He rolled up the window. Rubeo had moved much more quickly than he had expected. But of course—this wasn’t a fantasy anymore, this was reality. And the reality was that Rubeo was very, very good. Kharon couldn’t afford to be sloppy, to play the child. He was a man and needed to act and think that way.

“What should I do?” asked Fezzan. “Where are we to go?”

“Find a place for them to eat,” said Kharon, jerking his thumb. “Not too expensive.”

The car bumped along to the north end of town. Fezzan drove as if he knew exactly where he was going, but Kharon could never really tell with him. Like many of the people he dealt with, the Libyan was an excellent bluffer.

Kharon had hoped to catch Rubeo in the ruins—it would have been easy to separate him from his bodyguards, especially with the others to help. The plan to embarrass him had been abandoned. It was too ambitious, and he had lost his patience besides. At this point he wanted only to kill and be done with life completely.

His anger had grown exponentially since the chance meeting in the hotel. Why was that? What alchemy had caused his anger to become so insane?

He was capable of recognizing that it wasn’t rational, yet powerless to do anything about it. He couldn’t blame it on any fresh insults or indignities; nothing compared to the death of his mother.

The restaurant was located in the ground floor of a small office building. There was a small crowd of people outside, perhaps a dozen, waiting to get in.

“Very popular place,” said Fezzan. “Come. We will get in.”

“You know the owner?” Kharon asked.

“I know what he likes.”

Yes, of course, thought Kharon. Money. For enough, the man would undoubtedly kick out his own mother.

Kharon’s phone buzzed as he got out of the car. It was Foma.

“Go ahead,” he told the others. “I have to take this.”

Kharon handed Fezzan a few bills, then walked a few steps away and held the phone to his ear.

“This is Kharon.”

“Where are you?” asked Foma.

“Running an errand in the south.”

“Are you still interested in what we spoke of?”

“Yes.”

“Good. It happens that I know where your man is going.”

Kharon felt his throat catch. He hadn’t mentioned Rubeo specifically. The Russian was a step ahead of him.

“Where?” asked Kharon.

“He has a cargo flight landing at Tripoli very shortly,” said Foma. “I would imagine he or his people will be there.”

“No. He doesn’t do that sort of thing himself.”

“I would imagine that whatever is landing will reach him eventually,” said Foma. “So even if he is not there, it is a way to find him. Unless that is what you are already up to.”

“You can’t just follow him,” said Kharon. “He’s clever. He has surveillance gear.”

“I’m sure he has many things. Do you want to get him or not?”

“How do you know I’m looking for him?”

“I should have realized it long ago,” admitted Foma. “But only when I thought of whom your parents had been did it become obvious.”

Kharon glanced up at the empty street. All these preparations, and still he was blindsided at every turn. To work with Foma—truly the Russian was the devil.

But this was devil’s work.

“Do you want to get him, or not?” asked Foma.

“Tell me how.”

10

Sicily

Danny Freah turned from the credenza at the side of his office and held out the fresh cup of coffee to Zen. The two men had been friends since their Dreamland days, through a variety of ups and downs. Something about serving in combat together made for a deep relationship despite surface differences.

“I get the sense there’s something going on between Turk and Ginella,” said Danny. “But the kid won’t say.”

Zen took the coffee. “You sure he’s just not blaming himself for the shoot-down?”

“Well, he seems pretty convinced that he wasn’t at fault.”

“What’s that saying, ‘protest too much’?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” Freah poured himself a cup. Boston had managed to commandeer all the comforts of home: a working coffee machine, a minifridge, and two padded desk chairs. The place was still cramped, but it was habitable. “He’s had a pretty stressful few days.”

“He shot down four enemy fighters,” said Zen. “That oughta have earned him some time off.”

“I know.” Danny took a sip of his coffee, then sat down. “We had to keep him around to help test the aircraft systems—I should have sent him home. He wanted to fly.”

“Pilots always want to fly, Danny.”

“He seemed to do pretty well with the Hogs. Ginella loved him—until this.”

“Want me to talk to him?”

“Don’t you have to fly to Libya with Zongchen?”

“I have a little time.”

“Well.” Danny wasn’t sure what good, if any, that would do. But maybe Turk would open up to another pilot. “If you want to take a shot—I might be making too much of it. He just seemed, bothered, you know?”

“Uncle Zen has his shingle out.” He adopted a fake Viennese accent. “But sometimes, Colonel, a banana is just a banana.”

“I don’t get the joke.”

“Never mind. Probably there’s nothing there. I’ll talk to him and see.”

“Thanks.”

A half hour later Zen found Turk at the Tigershark’s hangar. He paused for a moment, sitting near the door, watching the young pilot gaze contemplatively at the aircraft. Zen thought of himself doing the same thing, though under vastly different circumstances.

“Pretty plane,” he said loudly as he rolled forward. He still wasn’t comfortable with the chair. It seemed to steer a little harshly and pulled to one side.

“Um, hi, Senator.”

“Fly as sweetly as they say?” asked Zen.

“It’s pretty smooth, yeah,” said Turk. “Once you’re used to it. It’s very quick. Doesn’t have the brute thrust of the F–22, but it’s fast enough. Because it’s so small and light.”

“You like lying down to fly?”

“It’s more a tilt, really,” said Turk. “Closer to the F–16 than you’d think.”

“Cockpit looks pretty tight,” said Zen. “Almost an afterthought.”

“It was, pretty much. Just there to help them test it.”

“You think you could just sit on the ground and fly it?”

“No.” Turk scowled, his brow furrowing. He was thinking about the plane, Zen realized, gathering his actual impressions. “It’s different being in the air, you know?”

Zen knew very well. “It’s not easy to explain, is it? People always asked me about flying the Flighthawks. It was . . . hard to tell them, actually. Because you don’t think about it when you’re doing it. You just do it.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re not really separated from the plane. You don’t think of yourself as separated,” added Zen, correcting himself. “Because if you thought of it that way, you’d have less control.”

Turk nodded. Zen turned and looked at the aircraft. It was rounded and thin, a beauty queen or model.

“Big difference between this and the A–10,” he said.

“Oh yeah.”

“What’s that like?” asked Zen. “I never flew one.”

“Oh. Uh, well, it’s a really steady aircraft. It, um, pretty much will go exactly where you want. Very physical—compared to the Tigershark. In a way, for me, it’s kind of closer to flying the Texan.”

“The T–6 trainer? The prop plane?”

“Yeah, I know. But for me, that’s kind of the parallel.”

“I learned on a Tweet—the T–37. Great aircraft.”

They traded a few stories about flying the trainers, solid and sturdy aircraft, perfect for learning the basics of flight. The planes were more forgiving than the flight instructors.

“There’s nothing like feeling the plane move where you want it to move,” said Zen finally. “Truth is, I could never look at a Flighthawk without feeling just a little bit of anger.”