Six men had helped; four others joined the queue. To the men who had helped, he gave ten euros apiece. The others he waved a finger at.

When they began complaining, he put his money back in his pocket, then rested his hand on his gun. They moved back.

“I would not have paid anyone,” said Fezzan when he climbed into the cab.

“Then most likely you would be food for the buzzards,” said Kharon.

Fezzan recognized the sergeant in charge of the men at the gate, and the “toll” was quickly negotiated down from fifty euros to twenty. Once clear of the gate, they sped down the highway to Sabha, an oasis city in the foothills about forty-five miles south.

They drove to Sabha’s airport. Unlike Birak, the base here was still manned by the government’s air force. MiG–21s were parked on the apron near the commercial terminal building, and batteries of antiair missiles and their associated control vans were stationed along the road into what had been the military side of the complex. There was no “gate” here, only a pair of bored soldiers who gave a cursory glance at the letter of admission Kharon carried before waving them on. Fezzan drove slowly through the complex, turning north toward the administrative building. Here another pair of guards blocked the road with a pickup truck and a fifty caliber machine gun. Kharon opened the door and got out.

“I will let you know where to meet me,” he told Fezzan, banging on the roof of the truck after slamming the door closed. As the driver made a U-turn, Kharon walked to the guards, slinging the submachine gun on his shoulder and holding out his hands to show that he came in peace. They eyed the submachine gun suspiciously. Kharon had twice lost weapons at government checkpoints, more because the men wanted his gun than for security reasons. The Russian weapon, used mostly by policemen, was unfamiliar and required special bullets, making it less of a prize. Still, the soldiers made him remove the magazine before proceeding.

A second set of guards near the building were not as lackadaisical; here he had to surrender the weapon, giving it over to the custody of a corporal who came barely to his chest. Kharon was given a tag in return; he interpreted this to mean that he might actually be able to liberate the weapon for a small bribe on the way out.

He resisted the urge to trot up the steps of the main hall of the building after he was admitted. Instead he made his way as leisurely as possible, walking slowly down the hall to large office overlooking the airfield, where he found Muhammad Benrali frowning over a desk covered with Arab-language newspapers.

General Benrali, the commander of the government’s Second Air Wing, wore a tracksuit that appeared a size or two too small; his sleeves were rolled up his arms. The suit was a present from a Russian arms delegation the first week of the war; Kharon suspected it was the only thing Benrali had gotten out of the meeting.

“You are late,” Benrali snarled as he entered.

“There were delays on the road.”

“I lost four aircraft and men because of you.”

“I warned you not to engage the aircraft,” said Kharon calmly. “I told you only to get its attention and divert it over the vans.”

“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.