The Last Good Man

Unsettled Times

“I was not expecting to see you here, Lincoln. I did not know you were in Rabat.”

Lincoln sits across a desk from Dove Barhoum, a man he has traded emails with on several occasions but whom he has never before met in person. Dove’s weathered face, sun-blackened and set in a deep scowl, suggests he is not at all pleased to be meeting Lincoln in his office now.

“These are unsettled times,” Dove goes on. “We all watch one another. We wonder who is an enemy, who is a friend… who has a contract for mutual defense. I have no such contract with you. But who will see you here and assume that I do?”

“Only your own staff,” Lincoln says. His left elbow is propped on the armrest of his chair, his prosthetic fingers rapidly tapping—a restless motion that draws Dove’s gaze and seems to unsettle him. “I didn’t announce that I was coming.”

Dove’s scowl deepens. He’s understood the accusation. After so many unreturned phone calls, a surprise visit looked like the only way to find him at his desk.

Lincoln says, “I am not here to put you in danger or to antagonize you. I’ve lost contact with one of my employees. I need to track her down, for her sake and for mine. I know you talked to her yesterday.”

“True Brighton,” Dove says. His scowl eases and his gaze grows distant. “She was here, sitting where you are sitting now. We spoke only briefly. She was careful to explain she had not come to me as a representative of Requisite Operations. Her business was of a personal nature. It is not something I can discuss.”

“But you called me late yesterday,” Lincoln says. “Am I wrong to think you called me to talk about True?”

“You are correct. I was concerned. To see her here on her own so soon after your operation in the TEZ. There are those who would not look on her kindly if they knew. But later, I knew it was a mistake to contact you. My clients need to know I will not discuss their business.”

“Is she your client?” Lincoln asks.

Dove smiles, not in a friendly way. “No, she is not my client. She asked only a simple favor. But it’s not so simple now.”

Lincoln nods. “She asked you to put her in touch with Jon Helm. Did you?”

“No. I told her I could not do that—and that is all I will tell you about what we discussed. I have not seen her or heard from her since her visit yesterday. I do not know where she is.”

Later, in the car, as they drive back into the city, Lincoln recounts this short interview.

“Someone threatened him,” Miles concludes. He’s in the backseat between Felice and Rohan. Officially, he’s an embedded journalist. The terms of their warrant don’t allow him to carry a weapon, but he’s armed with a phone and wears a protective vest over civilian clothing. “He called you to let you know True had been by. But you didn’t pick up, and sometime after that he was told to mind his own damn business.”

“That’s how I read it,” Lincoln agrees. He’s turned around in his seat to talk to the crew in back while Khalid does the driving. Lincoln brought Khalid along as an interpreter. He put him behind the wheel because he’s the most adept at reading Arabic traffic signs. But like Miles, he’s unarmed. He doesn’t have a security license yet, and if he did it wouldn’t matter. The terms of their warrant are very specific, allowing only three soldiers to enter the country.

“A simple favor,” Lincoln says. “That’s how Dove put it. I think he got charmed into passing the word that she’s here. When the word got to Shaw, he reacted.”

“That doesn’t tell us jack about where she is now,” Rohan says. He’s carrying a pistol strapped to his chest, mostly hidden by his protective vest.

Felice is armed the same way. “True’s running an op,” she says irritably. “When she needs backup, she’ll call.”

“I don’t think we can count on that,” Miles says. “You weren’t in Manila. She doesn’t see him for what he is and she’s not looking at bringing him in. He could be gone before—”

“Hey!” Khalid says, leaning over the steering wheel to look up at the blue midday sky. “Lincoln, what is that? You see it? Streaks of smoke, like something’s falling in pieces out of the sky.”

Lincoln does see it. Thin smoke trails descending over the city. Three or four of them. No. More than that. Everywhere he looks—over the harbor, over suburban neighborhoods, he sees more.

“Crap!” Felice swears. “We just lost contact with one of our copters. The channel’s showing no signal.”

“The other one still sending?” Lincoln asks, feeling his phone buzz. He glances at the screen. A message from Tamara, confirming the dead starburst copter.

“Clear signal on the other one,” Felice confirms. “No problem.”

Yet, Lincoln thinks. A light wind tears at the first lines of smoke, but more are appearing, trailing out of the sky. “Khalid, pull over. Pull off the road. I want to get a look at this.” He turns around. “Rohan, you got binoculars?”

“Yeah, in the back.”

The truck bumps and lurches onto the shoulder.

“Dammit!” Felice says.

“Second one down?” Lincoln asks as he takes the binoculars from Rohan.

“Yeah, what—?” She looks up from her tablet, looks at the sky, really looks, for the first time. “Uh-oh,” she whispers.

Lincoln does not get out of the car. He stays in his seat, using the binoculars to search the sky, achieving a crisp, clear view by using his right eye only, keeping his imperfect artificial eye closed. But there’s nothing to see. Nothing. “Not even a municipal drone,” he says out loud. “I think something just knocked down every UAV over the city.”

Civil defense sirens begin to wail.