Tripoli's Target

Chapter Twenty-two

“This has turned into an unbelievable nightmare.” Justin closed the opaque glass door of the George Washington Conference Room, and dropped his stack of briefing notes on the table. “Two days ago, we were only messengers. Now, we’re chasing ghosts of princes and terrorists, while bodies stack up as if hacked down by the Plague.”

“None of this is our fault.” Carrie sat next to Justin and spread her folders in front of her, “but now, we must unravel this plot.”

“Oh Johnson.” Justin threw his head back and stared up at the ceiling, as if Johnson were a goddess up in the skies. “Why do we have to clean up this mess?”

“Because you’re a great janitor, my dear,” Carrie imitated Johnson’s high-pitched voice and mimicked her tight facial expression. She puckered her lips and narrowed her eyes, lowering her reading glasses to the tip of her nose. “And I know you can fix any screw-up.”

Justin rolled his eyes and shook her head. “This is not a screw-up; this is a clusterfuck of galactic proportions.”

Carrie grinned.

“What did Johnson tell you on the phone?” Justin asked.

“She’s unhappy with the way our mission has turned out, especially the highway shootout. I tried to explain it was self-defense and if we hadn’t responded she would have had to ask for two Canadian flags to wrap our coffins. Still, she scolded us, well, me, since you weren’t there, saying something along the lines of us not showing ‘sufficient restraint.’”

“Typical of Johnson. The cleanup process is dirty and they don’t like it. But when we reach the goal, then, the mission is described in superlatives.”

“Yeah. She said she’ll talk to Matthew about letting you collect your belongings from the hotel and move freely in the city. Although, she warned us against it. How did she put it? Oh yeah, ‘the US Embassy is definitely the safest place for you at this moment.’ That’s what she said. She wants us to file a report, close the case, and get the hell out of Libya by tomorrow morning.”

“Perhaps she’s worried about more Libyans dying if we roam the streets of Tripoli.”

Carrie shrugged. “Could be. Or worried about having to give longer explanations and more apologies to our ministers.”

“What do you think she’ll make of this turn of events?”

“What, us going after the Prince? I can’t see Johnson backing you on this now. She will order us to stand down. That’s if we tell her about it, after we decide whether we’re going ahead with this plan.”

“What plan? We don’t have one.” Justin spread his palms, as if Carrie was expecting the plan to be resting on his hands. “And so much for Matthew talking about ‘we’ and ‘ours’ when it is only you and I actually doing something.”

“We’ll come up with a plan. If Al-Farhan is involved in this assassination plot, I’m sure he’s left behind plenty of traces. We only need to find one.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Al-Farhan is rich, filthy rich. Rich people like him don’t expect to be caught. They believe they can’t be caught. So, they’re careless. If there’s any evidence, we’ll find it.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. I mean, at the moment, we have nothing. How do we get close to the Prince? How do we get inside his private jet or his yacht?”

“We’ll figure it out.” Carrie reached for a notebook in her papers. Then, she pointed at the stacks of documents in front of them. “Shall we?”

“Before we do that, I’ve got to tell you something.”

“What is it?”

“Last night, before meeting with Abdul, I ran into an old enemy. Tarek.”

“His name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He was a prison guard here in Tripoli… four years ago.”

“Oh, so he’s out for revenge.”

“Was… I cut his throat.”

Carrie blinked then stared at Justin’s face. There was no emotion in his voice, no glow in his eyes. He was lost somewhere in space.

“Well, it was self-defense,” Carrie said.

“Yes, the first time too.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I shot Tarek when Abdul and I escaped from prison. I thought he died at that time, but apparently I was wrong. Last night, I thought I killed him, but Abdul tells me they can’t find the body.”

“So? There can be plenty of explanations for that.”

“Carrie?”

“Yes, Justin?”

“Am I… Am I losing my mind?”

“No! Of course, not.”

“Am I seeing enemies even when there’s no one there? Ghosts from the past?”

Carrie reached for Justin’s hand. “We all have ghosts from our pasts, and time after time, they come to pay us a visit. But if you’re saying you saw Tarek and finished him, I believe you. Perhaps someone took him to a hospital. Or just got rid of the body.”

