“I do. The plane with the bots will land in Tripoli in four hours. We don’t need to be there, but I don’t want to wait too long before we retrieve them. Besides, if we get there quickly, we can get back in time to finish the probe by first light tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll agree that the sooner we’re out of this hellhole the better.”
9
al-Hayat
He’d missed him.
Kharon thumped his fist against the dashboard. He was tempted to yell at Fezzan, who’d taken so long getting them here, but he held his anger in check, not least of all because the two men in the back of the SUV were the driver’s friends. He barely trusted them with weapons under the best of circumstances.
Meanwhile, the boy who told him that the Americans had left stood trembling by the car window, frozen in place by Kharon’s retort at hearing the news.
“Are they coming back?” Kharon managed to ask.
The boy quickly shook his head.
“Go,” said Kharon, dropping a few coins in front of the boy. “Go.”
He rolled up the window. Rubeo had moved much more quickly than he had expected. But of course—this wasn’t a fantasy anymore, this was reality. And the reality was that Rubeo was very, very good. Kharon couldn’t afford to be sloppy, to play the child. He was a man and needed to act and think that way.
“What should I do?” asked Fezzan. “Where are we to go?”
“Find a place for them to eat,” said Kharon, jerking his thumb. “Not too expensive.”
The car bumped along to the north end of town. Fezzan drove as if he knew exactly where he was going, but Kharon could never really tell with him. Like many of the people he dealt with, the Libyan was an excellent bluffer.