4

al-Hayat

The black scorches on the walls looked as if they had been painted on, a kind of postmodern expressionism as interpreted by the god of fire.

The rubble in front of them was less poetic. What had once been a row of houses was now flattened stone, wood, and scraps of material too charred to recognize. The stench of death still hung in the air. The government could not have arranged a better scene if they had staged it.

Kharon was amazed at the damage the missiles had done. He had seen the results of the war firsthand before, but everything else paled compared to this.

The government said sixteen people had been killed and another twenty wounded. If anything, the number seemed miraculously low.

He curled his arms around his chest, suddenly cold. The slightest, very slightest, hint of grief poked at the very edge of his conscience. But it was more a rumor of remorse, less actual guilt or regret than an unease. It was easily ignored.

Two dozen reporters, most of them Western freelancers, had been admitted to the area by the government troops in anticipation of the special UN investigation commission’s arrival. Kharon’s phony credentials were more than enough to get him past the guards. They hadn’t even bothered to search him, though he had thought it prudent to leave his weapon back with Fezzan in the truck at the edge of town.

He’d seen a few of the reporters in Tripoli. He nodded at anyone who said hello, but kept to himself as much as possible. There was always the possibility that someone might start asking too many questions about his credentials. If necessary, he could mention the German and the Australian Web sites which he had legitimately sold stories to, but anyone who really dug would come up with questions.

Even a simple one could be devastating: What did you do before Libya?

When he first arrived in Libya, he was surprised at how few of the reporters actually spoke Arabic. He was also surprised at how little they knew of the actual conflict. And he was stunned at how lazy most of them actually were. Not that they weren’t willing to risk their lives—that, most had no trouble with. But nearly all settled for the first answer they got. And most would sooner walk barefoot in the desert than question the simple dichotomy they had arrived with: rebels good, government bad.

This story, at least, promised to make things a little more complicated.

The government had posted “facilitators” at different spots around the ruins. While their function was essentially that of press agents, Kharon suspected that they were high-ranking officers in the army or other government officials, well-trusted and dependable. He listened as one detailed the lives of the three people who had been killed in the building a few yards away. The man, a middle-aged Libyan, handed out glossy photos of the dead bodies with an enthusiasm that would have seemed more appropriate at a movie preview.

The government’s interior minister was overseeing the press briefing, preening for the cameras as he talked about how the civilians were going about their everyday lives when the American plane struck.

Almost on cue, a pair of aircraft appeared in the distance. They sounded a bit like helicopters, but as Kharon stared he realized they were American V–22 Ospreys, tilt-rotor aircraft that flew like planes but landed like helicopters.

“The UN commission is arriving,” said the minister in his heavily accented English. “They are going to land in the field across the way. Please give them room to arrive. We assume that they are unarmed.”

Some of the reporters sniggered.

Kharon’s heart began pumping hard in his chest. Some of the reports he had seen overnight indicated that the Americans had assigned technical experts to accompany the investigators.

Was Rubeo among them?

He thought it was very possible. The scientist was a control freak. He would insist on seeing something like this firsthand.

If Rubeo came himself, Kharon would stay back and avoid the temptation to confront him. It would be difficult, though, extremely difficult.

Kharon wanted to see the pain on his face.

Then, he would kill him. But first he needed to know that he had suffered.

Zen glanced at Zongchen as the Osprey settled. The former Chinese air force general had seemed visibly nervous the entire flight. Now as the rotors swung upward and the aircraft descended he clutched the armrests at the side of his seat for dear life.

It was funny what made some people nervous.

“A little different than flying in a J–20, eh, General?” Zen asked as they gently touched down.

“Very different,” said Zongchen, with evident relief. “There, I am in control. Here, very different.”

As the crewmen headed for the door, Zen unstrapped his wheelchair and pushed it into the aisle. The maneuver into the seat was tricky, but Zongchen held the back of the wheelchair for him.

“You notice that my chair just fits down the aisle at the front,” Zen told the general.

“Yes, very convenient.”

“They did that especially for me.”

It was a white lie, actually, but it amused the general. Zen rolled over to the door. A lift had been tasked to get him down; it rolled up, and after a bit of maneuvering and a few shouts back and forth, the plane crew turned him over to the lift operator.

Zen held himself steady as the ramp descended. It was the sort of thing workmen used while working on buildings, and it had only a single safety rail at the front. It moved down unsteadily—truly, it was scarier than almost anything he’d experienced in an airplane for quite a while.

“Do you get tired of being in a wheelchair?” Zongchen asked when they were both on the ground.

“Always,” admitted Zen.

The crowd of news people seemed to have tripled since the Ospreys first appeared in the sky. Kharon wondered about the security—there were plenty of government soldiers around, but they seemed more focused on holding back the local villagers than watching the reporters.

Kharon slipped toward the front of the group. His heart thumped in his throat. He regretted leaving the gun.

Relax, he told himself. Just relax.

The UN team had brought security with them—a dozen soldiers, all with blue helmets, fanned out from the first Osprey, along with a few plainclothes agents. All of the dignitaries seemed to be in the second aircraft.

There was one in a wheelchair.

Kharon wasn’t quite close enough to see his face, but he guessed that it must be Jeff Stockard, the former Dreamland pilot who was now a United States senator.

Zen.

His mother had told him stories about Zen. He was “just” a star pilot then, before his accident and struggle turned him into something approaching a national hero.

A real hero, whom even Kharon admired. Not a phony legend like Rubeo.

A wave of damp sadness settled over Kharon. Zen had been at his mother’s funeral. He remembered shaking the pilot’s hand.

“We all loved your mom,” he said.

Rubeo hadn’t even spoken to him.

Kharon craned his neck, trying to see if the scientist was with the UN committee. He spotted someone of about the right height and moved up in the line, bumping against one of the armed guards before realizing that it wasn’t Rubeo.

“Back,” said the soldier. He was Pakistani, wearing his regular uniform below the blue helmet and armband.

“Sorry.”

Kharon shifted back, joining the throng of reporters as they followed the commission walking up the road to the ruins. There was a light breeze; every so often a burst of wind would send grit in their faces.

As a fighter pilot, Zen had the luxury of distancing himself from the effects of ground war. Rarely had he seen firsthand damage to anything other than an airplane.