“Abdul said they couldn’t find it.”

“Have him check again. This is Libya and things tend to get a bit cloudy, especially when dealing with the mukhabarat.”

Justin swallowed hard and sighed.

“I’ll ask him, but only after we’ve figured out this other, bigger mess in our hands. And we need Abdul’s help. We need all the help we can get, and he’s proven himself a trusted ally.”

“What?” Carrie curved her voice for a dramatic effect. “You’re saying the T-word? What happened to ‘We’re in North Africa; we can’t trust anyone,’ eh?”

“That was before Johnson stabbed us in the back. And I trusted Abdul even before that. He was tortured when we were captured but gave up nothing.”

“He’s still mukhabarat!”

“Yes, but he has strong incentives to foil this plot, like we do.”

“Do we?”

“Carrie, if that’s sarcasm, you need to work on your tone.”

“No, Justin, it’s not sarcasm. I’m getting tired of this cat-and-mouse game.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

Justin leaned back in his chair and gave Carrie a strange gaze, as if he were looking at her for the first time.

“You just said we can do this. We can find the evidence that Al-Farhan is involved in this plot. Suddenly, you’re tired?”

“I’m not tired of this mission. I’m so overwhelmed with everything in my life right now.”

“You’re not thinking of changing careers, are you?” Justin asked in a low voice, afraid of her answer.

“Time’s working against me, Justin. Next year, I’ll be thirty-two. I want to have a family, a husband, children. I can’t have all that if I don’t know when or if I’ll go home at the end of the day.”

Justin stared silently at Carrie’s overcast face.

“I’ve done this for eleven years now and it takes a toll on you, your body, your mind, your soul. It’s one thing to teach students, train recruits, even work undercover. But these daily travelling, endless shootings; it’s just getting to be too much.”

“C’mon, you know it doesn’t happen all the time. Once you’re back in Ottawa, you’ll get so bored you’ll be craving field duty.”

“That may be true, but right now I feel so worn down.”

Justin locked eyes with Carrie, noticing her sad glare. “How much of this is because of Thomas?”

Carrie shrugged. “He hasn’t asked me to leave the Service.”

“No, but he has hinted at the possibility.”

“Look, just because we don’t talk twice a day like you and Anna that doesn’t mean Thomas hates my choice.” Carrie crossed her arms in front of her chest.

“Fine, no need to snap at me. I was just thinking with him being loaded, he may not want you to work at all.”

“No, it’s not like that. Everybody thinks Thomas is flush with money. But he’s not rich.”

“He drives a Mercedes CLK convertible. I beg to differ.”

“He bought that car in a … Oh, why are we even talking about this?”

“Because we care about each other. And I don’t want to see you leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Carrie made a dismissive hand gesture, though her facial expression seemed less convincing. “I’m just considering my options. Nothing wrong with that, right?”

“Yes, nothing wrong with that,” Justin replied with a light sigh. “I’ll go and get Abdul and see if Matthew actually did order our lunch. Then, we can get back to work.”

“Great idea. I’ll get a head start.” She went for one of the manila folders.

Matthew had ordered their lunch, choosing Chinese takeout. He had no news about Nour, which everyone interpreted as good news. Nour was in stable condition, and doctors were running more tests.

Over the next three hours, Justin, Carrie, and Abdul poured over the files, looking for a way to get their hands on specific details about the plot against Libya’s Prime Minister.

The first option they examined was the one Carrie suggested: organizing a raid on Prince Al-Farhan while he was in Yemen, overpowering his bodyguards and forcing a confession out of him. After that, the House of Saud could twist the Prince’s arm into aborting his plans for the Prime Minister’s assassination. Justin pointed out that Americans were unwilling to commit any ground troops or air drones to such an operation. Abdul argued they could draw on tribal militias backed by the Yemeni government, which operated in the Saada region of northern Yemen, the destination of Prince Al-Farhan. These militias hated any Saudi involvement in their internal affairs. Still, there was not enough time to organize these ragtag troops for such a sensitive mission, since the Prince was visiting the region in three days. Besides, neither Justin, nor Abdul knew anyone they could trust amongst the Yemenis. Too many things could go wrong even if they got all planning details right. Justin did not like the odds.

