The Exchange: After The Firm

Chapter 8

There were no direct flights from New York to Tripoli. The marathon began in New York with an eight-hour trip through the night on Air Italia to Milan, then a two-hour layover before boarding an Egyptair flight to Cairo that was delayed for two hours, no excuses given. Cancellations and rebookings followed at a languid pace, and Mitch spent thirteen hours catnapping and reading in the Cairo airport while someone somewhere sorted out the mess. Or did they? The only bright spot was the fact that his time was not completely wasted. Lannak would eventually get billed for his hours.

When he left New York, at least half of the passengers seemed to be “Westerners,” or, in other words, people who could generally be described as looking, dressing, speaking, and acting sort of like him. Most of those got off in Italy, and by the time Mitch boarded an Air Tunisia flight for the final leg, the plane was packed with people who were definitely not “Westerners.”

He was not bothered by the fact that he was now in a distinct minority. Libya promoted its tourism and attracted half a million visitors a year. Tripoli was a bustling city of two million with business districts filled with domestic banks and corporations. Dozens of foreign companies were registered in the country, and in some sections of Tripoli and Benghazi there were vibrant international communities with British and French schools for the children of visiting executives and diplomats.

As he often did while traveling on the far side of the world, Mitch smiled at the thought that he was undoubtedly the only boy from Kentucky on the flight. And though he would never mention this, he was proud of his accomplishments and wanted more. He was as hungry as ever.

Almost thirty hours after leaving New York, he stepped off the plane at Mitiga International Airport in Tripoli, and shuffled along with the crowd in the general direction of Passport Control. Signs were primarily in Arabic, but there were enough in English and French to keep the traffic moving. Under the iron hand of Colonel Gaddafi, Libya had been a military state for thirty-five years, and like most countries ruled by intimidation, it was important to impress upon new arrivals the presence of heavily armed soldiers. They roamed the concourses of the modern airport in their smart uniforms, guarded the checkpoints, and with unpleasant scowls inspected every Westerner who walked by.

Mitch hid behind his sunglasses and tried to ignore them. Never make eye contact if possible. The same routine he’d learned long ago in the New York subway.

The lines at Passport Control were long and slow. The vast room was hot and unventilated. When a guard nodded at an empty booth, Mitch walked forward and presented his passport and visa. The customs officer never smiled; indeed, upon seeing that Mitch was an American, he managed to frown even harder. A minute passed, then another. Customs could be nerve-wracking enough for any citizen returning to his own country. Maybe there’s a glitch in the passport. In a place like Libya, there was always the flash of horror that an American could be suddenly on the floor, handcuffed, then hauled away and detained for life. Mitch loved the thrill of the unknown.

The officer kept shaking his head as he picked up the phone. Mitch, without the sunglasses, glanced back at the hundreds of weary travelers behind him.

“Over there,” the officer said rudely, jerking his head to the right. Mitch looked and saw a gentleman in a nice suit approaching them. He stuck out a hand, smiled, and said, “Mr. McDeere, I’m Samir Jamblad. I work with Lannak and also with Luca, an old friend.”

Mitch felt like kissing him, which, in the sudden embracing and grappling that followed, seemed likely. Once properly hugged, Samir asked, “How was your flight?”

“Wonderful. I think I’ve been to at least thirteen countries since leaving New York.”

They were walking away from the booths and crowds and security guards. “This way,” Samir said, nodding to officers as they went. Luca had told Mitch not to worry about entry. He would take care of things.

Samir used the restricted doors, away from the crowds, and within minutes they were outside. His Mercedes sedan was parked near the crowded terminal and in a lane reserved for the police. Two officers leaned on a marked car, smoking, loitering, and appearing to guard nothing but Samir’s fine sedan. He thanked them and tossed Mitch’s bag in the rear seat.

“First time in Tripoli?” he asked as they left the airport.

“Yes, it is. How long have you known Luca?”

Samir smiled easily and said, “Oh, many years. I’ve worked for Scully and Pershing and other law firms. Companies like your Exxon and Texaco. British Petroleum, Dutch Shell. Plus some of the Turkish companies, Lannak being one.”

“You’re a lawyer?”

