“A little late.”

“It’s never too late for some things.”

“I gotta check with my guys,” said Turk. He started to push against her arm.

“Turk.” She put her hand on his chest.

A pilot from another squadron walked down the hall just then. He cleared his throat loudly. Ginella pulled her hand back. Turk took the opportunity to squeeze past into the hallway.

“I just gotta go,” he told. “I’ll talk to you.”

Ginella rolled her eyes, then went back into the room.

15

Tripoli

Kharon spent the night in a sleepless stupor, unable to do anything but berate himself. He told himself he was a weakling and worse. He called himself a coward and a jerk and a fool. He punched his stomach with his fist until he collapsed in the bathroom, retching over the edge of the tub.

His life had led to that one moment, and he had failed.

He offered me a job!

The guilty fool!

And still I did nothing! Nothing! I could do nothing!

Kharon writhed on the floor of his hotel bathroom for hours, alternately beating and sobbing to himself. He was incapable of getting up, of moving.

Morning came. There was no epiphany, no conscious decision to reverse course. He simply rose, and in the still of the night fled the hotel, driving himself to the Aeroporto Fontanarossa Vincenzo Bellini, which was still taking civilian traffic, though largely given over to NATO operations. He found it surprisingly easy to find a flight off the island, and within a few hours had connected into Morocco, and from there bribed his way onto an Egyptian Air flight to Tripoli.

By the time he arrived, he had decided what he would do. His head felt like an empty space; the decision neither cheered nor frightened him. It seemed only preordained.

He found a cab and had the driver take him to Al-Fateh Tower, near the beach area. The government offices that had been located in the building were shuttered, as were most of the banks, but a few stalwart tenants remained, carrying on as best they could. Guards were posted on the bottom floor, but as far as they were concerned, Kharon was no threat: he was clearly a Westerner, and they let him pass after a brief look at his passport.

He took the elevator to the eighteenth floor, got out and took the stairs to the top floor, where the restaurant had been located. In the good days of the Gaddafi regime, Arab tourists and Western diplomats filled the revolving restaurant at the top of one of Tripoli’s tallest buildings. Now, though, the place was vacant, shut since the start of the war. Iron gates blocked the way from the floor below. The locks probably could have been picked, but Kharon didn’t have the equipment, or the will. Instead, he went down to the twenty-second floor and found his way into the maintenance section. There was a ladder leading up; he climbed it, and within a few minutes reached a ledge area below the main roof.

A fierce wind struck him as he stepped outside. It was so strong it pushed him back through the threshold, and slammed the door against his outstretched arm. He fell back into the corridor, stunned.

Kharon rose slowly, surprised by the pain. He went back to the door, and this time pushed out onto the white stone ledge.

The stones rimming the ledge were wide but slick, and he felt his feet starting to go out from under him. He put his hand up to grasp the wall but couldn’t find his balance.

Down he went, down face-first, chest slamming against the stones.

He was still on the ledge.

The city screamed in front of him, the noise of its traffic rising above the wind. The ocean roared in the distance, and the sun looked down from on high.

Kharon crawled closer to the edge. Oblivion seemed to beckon. He was inches away from the end.

Something rose inside him then, a sense of rage—how unfair it was, for Rubeo to ruin not just his mother’s life, but his life as well. To destroy him: Was he going to end things like that?

He pounded his fists on the stone. He was a coward. He had proven himself to be a coward, impotent and toothless.

Was that one moment all that defined him? Being caught off guard—taken by surprise, fooled by a man he knew was nothing short of a demon? A man who had insisted that his mother work in an unsafe lab, then stood idly by as she died?

Is this who he was?

I’m not the little boy who cowered in the closet, afraid to hear the truth. That isn’t me. That isn’t the way I am.

Kharon began to tremble.

He couldn’t let Rubeo win. Not like this.

He pushed back slowly from the edge, then took a deep breath. As calmly as he could—slowly, to show himself that he was in charge—he rose. After three more very deep, slow breaths, he walked to the service door and went back inside.

Finding Foma Mitreski proved more difficult than Kharon had anticipated. The Russian spy master made a regular tour of the city’s bars and hotels, and was not in the more popular places where he looked first. He finally found the Russian having lunch in the bar of a hotel a few blocks from Tariq Square. Kharon made sure to nod, then went over to the bar and ordered himself a bourbon.

His mood had changed dramatically. In effect, he decided, he was already dead—so nothing that happened next mattered. It was a strange and liberating feeling.

The bar counter was made of old wood, and bore the marks of millions of glasses. Thick scrollwork hung down from the rafters directly above, holding a pair of mostly empty shelves. A quartet of American whiskey bottles were spaced out there; the mirror at the back of the bar was so old and the light so poor that the bottles were reflected only as oblique shadows.

While the hotel had been popular with European tourists looking for bargains before Gaddafi fell, its dated decor and cramped rooms upstairs made it an unlikely place for the generally stylish Foma to meet anyone. But that was very possibly its attraction—it was close to the last place anyone, even Kharon, would look.

Foma concluded his business in a few minutes, then got up with the others and left the bar. Kharon ordered another drink.

Twenty minutes later, glass empty, he wasn’t sure whether to stay or not.

The bartender came over. Kharon nodded, accepting a refill. The bartender mumbled something Kharon couldn’t understand; he gave a noncommittal grunt.

Halfway through the drink the Russian returned.

“Ah, I was worried that you would have gone,” said Foma, speaking in Russian.

“I knew to wait.”

“We can use English.”

“Better Russian. Less chance of being understood.”

“More mystery for others.” Foma smiled at him, then ordered a scotch.

“Dalmore,” said Foma. “Very good.”

“I’m sure.”

“What do you have there? Not scotch.”

“American bourbon.”

“Americans always think they know better.”

They sat for a moment, Foma swirling his liquor in the glass before downing it in a gulp.

“I have a new proposition,” said Kharon.

“More information?”

“No. Everything I promised. But I need extra help. I need someone to cause a diversion, and I can’t be connected to it. So you’re going to arrange it.”

“Something too dangerous for you, but not for me?”

“Danger is all around us,” said Kharon coldly.

Foma pushed his glass forward for a refill. “You are in a bad mood today.”

“No. I’m in a good mood.”

Foma’s glass was refilled. Kharon waited for the bartender to leave. If the Russian wouldn’t help him, he would find another way. Fezzan could certainly find someone. But for something like this, he trusted the Russian more.