With Yemen out of the picture, they switched their focus to getting close to the Prince while he was travelling. It was possible to pull a few strings, intercept the itinerary of the Prince’s Boeing 707, and learn its times of arrival, layovers, and departure. However, it was another thing to plan and carry out a successful covert operation in foreign, mostly hostile countries. Syria. Jordan. Oman. Saudi Arabia. All possible stops on Prince’s trip to Yemen. Their meager resources and short time frame excluded such a mission altogether.

Hitting a dead end, they decided to return to the Prince’s current known location. He was vacationing in the Mediterranean Sea, somewhere south of France. Carrie suggested they raid the Prince’s yacht while in international waters. Her suggestion raised more questions than answers, since Al-Farhan’s Arabia was practically, as Matthew had put it eloquently, “a floating fortress.”

They explored the possibility of hijacking the Prince’s Boeing 707. According to the information provided by Matthew, at the moment, the airplane was at one of the private hangers of London’s Heathrow Airport. Justin had to admit that taking over the Prince’s Boeing 707 was going to be very difficult, especially with no back up from Britain’s intelligence agencies, MI5 and MI6. Johnson had made it clear she wanted no further involvement of the CIS in this matter, now that the American President was no longer the target of the Islamic terrorists. Justin, Carrie, and Abdul were on their own, the odds stacked high against them. So far, every scenario ended up with them being killed, or tortured and then killed.

At some point during the afternoon, Matthew popped his head into the conference room to check on their progress. His interruption was met with frustration at the American refusal to provide any further support for the team. Then, Justin decided to go out for a short walk and some fresh air, promising to Matthew that, barring any shootout, he would stay within the embassy’s protective walls. Carrie went back to reviewing the files, in hopes of finding anything she may have overlooked. Abdul stepped out for a few personal phone calls.

Out in the backyard, Justin sat on a bench by a small water fountain. The shade from a cluster of small palm trees provided some relief from the scorching sun. A gentle breeze gave him a breath of fresh air. Justin’s mind unavoidably went to the task at hand: finding a way to get to Prince Al-Farhan. He began reconsidering all options, moving the pieces of the puzzle around in his head. While he was still wondering, the cooing of a pigeon startled him. He looked up, just as the grayish bird fluttered at the edge of the fountain. Its claws scratched the fiberglass for a firm footing. Oblivious to Justin’s gaze, the bird dipped its orange beak for a quick drink, sucking the water. Then, it slid into the fountain, flapping its wings and tail, and puffing out its plumage. A second later, the pigeon spotted Justin, meeting his observant eyes. The bird cocked its head to the left and Justin thought he saw the pigeon blink. Then, the bird spread its wings and took off, flying over the embassy walls.

Justin shook his head, but before he could start to feel bad about scaring the pigeon, he heard a woman’s laughter coming from above his head. The cigarette smoke reached his nose before he heard footsteps on the second-floor balcony. Someone was out on their cigarette break. As Justin stood up and began to walk, to avoid the killer smoke, he heard a quiet whisper, “Of course, he’ll accept, Jenny. Hey, Jenny, can you hear me? All I hear is static.”

She’s on the phone, Justin thought, with a sense of uneasiness about spying on the woman’s conversation.

“Oh, yeah, I can hear you now,” the woman spoke again, this time louder, “I was saying, I don’t have to ask for a transfer. Lee will have to come to me, ‘cause I have what he wants, if you know what I mean. Yes, yes, he’ll agree to come here.”

That’s it, Justin almost shouted, as he jumped to his feet. If we can’t go to the Prince, we’ll have the Prince come to us.

“That’s your great idea?” Abdul asked, “We just pick up the phone and say, ‘Hey, Prince Al-Farhan, why don’t you drop by?’ Just like that?”

“Actually, this may work, Abdul,” Carrie said, “after all, if we can’t go to the mountain, the mountain will come to us.”

