“You said it was a reconnaissance plane.” Benrali’s Libyan-accented Arabic was curt. “Reconnaissance planes do not fire on others. They run away.”
“I said it was used for reconnaissance. There is a difference. I warned you,” added Kharon. “I was very explicit about the power of the forces you’re facing. And by this point you should realize that.”
Benrali frowned.
“Where are the trucks?” Kharon asked.
“Two miles from here. You have several things to do for us first.”
“Several? I know of only one.”
“You must fix the radar installation, and arrange for the Russians to resupply us with missiles.”
“I’m prepared to fix the radar,” said Kharon. “But as for missiles — that was not part of our deal.”
Benrali rose from his desk. He had been an air force colonel under Gaddafi, joining the revolution only in its last weeks. In Kharon’s mind that was why he was more objective than many of the others he had to deal with.
“We’ll get something to eat and discuss it,” said Benrali. He began rolling down his sleeves. Kharon noticed he was wearing fancy Italian shoes.
“We can talk, but any help with the Russians is separate from our agreement,” warned Kharon. “I have no power with them.”
“You have influence.”
“Not at all.”
“My people say you meet with them all the time.”
“I meet with you. Would you say I can get you to do something you don’t want to do?”
Benrali chuckled. His mirth was as explosive as his anger.
“You have a silver tongue,” he told Kharon. “Come and let us eat.”
A few hours later Kharon drove a borrowed jeep through the low hills south of the city to a cluster of hills exactly one mile east of the power line that ran through the desert. He drove by GPS reading; there was no road here.
Two large tractor trailers sat on the southern side of the hill, seemingly abandoned. They had in fact been driven here immediately after the air raid on al-Hayat, having captured important telemetry for Kharon.
He wasn’t sure how much Benrali understood, let alone if the Libyans had figured out what he was truly up to. They knew that the devices in the trucks were modified radar units; he’d had to request a trained crew and demonstrate a few areas where the radar differed from the Russian gear they were familiar with. They knew they were recording something, and they knew it must involve the Tigershark, which had been engaged by the fighters.
How much beyond that, who could say?
Kharon circled the two trailers, trying to see if anyone was lying in wait for him. In truth, it was impossible to be certain — a practiced assassin could easily hide himself in the sand. He knew that the Americans had such men; his only real protection against them was the fact that they didn’t know what he was doing.
After two circuits, he drove over to the trailers. Leaving the engine running, he got out of the jeep with his submachine gun — it had cost him ten euros to retrieve — and walked quickly to the trailers.
His key jammed when he tried to open the padlock on the first trailer. He jiggled it back and forth, pulling and prodding, nearly despairing — the alternative would be to shoot through the chain, possibly damaging the gear inside.
Finally he got the key in and the lock clicked open. He pulled it apart and unlatched the door.
A thick loaf of warm, stale air greeted him. He lowered his head and pushed in as if he were a football player.
The trailer was the back of a Russian radar station, upgraded from the Soviet era, sold to Libya in the 1980s, and since then updated at least twice more, not counting the pieces Kharon had added himself. In a way it was a fascinating display of technological evolution, with bits and pieces remaining from each of its active periods.
Kharon wasn’t here to admire it. He took a small LED flashlight from his pocket and moved quickly to a console at the far end of the trailer.
Two hard drive enclosures sat atop metal gridwork just below a radar console. The drives were held in place by a small plastic bracket at the side. He pushed the long handle in, swung the arm out of the way, and then picked up the first drive.
Wires at the back stopped him after a foot and a half. He undid the wires — the connections were the same as those used on Ethernet cables — then scooped out the second drive and did the same.
The trailer was extremely hot. So much sweat poured down his hands that he thought he was going to drop the two boxes. He went over to the door, leaning out to catch his breath. He dropped to his knees, resting for a few moments. Then he backed into the trailer, moving on all fours.
There was a small tool kit on the second console on the right side. He found it, removed it, then made his way to the back.
There was a CPU unit under the bench against the back wall. He couldn’t see one of the bolts holding it to the floor and had to squirrel around with his hand to get the wrench on it. It took him nearly ten minutes to get the one bolt off. By the time he was done he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He dragged the CPU out, yanking the cords out of the panel. They were superfluous at this point anyway.
He was so exhausted when he put the gear into the Jeep that he considered leaving the other drives in the second trailer. But he needed all the data, and so he pulled himself together. He went back to his vehicle and drank half of his bottle of water. Feeling a little better, he went to the other trailer.
This time the lock was easy. He pulled it off the latch, then jerked the door open. As he did, he turned and saw the eastern horizon had turned gray. White clouds furrowed above.
A sandstorm was approaching.
He pushed into the trailer and closed the door. A howl rose in the distance.
The drives were located in the opposite side in the trailer, along with a small flash memory box he also needed to retrieve. He had them ready within a few minutes.
Back at the door, Kharon stopped when he heard what sounded like pebbles slapping against it. The storm had arrived, and it was a fierce one.
Going out in the sandstorm was not advisable. Kharon put the devices down and sat in the center aisle, listening to the wind as it whipped the sides of the trailer. He played the flashlight’s narrow beam around the interior of the trailer, trying to trick himself into thinking it was massive.
He hated dark, confined places. They reminded him of the closet he hid in the night they came to tell him that his mother had died.
His hands shook.
Kharon turned off the light and tucked his head down. He was well protected from the storm, and yet felt that it was enveloping him, as if he was its prisoner and there was no escape.
He’d known who they were and what they wanted. At nine years old, he was precocious in many ways. And it didn’t take much to guess something was very wrong.
His mother never left him for long without calling. That night, she was already several hours late, without any word, without even a note.
Home from school, he had done his homework and waited. When it was an hour past dinner time, he fed himself a sandwich, the only thing he knew how to make. He watched the cartoon channel after that — a special privilege ordinarily reserved only for days like his birthday or holidays or times when he was sick.
Then he spent an hour at the window, his fears and worries becoming so strong he could no longer keep them away.
Another hour. Two more.
A dark blue sedan pulled up. Two men in uniform got out.
He ran to the closet, knowing what had happened, hoping that if he didn’t let them in the house, everything would be all right.