Collateral Damage by Dale Brown

so inefficient, Kharon could have smuggled an MP–5 in his pants—and then stepped back. The other growled in an indecipherable language—it wasn’t Arabic, Berber, English, or Italian, all languages Kharon could converse in. But he knew from experience it meant he could go.
    He walked down the hall toward a pair of men dressed in faded army fatigues. Their clothes were old, but the AK–74s they flashed as a challenge were brand new. These had been supplied by Kharon’s sometime partner, a Russian spy-cum-arms dealer. The two men had been working together on and off now for several years, the Russian for profit, Kharon for something more satisfying and considerably darker.
    The guards eyed him suspiciously even though they had just watched him being searched. Kharon ignored them as best he could, staring straight ahead at the door he was aiming for.
    It opened before he reached it. His approach had been watched on a closed circuit television camera.
    But there were no other sensors or bugs. A thin wire sensor in his shirt acted as an antenna, ferreting out transmissions. It would have buzzed gently to warn him.
    â€œSo, you have arrived. And on time,” said the short, fat man who appeared behind the door. He was Oscar Sifontes, a Venezuelan advisor to the rebels, the princess specifically. In theory he was independent, though everyone knew he was paid by Petróleos de Venezuela, S.A., the state oil company. He had a cigar in his left hand and he waved it expansively, as if he was happy to see Kharon.
    In reality, Sifontes considered him a tool of the Russians, and therefore a rival for influence. He had tried to persuade the princess to have nothing to do with him—something Kharon would have suspected even if he had not bugged the suite.
    The Venezuelan’s designer jeans were at least two sizes too small; with his white shirt, he looked like an ice cream cone, with a moustache on top.
    And a very smelly cigar.
    â€œWe are having fine weather, do you not think?” said Sifontes, by way of making conversation. “It is more pleasant here than Sicily. The weather there was cloudy. In Libya, there is only sun.”
    â€œWeather is too random to consider,” said Kharon.
    While Sifontes struggled to translate the words into Spanish and then make some sense of them, Kharon strode from the small foyer into a large common room. The princess was sitting on a couch at the far end, watching a video feed on an iPad and talking on a cell phone at the same time. The iPad was a constant companion. It had been given to her by the Americans some months before as a present. It wasn’t bugged—there had been numerous checks, including Kharon’s own. Nonetheless, he suspected that the accounts it connected to were constantly monitored. The Americans never gave gifts without strings attached.
    Kharon bowed slightly. It was an unnecessary flourish that the princess loved. She smiled, then in Arabic told whoever was on the phone that she would call back.
    Her long black dress was baggy by Western standards, though here would be considered modern. The silk scarf that had slid back on her head had bright blue and green stripes on the deep black field, another straddle of old and new.
    â€œYour trip back from Sicily was enjoyable?” Kharon asked in English. He preferred the language to Arabic because it was harder for her underlings to understand.
    â€œAirplanes are not my favorite thing. But we made it in one piece.”
    â€œThey treated you well?”
    â€œAlways.” She dropped the iPad on the couch with a dramatic flourish. “But now we see that the Americans have bombed a city. That will set us back weeks.”
    â€œI don’t think so,” said Kharon.
    â€œEh, always an optimist,” said the Venezuelan. He took a long pull from his cigar and exhaled. “You are good with science, but not with people’s opinions, I