Tripoli's Target

Chapter Twenty

“Tell me this once again. The Americans have a spy in the Alliance?” asked Abdul.

“Keep your voice down.” Justin gestured toward a couple of women walking through the embassy halls. He nodded at them as they turned the corner by two L-shaped leather couches, where Justin and Abdul were sipping bitter coffee from small paper cups. The young redhead returned a pretty smile; the older woman whipped them with a stern frown.

“I still can’t believe it,” Abdul dropped his voice to a silent hush, “that is so bold.”

“Yeah, that’s true, but I’m not supposed to share this intel with you.” Justin took a sip of his drink.

He reached back, pushed the window curtains aside, and glanced outside. From the second floor of the embassy he could see the whitewashed walls and a small stretch of the street leading to a row of coffee shops and falafel restaurants across the intersection. Nour had yet to return from picking up his lunch. It had already been fifteen minutes. Did he find a long line or he is eating there? He said he was going for takeout.

“Oh, so we’re expected to bend over backwards, but Americans aren’t giving away a thing?” Abdul asked.

“You’ll go a long way, Abdul, because now you’re getting it.”

“Thanks?”

“You’re welcome. Now, can we believe this guy you’re torturing?”

“My agency does not torture and personally, I haven’t beaten anyone.” Abdul went on the defensive. “Well, not in the last two years, at least.”

“So, yes or no?”

“Well, that’s tricky to say. Torture confessions are useful only if we find other evidence or at least have these claims confirmed by other sources.”

“Well, the US source knows only that the US President is not the target, but he can’t confirm the identity of the new one.”

“And our raids haven’t produced any evidence. We’re back to square one.”

“Has your agency infiltrated the Alliance?”

“If it has, I’m not aware of it.”

“Would the colonel know?”

Abdul shrugged and leaned back on the couch. Its springs squealed under his weight.

“Maybe, but don’t count on him telling you.”

Justin sighed. He conceded, “So, really, we don’t have much.”

“No, we don’t. And if you’re locked within these walls for the rest of the day, and then get on the first plane tomorrow morning, we’ll find nothing else.”

“Unless the colonel scraps his deportation order.”

“He might, if the Americans ask for a favor. But you told me Matthew doesn’t want to do that.”

“Yeah. Apparently he’s washed his hands of this case.”

“And your boss?” Abdul asked.

A dark shadow fell on Justin’s face. He delayed his reply, allowing for the spark of anger to die down, to avoid mouthing off any swear words about Johnson.

“She’s… I don’t think she’s willing to intervene either,” he said after a few seconds, his fingers clenching the paper cup so hard that coffee almost spilled over the top. “She’ll get us outside the embassy, but most likely Carrie and I would have to leave tomorrow.”

Abdul leaned forward and picked up his own cup. After a quick sip, he asked, “What if you simply disappeared?”

“I thought about it, but running will worsen our chances. How can we investigate and gather evidence if we’re wanted by the mukhabarat?”

“You’re right about that,” Abdul said. “Nothing good will come from running.”

Justin glanced again outside the window. A taxi was parked in front of one of the restaurants. A group of people huddled in front of the next door coffee shop. His gaze soared, and he noticed two men sitting in one of the balconies of the apartment complex across the intersection. They were on the fourth floor, about three hundred yards away.

“Still nothing,” Justin said, consulting his wristwatch.

“Relax.” Abdul leaned back, his right hand stroking his chin. “He’s probably enjoying some decent coffee. Unlike this one.”

“You bought it.”

“Big mistake, but it was the only thing half decent at the machine.”

“If we’re running and hiding, sooner or later we’ll get caught, not to mention that you’ll land in hot water, all over again.”

Abdul shook his head. “That’s if I help you.”

“Huh? What?”

“I’m kidding. Of course, I’ll help you. Now, the risk is great, but if we can undo the plot to kill the Prime Minister, that will mean great rewards, great rewards, for all of us.” Abdul’s voice echoed with envy.

“Chief of the mukhabarat?” Justin noticed Abdul’s drooling.

“Oh, yes, yes. Even army’s chief of staff.”

“No way! Isn’t that position reserved for a general? I don’t see any stars on you.”

“If we save his life, the Prime Minister can make me a general with a snap of his fingers.”

“That’s an extremely long shot.”

“Not impossible.”

Justin stood up and paced impatiently along the wall. He stole a glance at his wristwatch and pulled the window curtains aside again. His gaze found Nour crossing the street by the eastern wall of the embassy. Nour was carrying two plastic bags on his left hand and holding his cellphone pressed against his ear with the other hand.

“Nour’s coming back. He’s just… wait, what the hell?”

“What’s going on?”

Justin squinted and raised his hands to his forehead, to ward off the reflection of his face in the window’s glass. A rifle’s barrel jutting out from the fourth floor balcony tolled his alarm bells.

“Sniper, there’s a sniper, fourth floor, two o’clock.”

“What?”

