The Dictator's Last Night

9

‘The first section of the convoy has just arrived,’ Abu-Bakr announces as I come downstairs.

‘How many vehicles?’

‘Twelve. With fifty well-equipped troops.’

‘What about my son?’

‘He won’t be long, according to Lieutenant-Colonel Trid.’

At the mere mention of his name I feel myself reviving.

‘Is Trid here?’

‘In the flesh, Brotherly Guide,’ a voice to my left thunders.

The lieutenant-colonel gives me a regulation salute. I am so happy to see him that I feel like hugging him. Brahim Trid is the youngest lieutenant-colonel in my army. He is only thirty, but has countless acts of bravery to his credit. Short, handsome, his moustache looking almost out of place on his adolescent features, he embodies the qualities I have wanted to instil in all my officers. If I had a hundred men of his calibre, I could outwit any army in the world. With his noble demeanour, uniform without a crease and freshly polished boots, he appears to float above the war and its chaos. The dust on his battledress sparkles like fairy dust. Intrepid, of extraordinary intelligence, Lieutenant-Colonel Brahim Trid is my own personal Otto Skorzeny. I have tasked him with several missions impossible and he has carried out every one of them with rare panache. It was Trid I entrusted with the training of the Azawad Malian dissidents, the recruitment of the Mauritanian revolutionaries, my destabilisation manoeuvres in the Sahel. With the evacuation of part of my family too, taking them to safety in Algeria. Not once has he let me down. His keenness, tenacity and valour set him apart from the officers of his generation. His mere presence among us is a relief. Even Mansour, to his surprise, is smiling.

‘You were rumoured to be dead,’ I tell him, careful not to let my pleasure show too much.

‘Well, the rumours are mistaken,’ he says, spreading his arms to show that he is fighting fit.

‘How did you manage to find us?’

‘He who loves will eventually find, Brotherly Guide. Your aura is my pole star.’

‘Seriously.’

‘The Benghazi rebels are so disorganised, any group could slip through without being discovered. I followed them to the city and sneaked between two roadblocks to get to District Two. Colonel Mutassim’s men escorted me to point 36, and I made it the rest of the way with my eyes closed.’

‘You have seen my son?’

‘Yes, sir. He is doing a fantastic job. He has repelled an attack from the east and destroyed our munitions dumps. I left him regrouping. He supplied the eleven vehicles I’ve brought with me.’

‘How is he?’

‘Extremely well. He asked me to tell you that he will be an hour or two late, but that he has the situation in hand.’

He clears a table of the glasses standing on it, lays out a staff map and gives us his briefing.

‘The situation is complicated but not insurmountable.’

He draws circles on the map with a coloured pencil to show our position and those of our enemies.

‘The bulk of the rebel forces is stationed to the west. This sector is occupied by the Misrata militia. One section is advancing along the coast, the other is moving up from Sidi Be Rawaylah on the ring road in the direction of intersection 167. On that side everything’s sealed by Al-Qaeda and the February 17th Martyrs Brigade … In the east the ungodly mob from Benghazi are advancing along the Abu Zahiyan road. The two groups are trying to join up at intersection 167 to isolate Bir Hamma.’

‘Do they know our position?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘What is your plan?’

‘We’ve got two options to try to break the blockade. The first is to punch through to the east. The dogs from Benghazi are more interested in destroying and looting than consolidating their front.’

‘No,’ the defence minister says, ‘it’s too risky that way.’

‘Everything is risky, General, and everything is feasible.’

‘Not when the rais is with us.’

The lieutenant-colonel acquiesces.

He moves on to his plan B.

‘This afternoon a tactical withdrawal was observed along this thick line, which marks the rebels’ initial front line. The enemy has pulled back by two or three kilometres towards the south-east and south-west, which leaves us a no man’s land wide enough for us to move through as we wish. According to my reconnaissance units, the line from Bir Hamma to Khurb al-Aqwaz can be taken.’

