Not that it mattered so much when flying a remote plane.

And then he had been assigned to Dreamland?

Actually, he worked at Dreamland for only a short period. Some of his work, as a test pilot, was highly classified.

He needn’t supply the details. Just give a general impression.

The Brit took over. How was the mission planned, who had authority to call it off, at what point had he known there was a problem?

Turk tried to answer the questions patiently, though he’d answered them all several times, including twice now for the men in the room.

“The autonomous control,” said the Frenchman, finally returning to the point they really wanted to know. “How does it work?”

“Specifically, I don’t know.”

“In a general way.”

“The computer works to achieve goals that have been laid out,” said Turk.

“Always?”

“It has certain parameters that it can work within. In this case, let’s say there’s twenty tanks or whatever it was. It has priorities to hit certain tanks. But if a more important target is discovered, or let’s say one of the tanks turns out to be fake, the computer can reprogram itself. The units communicate back and forth, and the priority is set.”

“So the computer selects the target?” said the RAF officer.

“Yes and no. It works just the way I described it.”

“How can that be?” asked the Greek. “The computer can decide.”

“It works precisely as the captain has described,” said Rubeo. “I’m sure you have used a common map program to find directions to a destination. Think of that as a metaphor.”

“Excuse me,” snapped the Frenchman. “We are questioning the captain.”

Rubeo took a step away from the wall. His face looked drawn, even more severe than usual—and that was saying quite a bit in his case. “I’m sure the mission tapes can be reviewed. The pilot is blameless. You’re wasting his time. There’s no sense persecuting him like this.”

Though appreciative, Turk was surprised by Rubeo’s defense. Not because it wasn’t true—it absolutely was—but because it was the opposite of what he expected. While he had no experience in any sort of high level investigation, let alone something as grave as this, he’d been in the military long enough to know that the number one rule in any controversial situation was CYA—cover your ass.

The others were baffled as well, though for different reasons. The RAF officer asked Rubeo how he knew all this.

“The team that designed the computer system worked for me,” said Rubeo. “And much of the work is based on my own personal efforts. The distributed intelligence system, specifically.” He looked over at Redstone. “I don’t believe the exact details are necessary to the investigation.”

“Uh, no,” said Redstone. He sounded a little like a student caught napping in class. “Specifics would be classified.”

“Precisely.” Rubeo turned back to Turk. “The aircraft responded to verbal commands once you overrode, didn’t they, Captain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And there was no indication that there was a malfunction, either while you were dealing with the government planes or later on, was there?”

“No, sir.”

“At no point did you give an order to the planes to deviate from their mission, or their programming, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“You can ask if he took any aggressive actions following the shoot-down of the Mirages,” Rubeo told the other officers. “But I don’t think you’ll get any more useful information from the pilot. As I said, he’s quite correct—he had nothing to do with the malfunction.”

“It was a malfunction?” asked the RAF officer.

“You don’t think the aircraft are programmed to kill civilians, do you?” snapped Rubeo.

Judging from their frowns, Turk wasn’t entirely sure that they didn’t.

7

Sicily

“The concept of conflict of interest—it is a very American idea,” Du Zongchen told Zen. “The fact that you are familiar with the program for many reasons—that is why I requested you. I am sure no one would object.”

“People will object to anything,” replied Zen. He glanced around the large suite room; two of Zongchen’s assistants were speaking into cell phones in a quiet hush at the side. Another was working in one of the bedrooms, which had temporarily been converted into an office. “That’s one thing that I’ve learned the hard way. They always object.”

“But you will help me,” said Zongchen happily. “You will assist.”

“I will, but I want you to know that it’s likely to be—that there may be controversy. Other members of the committee may object.”

“I have spoken with them. They are all impressed and wish your assistance.”

“Even so, the general public—”

Zongchen waved his hand. Zen wondered if Chinese officials were really so far removed from popular opinion and criticism that they didn’t have to worry about accusations that they had unfairly influenced events.

If so, he was envious.

“Our first order of business,” said Zongchen, “after the others join us, is to arrange for an inspection of the area. I am to speak to the government officials by videophone at the half hour. Do you wish to join me?”

“Sure.”

“And then, to be balanced, we speak to the rebels. This is a more difficult project.”

Zongchen rose from the chair. It was a boxy, stylish affair, but it didn’t look particularly comfortable. The Chinese general walked over to the small console table and poured tea into a small porcelain cup.

“Are you sure you would not like tea or coffee, Senator?”

“No, thanks.”

“In China, there would be scandal if people knew that I poured my own tea,” said Zongchen. “It is customary for aides to do everything. To hire more people—in a big country such as mine, everyone must work.”

“Sure.”

“The little jobs. Important to the people who do them.” Zongchen glanced toward his aides at the side of the room, then came back over to the chair where he had been sitting. The suite was decorated in an updated Pop Modern style, a Sicilian decorator’s take on what the 1960s should have looked like. “These rebel groups—there are simply too many of them.”

“There are a lot,” said Zen.

“Some of them.” Zongchen shook his head. “I do not like the government, but some of these rebels are many times worse. This woman, Idris al-Nussoi.”

Zongchen made an exasperated gesture with his hand. Idris al-Nussoi—generally known as “the princess” because of her allegedly royal roots—was the figurehead of the largest rebel group, but she was by no means the only rebel they had to speak with. Zongchen hoped to get an agreement for safe passage of the investigators. This was not necessarily the same thing as a guarantee for their safety, but it was the best they could do.

“Coordinating the air campaign with the rebels must be a matter of great difficulty,” said Zongchen.

“I don’t know,” said Zen truthfully. “But I imagine it must be.”

“Shall we call for some lunch?”

“Sure.”

Their food had only just arrived when the conference call with the government began. By now several more members of the international committee assigned by the UN to investigate the matter had joined them in the suite. They included an Egyptian army general, a Thai bureaucrat, and an Iranian named Ali Jafari. As a former member of the Republican Guard, Ali Jafari was not particularly inclined to view Zen or any American with anything approaching favor. But he was nonetheless polite, telling Zen how very grateful he was for his decision to join the committee.

Which of course made Zen doubly suspicious.