“Nour’s their target. Go, go, go!” Justin shouted.

He sprang over the couch like a leopard chasing an antelope. His left foot banged against the table, sending Abdul’s coffee spilling on the couch and the carpeted floor. Abdul jumped to his feet and hurried behind Justin. They ran down the hall, turned the corner and began jumping the stairs three and four at a time. As they reached the first floor, one of the guards by the reception desk, a tall, bald man, stepped forward, spreading his arms to stop their approach.

“Where d’you think you’re goin’?”

“Nour’s in danger. Outside—”

The guard shoved his large palm into Justin’s chest.

“You ain’t leaving this—”

Justin cut him off with a right fist slamming against his square jaws. A left knee to the stomach dropped the man to the floor. Abdul went for the other guard, but before they had exchanged any blows, Justin leveled the pistol he took from the guard sprawled on the floor at the head of the second guard.

“Don’t move.”

Abdul disarmed the second guard and followed Justin, who opened the door leading to the courtyard.

“Open the gate, open the freaking gate,” Justin screamed at the guards manning the main entrance of the embassy, threatening them with his gun. Abdul raised his pistol as well, but the heavy steel plate gate was already rolling. Squeezing through the narrow opening, Justin raced down the street.

“Nour, Nour,” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Nour!”

The American was about a hundred yards away, strolling at leisure and focusing solely on his cellphone conversation. Dashing forward, Justin fired a warning shot in the air. The gunshot sent a few people scattering for the safety of nearby stores. The chaos caught Nour’s attention. He stared at Justin barreling toward him, gun drawn and shouting in panic. Nour raised up his hands, asking about the unbelievable scene unfolding in front of his eyes, when a second gunshot erupted, echoing in the empty street. It did not come from Justin’s gun. The bullet struck Nour in the back. His phone flew out of his hand. A second later, his lunch spilled on the ground. Nour’s feet gave in and he dropped face first into the concrete sidewalk.

“No, no, no,” Justin cried, aiming his pistol at the sniper’s balcony, and squeezing off one round after the other. He kept running toward the fallen American. Other gunfire came from behind him. Justin figured it was Abdul firing his weapon. A bullet wheezed past his head and Justin realized now he had become the sniper’s moving target. He jumped to the side and rolled over the ground. Then, he climbed to his left knee and fired a quick burst. The bullets shattered the glass door behind the sniper. Justin fired his last rounds and then tossed the empty pistol aside, as he hid behind one of the embassy SUVs parked on the side of the road.

“Abdul, I’m out.”

Abdul replied by firing two more times, before diving for cover inside one of the stores to his left. The sniper shot back, hammering the SUV’s widows. Justin peeked out from underneath the car at Nour. The man was motionless. A pool of blood was forming around his head. More rounds poured toward Abdul’s position.

“Fire back,” Justin shouted.

“I’m empty. Are you OK?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Nour’s down.”

A loud rumble came from his right and Justin turned his head. Two white GMC Envoys rolled out of the embassy, accompanied by armed guards in dark blue fatigues. As they edged closer to him, weapons at the ready, Justin glanced at the fourth floor balcony. The shooter was gone.

“Medic, he needs a medic,” Justin shouted at the guards.

Two of them began to check Nour’s body for signs of life. Justin stood up, shifting the weight of his body to his right leg. He had reopened his left leg wound and blood was tricking down his foot. Carrie was running toward him and he gave her a smile. Seconds later, she fell into his arms for a tight embrace.

“I’ll have that treated,” Carrie said in a worried voice, her eyes noticing the bloodstain around Justin’s foot.

“Thanks.”

“I tell you not to go shooting without me, but you never listen.” Carrie raised a stern finger and shook her head very dramatically.

“You were busy having a girly talk with Johnson.” Justin searched the street for Abdul. “By the way, how did that go?”

“Slightly better than this.” Carrie pointed at the guards hovering over Nour. An ambulance pulled into the intersection and screeched to a halt next to the wounded American. The Libya British Diagnostic Center logo was painted on the left side of the ambulance.

“You took one for the team.” Abdul jogged toward them.

“No, old wound.” Justin replied. “Oh, no,” he added, looking over Carrie’s shoulder.

“What is it?” she asked.

Carrie turned around, just as Matthew appeared at the embassy’s gate. His dark gaze first fell on his chief of security, whose body was being lifted into a gurney and wheeled into the back of the ambulance. Matthew ran to the ambulance and exchanged a few words with a guard and one of the paramedics. Justin read Matthew’s rage through his body gestures: sinking shoulders, clenched fists, a kick to the ambulance rear tire. Then, the man’s blazing eyes found Justin and the rest of his group. He braced for the verbal storm that was about to hail upon their ears. However, Matthew’s blue eyes cooled off as he measured up the agents. He walked over to them.

“Nour is barely alive. Thank you for helping him. After you patch up your wound, meet me in my office,” he said. “The two of you.” He pointed at Justin and Carrie. “In fifteen minutes.”