‘It may be an ambush,’ Mansour objects. ‘The gap is too obvious for it not to be a trap. If we let ourselves be drawn into a funnel, the enemy could take us in a pincer movement and destroy us. We wouldn’t even be able to retreat if the Misrata militia has taken intersection 167.’

‘We aren’t facing a regular army,’ the lieutenant-colonel insists. ‘It’s just a human flood overturning everything in its path. To the west the Islamists are going through the city with a fine-tooth comb. To the east, despite the anarchy in the Benghazi ranks, stragglers could intercept us all the way and we don’t know the exact numbers of their forces. There are thousands of them roaming the streets looking for convoys to loot. The south is the only breakout route left to us.’

I approve of the lieutenant-colonel’s choice — not because his arguments are irrefutable but because my intuition does not let me down. It was I who opted for the southerly withdrawal this morning. If I did not recall doing so earlier, it proves that it was the Voice who spoke for me. What I decide is what God wants. Did I not escape the bombing that targeted my residence at Bab al-Azizia the night I was celebrating my beloved grandson’s birthday with my whole family, a raid that cost the lives of my sixth son Saif al-Arab and his three sons? I emerged from the debris without a scratch. The perils I have faced during my reign, the non-stop plots and assassination attempts, would have got the better of anyone else. God watches over me. I do not doubt it for a second. In a few hours the blockade will open before me like the Red Sea before Moses. I shall pierce the enemy lines as easily as a needle pierces cloth.

‘All we have to do is wait for Mutassim,’ I conclude. ‘As soon as he comes, we shall withdraw.’

‘Four o’clock is the most favourable time,’ the general ventures.

‘Out of the question,’ I interrupt him. ‘There is no favourable time, Abu-Bakr. We need to get out of this wasps’ nest as soon as possible. The coalition’s warplanes will be dropping their bombs on us at any moment.’

‘I agree,’ Mansour says.

‘It makes no difference whether you agree or not,’ I shout at him. ‘I am in command here. Prepare to withdraw. Mutassim will not need to leave his vehicle. As soon as his convoy approaches, we form up in column formation and we head out. I do not want anyone to know that I am with my troops.’

The lieutenant-colonel picks up his map, folds it carefully and replaces it in his briefcase.

‘You may go now, Colonel Trid. You need to get your breath back. You are a remarkable officer,’ I add, glancing scornfully at the general and Guard commander. ‘You deserve my respect.’

The young officer does not turn away. With a mischievous smile he says to me, ‘I didn’t come empty-handed, Brotherly Guide.’

He snaps his fingers. Two soldiers push a bound prisoner into the room. He is wearing a flapping pair of jogging pants torn at the knees and a nondescript sweater. His complexion is greyish-brown, he has the physique of a flabby bear, and his face bears the marks of a beating. His eye, ringed with a thick purplish bruise, is swollen and horribly closed. His white hair and jowls put him in his fifties.

They throw him at my feet. He falls to his knees and I see a deep gash bleeding on the back of his neck.

‘Who is he?’

‘Captain Jaroud, General Younis’s aide-de-camp,’ Trid says, proud of his trophy.

‘Is he not a little old for the job?’

‘Correct. This coward was a corporal, then staff sergeant and the general’s personal driver. He was promoted to officer rank by Younis without attending a military academy.’

I push the prisoner away with my foot. He stinks so badly that I hold my nose.

‘Did you find him in a drain?’

‘I picked him up hitchhiking on the ring road,’ the lieutenant-colonel says ironically.

‘I was trying to find you, sir,’ the prisoner moans. ‘I swear.’

I look at him in disgust.

‘Because General Younis had dismissed you?’

‘I’m not important enough for anyone to be that interested in me, sir.’

‘Why did he betray me?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘He thought he saw an opportunity to get in with the rebels and save his career,’ Mansour says.

‘His ambitions were outrageous,’ the minister adds.

I prod the former aide-de-camp once again.

‘Have you swallowed your tongue?’

A guard hits him hard on the back of the neck.

‘Answer the rais.’

The prisoner gulps several times before quavering, ‘General Younis was jealous, sir. He didn’t like you. Once I surprised him in his office with his arm outstretched and a revolver pointed at your picture.’

