Tripoli's Target

Chapter Ten

The front desk clerk, a young woman with smooth mocha skin and large hazel eyes, quoted Justin the cheapest room at five hundred dollars per night. And that was for a standard room with a queen-size bed. Justin paid no attention to the details: the satellite TV, the high speed Internet access, the mini-bar, and, of course, the panoramic view of the Mediterranean Sea. His room served simply to cement the cover of his business trip to Tripoli: photographing Libya’s natural and historical landmarks.

After coughing up enough cash for three nights’ accommodation, Justin turned down the bellboy’s services. He lingered in the hotel lobby and the lounge area for about ten minutes, to make sure he had not been followed by any suspicious character. No one fitting the general profile of a government minder or a mukhabarat officer entered the hotel during that time. Only then he felt comfortable to proceed to his room on the tenth floor.

He had no reason to search the room for electronic bugs since no conversations were going to take place in there. He disarranged the sheets and the bed covers and tossed one of the pillows on the floor, then spread out his toiletries on the bathroom counter. The room now had the feel of being used by a careless man, just in case the mukhabarat paid him a visit.

After a quick shower, Justin changed into khaki pants and a beige shirt. He rode the elevator down to the mezzanine floor and found the Venezia Restaurant. He wanted to enjoy a good meal and wanted to like Libya, but everywhere he set his eyes, he found a source of irritation and a reason to feed his growing hate for everything in this country. The waiter serving him spoke bad English. The lights flooding from the ceiling were too bright. The restaurant was too crowded, with noisy patrons and slow service. The food was bland and there was no wine or alcoholic drinks on the menu, since Libya was a dry country.

In silence, Justin ploughed his way through a lukewarm minestrone soup and a dull frutti di mare risotto. He tasted nothing, but a feeling of premonition sizzling down in his gut. Bad things happened every time he visited this country. People died or were badly hurt, sometimes innocent people, and, more often than not, he was the one pulling the trigger. Hating the place and its people, in theory, should make his job easier. But Justin knew psychology experts who wrote those theories had never completed a covert mission on the ground. He had. On days like today, he wished he really worked as a travel journalist and relied on cameras and voice recorders, instead of pistols and carbines.

“And here is your bill, signore,” the waiter said, faking a big smile.

The waiter’s lame attempt at Italian pulled Justin back to the restaurant and away from his bad omens. He was actually pleased to see the waiter and left him a generous tip.

The front desk clerk called him a taxi. While waiting for its arrival, Justin complained to the clerk about knee pain in his left leg. Carrie had neatly cleaned the wound he suffered during the gunfight in Sudan and had wrapped it in surgical gauze. It hurt, but not enough to complain about it. But Justin needed to give the clerk a reason why he needed to visit a medical center or a hospital. As if coached, the clerk recommended the Libya British Diagnostic Center, which, in her exact words, was “the best in the entire country.” The clinic was open until 10:00 p.m. and it was exactly in Justin’s direction, a short walk to the US Embassy.

The heavyset man pacing up and down the reception hall of the Corinthia grew more frustrated and impatient with every passing moment. The target he was supposed to be watching had disappeared. He was last seen climbing aboard a taxi, whose driver was picking up neither his employer’s radio, nor his personal cellphone. The front desk clerk insisted “the Australian” was limping and had gone to the Libya British Diagnostic Center. A sweep of the Australian’s room had revealed nothing out of ordinary. However, his instructions were clear. Every move of the foreigner should be carefully monitored and reported.

Unknown to the heavyset man, earlier that day Prince’s Al-Farhan personal aide had placed a call to Colonel Farid Haydar, who commanded Tripoli’s Counter Terrorism Branch in the Internal Security Service. Colonel Haydar had immediately agreed to offer the Prince, his long time benefactor, the unconditional assistance of the Agency. A team of six men was dispatched without delay, in anticipation of Justin’s arrival. Two of them had subtly welcomed him at Tripoli’s International Airport. Another pair had followed his taxi, which dropped him off at the Corinthia. However, the last two men, one of which was nervously pacing the hotel’s reception, had lost track of their target on their way to the medical center.

The man’s cellphone rang inside his jacket pocket, but he ignored it. It buzzed again, this time a bit louder, yet he still did not answer it, hoping the caller would realize the man was busy and would hang up. The annoying sound buzzed a third time, attracting stares from a group of people huddled around one of the coffee tables. The man dashed up the white marble staircase leading to the second floor and flipped open his cellphone.

“Hello, Colonel,” he said quickly.

“Tell me you’ve found him,” Colonel Haydar demanded.

“Hmm…it’s… hmm…” the man stumbled, “we’re waiting for his return to the hotel.”

“I can’t believe you’re so stupid. You can’t even follow an old man in a taxi.”

“The driver was going like a crazy maniac. We didn’t want to give away our position and our mission.”

“Our mission? There’s no mission anymore because of your fault. Our target has disappeared and we’ve no idea of where he is or what he’s doing.”

