Russian curses echoed in the plane. The cameraman had at least one exposed roll of the Siberian overseeing the unloading, the rebel officer inspecting arms, the diamonds and coltan, the rebel brandishing weapons that were being delivered in contravention of African Union and United Nations arms embargoes, in the face of world opinion and all civilized standards. And those would be the headlines if the photographs were ever published.

It would ruin him. He’d live out his life in the stinking hell of Libya’s “freedom.”

He stared through the rifle’s telescopic sight. “Is the weapon accurate?” he asked.

The officer translated.

The guard grinned, nodded, and answered.

“He has it zeroed in at two hundred and fifty yards,” the officer translated.

“Excellent,” the Siberian said.

He changed his aiming point to compensate for the differences in range and for the fact that he was firing uphill. He would wound one. The other would try to save his comrade.

And both would be his.

Slowly the Siberian’s finger took up slack on the trigger.

The spotter moved slightly. For a timeless instant the Siberian and the spotter were frozen in each other’s sights.

As the last of the slack in the trigger vanished, the spotter threw himself on the cameraman and shoved him away. The shot echoed. Birds shrieked and leaped for the sky.

Dust leaped from the spotter’s cammie shirt, followed instantly by blood.

When the Siberian worked the bolt to reload, it was rough, gritty. The scope jerked. By the time he reacquired the grass blind, both men were gone. Cursing, he fired several times. Then he stepped into the doorway and stabbed toward the hill with his finger.

“Spies,” he shouted. “Kill them!”

The officer yelled at his army. As the rebels turned toward the hillside, two men broke cover and began scrambling over the crest of the hill. The rebels fired, but the men were too far away for accuracy.