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.

But it wasn’t. His mother had died, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Until now.

Huddled in the dark, Kharon tried to clear his mind of the memories. He put his head down on his knees, eyes closed. He believed in science, not God, but even he felt the moment as something like a prayer—let it stop.

When it didn’t, he thought of Ray Rubeo.

He saw Rubeo’s thin face, his ascetic frame. He saw the sneer in his eyes—Kharon loathed that sneer.

I will do you in.

Whatever it takes. I will ruin you.

It took a half hour for the storm to pass. Grit covered everything outside.

Kharon, back to himself, put the drives in the jeep and headed back to the city.

He called Fezzan and told him to have the car waiting near the Red Sand Hotel, a place where they had stayed before.

“You want to drive north tonight?” asked Fezzan. Clearly, he didn’t want to.

“That would be ideal.” Driving at night through the desert did entail some risk, but in Kharon’s experience it wasn’t much more than during the day.

“There are many reporters in town,” said the Libyan idly. “They are all talking about going to al-Hayat tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“The commission investigating the bombing accident will be there. They have experts coming along. Americans and French.”

“Americans? Who?”

“I can ask. It didn’t come up.”

“Interesting,” said Kharon.

“Should I get rooms?”

“I don’t know that al-Hayat would be of any interest to me.”

“Most reporters are going. If you want people to think you are a reporter—”

“Thank you, Ahmed. When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it.”

“Just a suggestion.”

Of course he was right. There was no sense being pigheaded—this was an opportunity.

“Get the rooms,” Kharon told Fezzan. “Two of them. Make sure you get a good rate.”

“I’ll be in the bar when you get back,” said Fezzan.

Like a good Muslim, thought Kharon, hanging up.

3

Sicily

Danny Freah rubbed his tired eyes, trying to clear the fatigue away. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to go to Africa,” he told Rubeo. “Nobody can guarantee your safety.”

“People go back and forth between Libya all the time. Westerners generally aren’t harmed.” Rubeo rocked back and forth, as if he was having a hard time keeping himself contained in the small office. Danny couldn’t remember seeing the scientist more animated. “I don’t really need your permission, Colonel.”

“I don’t know about that. I am in charge of Whiplash,” said Danny.

“Really, Colonel, you have no rank to pull over me. If you’re not going to help me, I’ll go on my own. I have Jons, and other people to call on. Really, Colonel, I have given this some thought. I need to see the crash site and the environs if I’m to figure out what happened.”

“All right, listen. Give me a little time. I’ll figure something out, something that gives you some protection. Beyond your own team,” Danny added. “It won’t be until tomorrow at the earliest. I’ll have to arrange an escort.”

“I think it would be better to travel without the UN people.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. We’ll have more of our people here tomorrow,” Danny said. “Right now, it’s just me and Boston.”

“I don’t need an entourage.”

“Two troopers and an Osprey to get you around quickly. You can’t argue with that.”

Rubeo looked as if he could, but he pressed his lips together and said nothing. Danny half expected him to ask for the Osprey now, but he had a ready answer—he had loaned both to the UN commission investigating the bomb strike.

“Do you really think you’re the best one to go?” he asked Rubeo. “You have a dozen people over here looking into the incident—”

“Two dozen,” corrected Rubeo. “Plus the team that was here to begin with. But yes, I do think it’s a good use of my time. If one of your people had been involved in an accident or something similar, you’d want to investigate firsthand, wouldn’t you?”

“I guess.”

“I’m sure you would.”

Conceding, Danny leaned back in the seat and changed the subject.

“You know, Doc, I think sometimes accidents like this—and even blue-on-blue incidents . . .” He stumbled for the right words. “These things are terrible, but you know, you have to put them in perspective.”

“I’m trying to,” said Rubeo, rising to leave.