“His luggage is in his room, and the receptionist says he took nothing with him,” the man whispered on the receiver, as a bellboy in a black uniform walked by, slowly wheeling a luggage cart. “He’ll come back eventually.”

“I wanted to know what he was doing at all times. He may or may not return to the hotel. This man is a trained pro; he speaks Arabic fluently and has many contacts in Tripoli. I wanted to know whom he’s meeting with, but thanks to you now I can’t.”

The man listened patiently to the colonel venting, while staring below at the ring-shaped fountain in the center of the lobby and at the two small palm trees to its sides. The atmosphere was supposed to relax the hotel guests, but the only thing the man was experiencing was fear about his mistake.

“What are my orders?” he asked.

“There’s no point in giving you orders if you can’t follow them. I’ll find someone else who can actually do what he’s told to do.”

The line went dead.

“Do you see all these idiots working for me?” Colonel Haydar slammed the phone onto the receiver. “They can’t even follow a basic order.”

“You should never send an amateur to do a pro’s job,” Nassir replied.

The colonel looked up at the man standing next to the tall bookcase. Ever since Nassir had refused to take a seat, the colonel had begun to resent the man. He was too proud, too full of himself. The colonel was going to tolerate Nassir, since he was the Prince’s envoy, but that did not mean he had to like him.

“I don’t think the Prince sent you here for your great sense of sarcasm,” the colonel said. “Let’s see what you can do.”

Nassir cracked his knuckles. “We can do this the hard way or the easy way.” He slid his hand over a large combat knife hanging in its sheath at his thigh.

“Just do it the efficient way,” the colonel said. “As much as I want Mr. Hall dead, it’s not the right time. Find out whom did he meet or is meeting, what help did he get or will get.”

Nassir frowned. “I thought you wanted me to do something. I’m not much for asking questions, unless Justin refuses to answer them.”

The colonel sighed. This is why I didn’t want to involve you in this. I don’t need a sledgehammer for a small nail.

“Let me make myself clear, Nassir. We need Mr. Hall alive, so that he can brief the Americans. I just want to know what happened during the time we didn’t have our eyes on him. Do you understand that?”

“I do.”

“And can you do that?”

Nassir stared at the colonel.

“You’re asking me?”

“Yes. I want to make sure you get it.”

“Yes, I can talk to Justin, if he wants to talk. In Sudan, he didn’t strike me as a man of many words.”

“Oh, now you know everything about him?”

Nassir shook his head.

“Let me tell you something about Mr. Hall. He was here two years ago, on a rescue mission. We dragged his wounded body to a cell and threw away the key. But he fought back and slipped out of our hands, destroying a mosque, and killing fourteen people in the process. An entire unit of elite operatives. Very good men.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“So that you don’t underestimate him. Tarek will go with you to ensure you don’t.”

Nassir looked at the other man in the colonel’s office. Tarek had not said a word ever since Nassir had arrived, about an hour ago. He was just staring at the colonel, his small body leaning forward in the chair. His hands rested on his knees and he looked ready to spring to action at any time.

Nassir began, “Look, I don’t need any—”

The colonel interrupted him with, “You’re a simple mercenary. Tarek is mukhabarat. He knows the city and he knows Mr. Hall.”

“I know—”

“You’re wasting time, Nassir.”

Before the colonel finished his sentence, Tarek was already on his feet.

The taxi driver, a thin-framed, elderly man who looked like he should have retired about ten years earlier, drove fast and hard. The Nissan rattled in loud mechanical protests every time the driver negotiated swift turns around narrow curbs. The brakes screeched as the wheels barely missed garbage heaps, stray cats, and all types of waste thrown almost everywhere. The driver chose the emptiest alleys as he raced for the fastest shortcut to the Libya British Diagnostic Center. As the taxi came to an abrupt halt in front of the four-story grayish building, Justin’s wristwatch indicated he still had ten minutes to spare.

The US Embassy’s compound stretched over an area of two city blocks. Justin walked by its white and beige walls, two feet thick and eight feet tall. They were topped with an additional two feet of cast iron staggered fence. The Old Glory flew atop a tall flagpole, under the bright glow of white floodlights.

The entire area was well-lit and a few uniformed police officers were patrolling the streets leading to the diplomatic residence. Two police trucks were parked on a sidewalk. Justin assumed police backup was in there.

“There he is.” Nassir stared through the windshield of the second police truck at Justin across the street. “Let’s go.”

Tarek, in the driver’s seat, shook his head. Both were dressed in police uniforms.

“We have only five minutes before he gets inside,” Nassir insisted.

“Wrong. He’ll circle the complex, to familiarize himself with the surroundings.” Tarek started the truck and put it in reverse. “We’ll wait for him on the other side.”

Marines manned an observation station set up to the left of the main entrance gate to the embassy. Justin could not see their faces, but he was sure the Marines were monitoring his moves from behind the small, bulletproof windows. He walked down the street that was the farthermost from the embassy walls and rounded the corner, coming face to face with a police truck parked about thirty yards away. Its length blocked most of the sidewalk. Two police officers were inside the idling vehicle.

