Free Collateral Damage by Dale Brown

officers. “But I don’t think you’ll get any more useful information from the pilot. As I said, he’s quite correct—he had nothing to do with the malfunction.”
    â€œIt was a malfunction?” asked the RAF officer.
    â€œYou don’t think the aircraft are programmed to kill civilians, do you?” snapped Rubeo.
    Judging from their frowns, Turk wasn’t entirely sure that they didn’t.

7
    Sicily
    â€œT he concept of conflict of interest—it is a very American idea,” Du Zongchen told Zen. “The fact that you are familiar with the program for many reasons—that is why I requested you. I am sure no one would object.”
    â€œPeople will object to anything,” replied Zen. He glanced around the large suite room; two of Zongchen’s assistants were speaking into cell phones in a quiet hush at the side. Another was working in one of the bedrooms, which had temporarily been converted into an office. “That’s one thing that I’ve learned the hard way. They always object.”
    â€œBut you will help me,” said Zongchen happily. “You will assist.”
    â€œI will, but I want you to know that it’s likely to be—that there may be controversy. Other members of the committee may object.”
    â€œI have spoken with them. They are all impressed and wish your assistance.”
    â€œEven so, the general public—”
    Zongchen waved his hand. Zen wondered if Chinese officials were really so far removed from popular opinion and criticism that they didn’t have to worry about accusations that they had unfairly influenced events.
    If so, he was envious.
    â€œOur first order of business,” said Zongchen, “after the others join us, is to arrange for an inspection of the area. I am to speak to the government officials by videophone at the half hour. Do you wish to join me?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œAnd then, to be balanced, we speak to the rebels. This is a more difficult project.”
    Zongchen rose from the chair. It was a boxy, stylish affair, but it didn’t look particularly comfortable. The Chinese general walked over to the small console table and poured tea into a small porcelain cup.
    â€œAre you sure you would not like tea or coffee, Senator?”
    â€œNo, thanks.”
    â€œIn China, there would be scandal if people knew that I poured my own tea,” said Zongchen. “It is customary for aides to do everything. To hire more people—in a big country such as mine, everyone must work.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œThe little jobs. Important to the people who do them.” Zongchen glanced toward his aides at the side of the room, then came back over to the chair where he had been sitting. The suite was decorated in an updated Pop Modern style, a Sicilian decorator’s take on what the 1960s should have looked like. “These rebel groups—there are simply too many of them.”
    â€œThere are a lot,” said Zen.
    â€œSome of them.” Zongchen shook his head. “I do not like the government, but some of these rebels are many times worse. This woman, Idris al-Nussoi.”
    Zongchen made an exasperated gesture with his hand. Idris al-Nussoi—generally known as “the princess” because of her allegedly royal roots—was the figurehead of the largest rebel group, but she was by no means the only rebel they had to speak with. Zongchen hoped to get an agreement for safe passage of the investigators. This was not necessarily the same thing as a guarantee for their safety, but it was the best they could do.
    â€œCoordinating the air campaign with the rebels must be a matter of great difficulty,” said Zongchen.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Zen truthfully. “But I imagine it must be.”
    â€œShall we call for some lunch?”
    â€œSure.”
    T heir food had only just arrived when the conference call with the government