“Oh no. An American client once referred to me as a ‘security consultant.’ Sort of a facilitator, a corporate handyman, the go-to guy in Libya. I was born and raised here, all my life in Tripoli. I know the people, there’s only six million of us.” He laughed at his own effort at humor and Mitch felt compelled to join in.

Samir continued, “I know the leaders, the military, the politicians, and the government workers who get things done. I know the chief of customs back there at the airport. One word from me and they leave you alone. Another word from me, and you might spend a few days in jail. I know the restaurants, bars, good neighborhoods and bad ones. I know the opium dens and the brothels, good and bad.”

“I’m not in the market.”

Samir laughed again and said, “Yes, that’s what they all say.”

From the first impression — the handsome suit, polished black leather shoes, shiny sedan — it was apparent that Samir did indeed know his stuff and was paid well for it.

Mitch glanced at his watch and asked, “What time is it here?”

“Almost eleven. I suggest you check in, get settled, and let’s meet for lunch around one in the hotel. Giovanna’s already here. You’ve met her?”

“Yes, in New York, a few years back.”

“She’s lovely, yes?”

“Yes, as I recall. And after lunch?”

“All plans are tentative and subject to your approval. In Luca’s absence, you are in charge. We have a meeting with the Turks at four P.M. at the hotel. You’ll meet your security team and discuss the visit to the bridge.”

“An obvious question. Lannak is suing the Libyan government for almost half a billion dollars, a claim that certainly looks legitimate. How much friction is there between the company and government?”

Samir took a deep breath, cracked a window, and lit a cigarette. The traffic had stopped and they were sitting bumper-to-bumper. “I would say not much. The Turkish construction companies have been in Libya for a long time, and they are very good. Much better than the Libyans. The military needs the Turks, the Turks like the money. Sure they fight and squabble all the time, but in the end business prevails and life goes on.”

“Okay, second obvious question. Why do we need a security detail?”

Samir laughed again and said, “Because this is Libya. A terrorist state, haven’t you heard? Your own government says so.”

“But that’s international terrorism. What about here, within the country? Why are we taking Turkish bodyguards to visit a Turkish construction site?”

“Because the government doesn’t control everything, Mitch. Libya has a lot of territory but ninety percent of it is Sahara, the desert. It’s vast, wild, sometimes uncontrolled. Tribes fight each other. Outlaws are hard to catch. There are still warlords out there, always looking for trouble.”

“Would you feel safe going where we’re going tomorrow?”

“Of course. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, Mitch. You’re safe, or as safe as a foreigner can be.”

“That’s what Luca says.”

“Luca knows the country. Would he allow his daughter to be here if he was worried?”

The Corinthia Hotel was ground zero for Western businessmen, diplomats, and government functionaries, and the ornate lobby was hopping with corporate types in expensive suits. As Mitch waited to check in he heard English, French, Italian, German, and some tongues he couldn’t identify.

His corner room was on the fifth floor with a splendid view of the Mediterranean. To the northeast he looked down on the ancient walls of the Old City, but he didn’t gaze for long. After a hot shower he fell across his bed, slept hard for an hour, and woke up only with the aid of an alarm clock. He showered again to knock off the cobwebs, dressed for business but without a necktie, and went to find lunch.

Samir was waiting in the restaurant off the hotel lobby. Mitch found him at a dark corner table, and they had just been handed menus when Giovanna Sandroni arrived. They went through the rituals of hugging and pecking and when everyone was properly greeted they settled in and plunged into the small talk. She asked about Abby and the boys, and with some effort they agreed that their first meeting had been about six years earlier for dinner in New York. She’d spent a summer in New York as an intern in a rival firm. Luca was in town, and they met at, not surprisingly, an Italian restaurant in Tribeca where Abby knew the chef and there was talk of a cookbook.

Giovanna was full-blooded Roman, with the dark sad eyes and classic features, but she had spent half of her life abroad. Elite boarding schools in Switzerland and Scotland, an undergraduate degree from Trinity in Dublin, one law school diploma from Queen Mary in London, and another from the University of Virginia. She spoke English without a trace of an accent and Italian like a native, which, of course, she was. Luca said she was “picking up” Mandarin, her fifth language, which for Mitch was too frustrating to think about. He and Abby were still clinging to their Italian and often worried that it was slipping away.