‘And you kept it to yourself.’

He bows his head. His shoulders heave with the pressure of a muffled sob.

‘You could have warned me.’

‘The general must have dangled the prospect of greater status in front of him,’ the lieutenant-colonel remarks.

Mansour gives him a look that warns him not to intervene.

The renegade sniffs, wipes his nose on his shoulder. He does not have the strength to raise his gaze to my face. The same guard jabs him with the barrel of his rifle.

‘The rais asked you a question.’

‘I was scared of him …’ the prisoner admits. ‘To be aide-de-camp to a vulture like him is like expecting to be devoured raw at any moment. He could sense things that were happening miles away and he read people’s minds like a book. If he had the slightest suspicion he reacted instantly. And he was ruthless. I felt in danger every time he looked at me. The only way I could function with him was by taking antidepressants.’

‘How did he die?’

‘Like a dog, sir.’

‘How do dogs die?’ the minister of defence asks. ‘I had one once. He died of old age, surrounded by my sons’ affection. Is that how General Younis ended up?’

‘Was he really killed, or was it a cover-up? He was invited to the Élysée palace by Nicolas Sarkozy, after all. That is a big deal. Younis is an impressive negotiator. I feel sure he saved his skin. Perhaps as we speak he is in some tax haven somewhere, making the most of his fortune?’

‘He was executed, sir. There’s no doubt about it.’

‘Were you there?’

‘No, sir.’

‘So how can you be so categorical? People deluge us with inventions these days. I have even heard people say it was me who was behind the general’s assassination. I would have been delighted for that to be the case, except that it is not true.’

‘He wasn’t there, but he knows something about it,’ the lieutenant-colonel informs me, despite being reprimanded by Mansour. He crouches next to the traitor, grabs his ear and forces him to raise his head. ‘Tell the rais what happened, you son of a rat. You were at your boss’s side when he was summoned to that sham trial. Tell him what you saw and heard that day, nothing more.’

‘I’m thirsty,’ the turncoat groans.

The minister sends for someone to bring water.

Having quenched his thirst, the prisoner tells the story without stopping. According to him, General Abdul Fatah Younis had observed the balance of power beginning to shift dangerously towards the faction of the February 17th Martyrs Brigade commanded by the Islamist Abdelhakim Belhadj, a hardline activist who had spent six years locked up in my gaols. Despite the enormous support the general had brought to the rebellion, his operational powers were being whittled away. Relegated to the position of a mere adviser to the National Transitional Council, he felt that the hothouse atmosphere was rapidly becoming stifling and that he needed to take charge of things again, but they had only left him his eyes to weep with. The French did not like him; they had used him as a common pawn in their negotiations and were ready to drop him now that he had no more than a walk-on part and no influence on events. As for the Americans, his fate was sealed: the general was, at worst, a dead man walking, at best a war criminal to be packed up and delivered to the good offices of the International Criminal Court.

‘Keep it short,’ Mansour orders him. ‘Just tell us how your boss died.’

‘I’m coming to that, sir.’

‘We’re not here to wait for you, scum. Stick to the facts.’

The traitor clears the frog from his throat and says, ‘The general was accused of being a double agent, of working for you, Rais, and for Sarkozy. I was with him when he was served with the arrest warrant, signed by Abdul Jalil in person.8 He was spitting with rage, shouting that he had been betrayed. I escorted him to the military tribunal where the charges against him were read out. The general protested, then said that he did not recognise the court’s legitimacy and attempted to return to his headquarters. A cousin of mine, who had joined the Islamists and was at the tribunal, stopped me from going with the general. He advised me to go to our aunt’s house in Tripoli and not to show myself on the street. The general was held by the Islamists as he left the tribunal and driven away in a 4×4. He was executed the same day.’

‘How?’

‘My cousin came to our aunt’s house in Tripoli afterwards. He had been one of the abductors. He told me that the general had tried to jump out of the 4×4. They knocked him out and took him to a shed to be interrogated. He was tortured with pliers and a blowlamp. They cut off his toes, put one of his eyes out and cut his stomach open with a hacksaw.’

