been set up to target them. Kharon had largely abandoned the team once the Sabres were discovered headed for Libya; the Russians did not particularly like his independence, but he was too important to be crossed. They treated him as a petulant child to be indulgedâa particularly useful attitude for Kharon.
Over the past several weeks the dream heâd had for years morphed into something practical. Bits and pieces were still being formed in his head, but the overall shape had been set years before.
Ray Rubeo would be disgraced, ruined, and finally killed.
A cool, moist breeze was blowing in off the Mediterranean, promising rain: a brief shower, surely, just a touch to take away the heat and keep the green spots of the city green.
Those spots were few and far between. The city had not yet recovered from the scars it had received during the first Libyan civil war, let alone the one it was fighting now. As he came out of the hotel, Kharon dodged a poorly laid asphalt patch on the sidewalk where a shell had fallen a month before, just as the uprising began.
War was a constant in mankindâs history, more so in the areas that could least afford it. When he was a young man, Kharon had contemplated such thoughts for days on end. Though trained as both an engineer and a scientist, his mind had a philosophical bent, and on his own he read all of the great Western philosophers, from Plato and Aristotle to Derrida and Julia Kristeva. But in all that reading, he had failed to find an answer to the most basic questions of life and death. Or at least find one that satisfied him.
Now he had little use for philosophy, at least in so much as it related to the question of war. War was useful to him; that was as far as he needed to ponder.
Kharon walked to the end of the block, passing the car he had used to get here, and continued across the street. There, he turned right and walked down an alley to a small shop that once rented bicycles to tourists, but now eked out a living repairing and selling them.
Ten euros bought a Chinese bike only a few years old. Kharon pedaled a bit uncertainly as he started, his balance wobbly. But before going a hundred yards he had mastered it, and joined the light traffic heading toward the sea.
A few minutes of pedaling brought him to the big lot at the base of the harbor. He rode the bike to one of the old-fashioned light poles, then hopped off gingerly. Propping it against the post, he walked between the cement benches toward the water.
The beachfront had been restored after the first war. But it was empty today, as on most days, its austere beauty a reproach to the haphazard and dirty city behind it.
Kharon stared at the water as if he were a tourist or perhaps a poet, contemplating his place in the universe. He turned to his right and began walking parallel to the water lapping against the stones. Glancing casually to his right, he made sure he hadnât been followed. Then he stopped again, and dropped the USB memory key on the ground.
He stooped to pick it up, started to rise, then stooped down again to tie his shoe. As he did, he ground the key under his heel, breaking it in two.
Rising with the device in his hand, he ripped it apart, exposing the chip. He snapped the memory chip from the rest of the device and walked closer to the water.
Over the rail, he went down onto the scrabble of rocks and sand and walked to the edge of the water. He bent, picked up a flat stone, then skipped it and the chip out across the surface of the nearby sea. The stone popped against the water, rose, flew farther, popped again, then plunked down with a tiny splash.
The chip had gone only halfway to the first large wave, but it was far enough. The saltwater would quickly deteriorate it.
Satisfied, Kharon turned and walked back to the promenade that lined the water. He glanced at his watch. Things had gone well, but he was behind schedule. He needed to leave for Tripoli as soon as
Over the past several weeks the dream heâd had for years morphed into something practical. Bits and pieces were still being formed in his head, but the overall shape had been set years before.
Ray Rubeo would be disgraced, ruined, and finally killed.
A cool, moist breeze was blowing in off the Mediterranean, promising rain: a brief shower, surely, just a touch to take away the heat and keep the green spots of the city green.
Those spots were few and far between. The city had not yet recovered from the scars it had received during the first Libyan civil war, let alone the one it was fighting now. As he came out of the hotel, Kharon dodged a poorly laid asphalt patch on the sidewalk where a shell had fallen a month before, just as the uprising began.
War was a constant in mankindâs history, more so in the areas that could least afford it. When he was a young man, Kharon had contemplated such thoughts for days on end. Though trained as both an engineer and a scientist, his mind had a philosophical bent, and on his own he read all of the great Western philosophers, from Plato and Aristotle to Derrida and Julia Kristeva. But in all that reading, he had failed to find an answer to the most basic questions of life and death. Or at least find one that satisfied him.
Now he had little use for philosophy, at least in so much as it related to the question of war. War was useful to him; that was as far as he needed to ponder.
Kharon walked to the end of the block, passing the car he had used to get here, and continued across the street. There, he turned right and walked down an alley to a small shop that once rented bicycles to tourists, but now eked out a living repairing and selling them.
Ten euros bought a Chinese bike only a few years old. Kharon pedaled a bit uncertainly as he started, his balance wobbly. But before going a hundred yards he had mastered it, and joined the light traffic heading toward the sea.
A few minutes of pedaling brought him to the big lot at the base of the harbor. He rode the bike to one of the old-fashioned light poles, then hopped off gingerly. Propping it against the post, he walked between the cement benches toward the water.
The beachfront had been restored after the first war. But it was empty today, as on most days, its austere beauty a reproach to the haphazard and dirty city behind it.
Kharon stared at the water as if he were a tourist or perhaps a poet, contemplating his place in the universe. He turned to his right and began walking parallel to the water lapping against the stones. Glancing casually to his right, he made sure he hadnât been followed. Then he stopped again, and dropped the USB memory key on the ground.
He stooped to pick it up, started to rise, then stooped down again to tie his shoe. As he did, he ground the key under his heel, breaking it in two.
Rising with the device in his hand, he ripped it apart, exposing the chip. He snapped the memory chip from the rest of the device and walked closer to the water.
Over the rail, he went down onto the scrabble of rocks and sand and walked to the edge of the water. He bent, picked up a flat stone, then skipped it and the chip out across the surface of the nearby sea. The stone popped against the water, rose, flew farther, popped again, then plunked down with a tiny splash.
The chip had gone only halfway to the first large wave, but it was far enough. The saltwater would quickly deteriorate it.
Satisfied, Kharon turned and walked back to the promenade that lined the water. He glanced at his watch. Things had gone well, but he was behind schedule. He needed to leave for Tripoli as soon as
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