Giovanna had been with Scully for five years and was on the inside track to a partnership, though an inside track would never be acknowledged by the firm. After the first year of associate boot camp the higher-ups usually knew who was a lifer and who’d be gone in five years. She had the brains, tenacity, and pedigree, not to mention the good looks that in principle counted for nothing but in reality opened many doors. She was thirty-two and single and had once been linked by the tabloids to a deadbeat Italian playboy who’d killed himself skydiving. That had been her only brush with fame and it was enough. As a member of a prominent family she was an easy target for gossip in Italy; thus, she preferred a quieter life abroad and had been in London for the past five years.

“How’s Luca?” Mitch asked as soon as she settled in.

She frowned and got right to the point. His health was deteriorating, his prognosis was grim. They talked about Luca for almost fifteen minutes and practically buried him. Samir had known him for thirty years and almost teared up. They ordered light vegetables and green tea.

As they waited for the food, Samir pulled out a folded sheet of paper and held it so that it was obvious he had the floor. In his learned opinion, they should leave at dawn the following morning, around 5 A.M., when the city traffic was light. The bridge was a hard six-hour drive south of Tripoli. Assuming they arrived by noon, they could spend a maximum of three hours at the site before returning to the city. It was too dangerous to travel after dark.

“What kind of danger?” Mitch asked.

“Two hours out of the city, the roads are in bad shape and not safe. Plus, there are gangs and no shortage of bad characters. At the bridge, Lannak is breaking camp and almost finished with the job. The company is quite eager to close up shop. At least two of its engineers are still on-site and they will walk you through the design, history, problems, and so on. Luca thinks it’s important for you to actually see some of the changes that were dictated by the Libyan government as the project went out of control. We have plenty of materials — architects’ drawings, sketches, photos, videos, whatever — but the entire project is something you need to see. Luca has been there at least three times. We’ll work quickly, then start the return to Tripoli.”

Mitch asked Giovanna, “Have you reviewed Luca’s summary?”

She nodded confidently and said, “I have. All four hundred pages, not quite a summary. He can be windy at times, can’t he?”

“No comment. He’s your father.”

Lunch arrived and she removed a pair of bulky sunglasses. Mitch had already decided they were for fashion only and had nothing to do with improving her eyesight. She wore a long, black, loose dress that almost dragged the floor. No jewelry, no makeup, none needed. She said little, was sure of herself but deferential as an associate, and gave the impression that she could handle her side of the table in any discussion. They talked about the Great Gaddafi Bridge as they ate. Samir amused them with stories that had been circulating for years about the project, another boondoggle dreamed up by the Colonel. A man born in a tent. The stories, though, had never made it to print. The press was tightly controlled.

The best story, and perhaps the most likely, was that once the bridge was finished, the Colonel wanted to blow it up and blame the Americans. His engineers had been unable to redirect the flow of the nearest river. He sacked them all and stopped paying Lannak.

As first-time visitors to the city, and with a few hours to spare, they asked Samir if he could walk them through the Old City for a bit of sightseeing. He was delighted to show them around. They left the hotel on foot and soon entered the walled section of ancient Tripoli. The narrow streets were packed with small cars, delivery bikes, and rickshaws. A market was lined with stalls of vendors selling fresh meats and chickens, nuts roasting in hot pans, scarves, and all manner of clothing. The chorus of shouting and bantering, the honking horns and sirens, and the distant din of music combined to make a constant earsplitting roar. Then, at 3 P.M., unseen loudspeakers erupted with the adhan, the afternoon call to prayer, and virtually every man in sight scurried away and headed to the nearest mosque.

Mitch had been to Syria and Morocco and had heard the adhan blare through the streets and neighborhoods five times each day. Though he knew little about the Muslim religion, he was fascinated with its traditions and the discipline of its adherents. Hustling off to church to pray in the middle of the day had never caught on in the States.

The markets and streets were suddenly much quieter. Giovanna decided to do some shopping. Mitch tagged along and bought a scarf for Abby.