Justin’s body tensed involuntarily. Are they here for me? No reports mentioned police patrols along the east side of the compound. Perhaps they beefed up security because of the bombings.

He looked beyond the police truck. A small convenience store was a hundred yards away, at the end of the backstreet. Someone from the embassy was supposed to be waiting there for Justin.

Turning around will raise more suspicion than if I just keep going. One last obstacle.

Justin slowed down but kept moving toward the truck.

“Now,” Nassir said, leaning on the door handle.

Before he could move, he felt a sharp pain stabbing through his ribcage. He opened his mouth to scream, but Tarek’s low voice stopped him.

“That’s for being full of shit.”

Tarek twisted the knife he had snatched from Nassir’s side. The sharp, serrated blade slashed through Nassir’s lungs, and a muffled cry escaped his bleeding mouth.

“And this is for disrespecting the colonel.”

Nassir left hand twitched, in a lame attempt to grab Tarek’s arm. Tarek blocked the effort with ease and held it there for three more seconds, the time it took for Nassir to stop breathing.

He pulled the knife and opened the truck’s door.

Justin stopped as one of the police officers, the one in the driver’s seat, stepped out of the truck. The other remained in the front passenger’s seat, his head slightly turned to the right, as if staring out the window.

“Good evening, officer,” Justin said in English, while looking to the left at the apartment complex and then at the officer approaching him. He was holding something in his right hand, something that seemed to continue up his sleeve. Is that a baton?

“What are you doing here?” the officer’s voice came out rough and accusatory.

“I was out for a walk. Is that a crime?” Justin took a step back, his mind calculating his options. The second officer was still inside the truck. Maybe I can outrun him. No need to start a fight.

“Show me your ID,” the officer demanded, closing in on him.

“Sure.”

Justin’s left hand went for a front pocket, but his eyes never left the officer’s frowning face. Where have I seen this man? A flash of headlights from a turning car lit up the area and Justin recognized the man. He was one of the prison guards.

Before Justin could act on his realization, the officer stretched his right arm. A long blade glinted briefly under the diming light. Justin had a split second to throw his head back. The tip of the blade sliced through the air, an inch away from his throat.

“Remember me?” the officer asked, stepping forward, while Justin fell back.

“Yeah, Tarek. You’re the one I left for dead.”

“Mistake. Should have finished your job.”

“I won’t waste this second chance.”

Tarek lifted the blade again. This time Justin had a defense plan. As Tarek thrust his arm forward, going for Justin’s chest, Justin took a step back. He deflected Tarek’s attack with his right forearm and grabbed Tarek’s wrist with both hands. His fingers sank into the attacker’s hand and he twisted the man’s wrist, his body moving away from the knife. Tarek began to scream, but Justin stifled him with a forceful punch to the throat. Choking, Tarek stopped fighting.

“How did you find me?” Justin asked.

“Eat my—”

Justin interrupted Tarek with a sidekick to his left knee, disabling his foot. Tarek began to fall. Justin shoved Tarek’s hand, which was still holding his knife, toward the man’s neck. Tarek’s head came down hard on the sharp blade. Blood flowed freely from a large gash as Tarek’s body writhed on the ground. Justin’s eyes rested on the attacker until he drew in his last breath.

“See, Tarek. I corrected my error.”

Justin approached the convenience store at a slow pace. He was double-checking every corner and every shadow. The knife attack less than two minutes earlier had pitched him into an extreme level of alertness.

A young man in a black suit was standing just inside the store’s entrance.

“Mr. Schmitt?” the black suit asked Justin.

Justin nodded, glancing at the store’s clerk, a middle-aged man who continued to watch the news on a small TV by the newspaper rack. Undoubtedly, he was on the embassy’s payroll, one of their many eyes inside the Libyan society.

“How are you feeling?”

“What?” Justin said.

“I asked how are you feeling?” the black suit repeated his question, this time pointing at Justin’s heaving chest.

“I’m fine, just a bit rushed.”

“Ready to go?”

“Yes, ready to go.”

The black suit whispered something unintelligible into a microphone stitched inside his left sleeve, and a black Cadillac sedan glided out of the night’s darkness. Its windows were tinted black, its headlights were turned off, and the car coasted without making a sound. Seconds later, it was parked on the sidewalk, two steps away from the convenience store’s entrance.

“Come with me,” the black suit said, “They’re expecting you.”

Aided by the night’s blackness, the two men slid inside the Cadillac, Justin in the back seat, his escort in the front. The driver, a heavyset man with a large head and a small ear piece, gave him a quick glance, as if to confirm Justin’s identity to the photograph he had seen earlier that evening. He nodded to the black suit and stepped on the gas pedal.

“We’re going through the service door, right?” Justin asked.

“Correct,” the driver replied. “Mr. Garnett is waiting for you.”