‘Your cousin’s seen too many slasher movies,’ Mansour says sceptically.

‘He recorded it on his mobile and he showed me how the general was killed. I spent three days throwing up and three nights screaming in my sleep. I’m still shaking …’ Suddenly raising his head, he goes on, white-faced, ‘These people aren’t human, Rais. Just coming across them in the street gave me the shivers. They call themselves Muslims but they hardly leave any work for the Devil to do. They kill kids as if they were squashing flies. I’ve never seen anything more horrible than their expression. It’s like they’re looking at you with the eyes of death itself. When my cousin suggested I join his squad, I said yes on the spot. He’d have slashed my belly open, like the general, in front of our aunt and without a qualm, if I’d hesitated for a second. But I couldn’t live with those barbarians. I was scared to death just at the thought of sitting down to a meal with them. That night, after my cousin had gone to sleep, I ran away without looking back, as fast as my legs could carry me. I intended to get back to Sirte to rejoin your troops, Rais, but the town was swarming with rebels who were shooting up anything that moved. I wandered for days and nights, hiding in cellars. When I recognised the lieutenant-colonel on the ring road, it felt like I was waking up from a nightmare.’

‘Don’t worry, you’re still in it,’ the lieutenant-colonel promises him.

‘Rais,’ the prisoner begs, raising himself on his knees, ‘I didn’t betray you. From the beginning my only thought was to rejoin your forces. It’s the truth, I swear it.’

‘There’s no such thing. People believe what suits them, and your story doesn’t suit me.’

He crawls after me.

‘I worship you more than my father and my ancestors, Brotherly Guide. I’ve got four kids and a wife who’s half mad. Spare me, for the love of the prophet. I want to take my place among your soldiers again. I’ll show myself worthy of your trust—’

Trust?

That old chestnut!

I banned that poisonous word from my vocabulary before I learnt to walk. Trust is a little death. I had to be wary of everything and everyone, especially the most loyal of my loyalists, because they are the ones best informed about my faults. To guarantee my own longevity I did not confine myself to listening in on people’s thoughts or bribing their consciences — I was ready to execute my twin to keep my siblings at arm’s length.

And yet, despite the draconian measures I took, the elaborate precautions and the purges, I have been betrayed. By the most loyal of my loyalists. General Younis, whom I considered my partner in crime, whom I loved more than a brother, the man who boasted of being godfather to my son, who never forgot me in his prayers and took my lapses to be coded signs: he betrayed me. How can I not view his tragic end as a divine punishment? By rejecting my blessing, he signed his own death warrant. I do not even feel contempt for him, just a vague sadness, a kind of pity made of elusive ingredients, which simultaneously calms and comforts me.

‘I beg you, Rais,’ the renegade sobs, ‘I tried to rejoin your forces; I swear it on the head of what is most precious to me in this world.’

‘The only precious thing left to you in this world is your head, and it is not worth a radish,’ I tell him.

I turn to the two soldiers.

‘Send him straight to hell.’

The traitor attempts to resist the arms restraining him, he writhes and struggles, his face contorted. They drag him without ceremony into the courtyard. I hear him begging me and weeping. His lamenting turns to shrieks of terror as he disappears into the night, then, having exhausted every appeal, he starts to blaspheme.

‘You’re nothing but a madman, Muammar, a raving bloodthirsty madman. Cursed be the womb that bore you and the day you came into this world … You’re nothing but a bastard, Muammar, a bastard …’

Someone must have knocked him out then, because he suddenly stopped.

In the silence that follows, the word ‘bastard’ goes on ringing in my ear in a chorus of heart-rending echoes so monstrous that my cosmic Voice, which has always known how to speak to me in my moments of solitude, has curled up into itself like a frightened snail.

Around me, Mansour, the minister and the lieutenant-colonel look down, their heads bowed, paralysed by the obscene insults proffered by the supplicant.

I go back up to my room to recover from the affront.

8 Mustafa Abdul Jalil, chairman of the National Transitional Council (NTC).