“Yeah, you think so? But why, what do we have to make the Prince come to us?”

“I haven’t thought that far yet.” Justin reached for one of the photos of the Prince. He stared at the man in the headdress, tapping the photo with his hand. “What could you want, eh? What could you want?”

“Nothing. The man has everything,” Abdul replied.

“I wasn’t really looking for an answer. And I know everyone wants something. What does Prince Al-Farhan want?”

Abdul opened his mouth, but Justin stopped him with a swift headshake.

“Peace on earth?” Carrie said with a grin.

“No, something more concrete and doable.” Justin rolled his eyes.

“Well, I don’t know what he wants, but let’s see what he has.” Carrie sifted through the piles of documents. “I saw a few reports here listing his assets. We can start there and see what’s missing, although like Abdul said, if the Prince doesn’t have something, it’s not because he can’t afford it.”

“This is futile,” Abdul said, leaning back in his chair. “Say Prince Al-Farhan doesn’t have a solid gold diamond-encrusted Rolex. Do we have one to offer him?”

Justin sighed and scratched his chin. “No, but let’s worry about our offer after we find something he may want. We’ll start with what we have here. I’m also going to get some help from our analysts. Our desk in Dubai has a few dozen files on Saudi princes.”

“Fine,” Abdul said, “but I don’t have high hopes.”

“It’s worth a try, and we’re out of options,” Justin replied.

While Carrie and Abdul started to navigate through the paper maze, Justin requested the support of the CIS bureau in Dubai. Its task was to comb through the Prince’s activities, travels, finances, and purchases over the last three months. They were looking particularly for unusual purchases, any item that jumped out of the extraordinary life of a Saudi billionaire.

Thirty minutes later, as Justin’s patience was wearing thin at Abdul’s whining about the “useless, menial chore” assigned to him, the first results began to come in from the team in Dubai. Over secure Internet servers, encrypted files were downloaded into Carrie’s laptop. With a few clicks, she revealed the expected craze of the filthy rich. Prince Al-Farhan loved spending money. By the truckloads. He truly lived the lavish life of the billionaire. A jet, a yacht, vacations in luxurious mansions in the French Riviera, a palace he called “home” in Riyadh, diamond rings, paintings, and a huge collection of automobiles.

Prince Al-Farhan owned ninety-nine cars, mostly modern sport cars, but also the occasional restored gem of the sixties and the seventies. His collection included not only the latest models of Jaguar, Ferrari and Aston Martin, but also a 1965 Shelby Cobra Roadster and two 1959 Alfa Romeo Giulietta Spider coupes. Apart from the extravagance of the collection, Justin noted the absence of the latest thoroughbred of speed: the Bugatti Veyron. The Prince did not own any Bugattis. Justin began to wonder about the reason why one of the most powerful supercars in history did not make the cut for the Sheikh’s priceless collection. The reason could not be its price, since to Prince Al-Farhan a few million dollars was spare change.

“So, how come the Prince owns no Bugattis?” Justin asked, rubbing his tired eyes with the palms of his hands, before taking the last sip from his coffee cup. He got up and went for a refill from the coffee machine brewing a fresh pot on one of the side desks.

“The Prince hates Germans?” Carrie got up from her chair and stretched her arms and legs, pacing by the windows.

“No, he doesn’t,” Abdul said, after taking a sip of his now cold coffee. “He has five Mercedes and two BMWs in his garages. Can you bring me some coffee, too?”

“Sure.”

Justin poured Abdul a tall paper cup.

“Here you go. Now, the Prince having no Bugattis is like a Catholic church without a cross. It can’t be, and we need to find out why.”

“Is the reason really that important?” Carrie asked.

“It could be.” Justin pointed at the laptop’s screen. “I mean, Al-Farhan has ninety-nine cars. Maybe he’s waiting for a special limited edition Bugatti to top up his collection.”

“Didn’t they make a special edition for their hundredth anniversary?” Abdul said, “What was its name?”

“Bleu Centenaire,” Justin replied.

“Yes, that one.”

“Oh, they make new editions all the time. Same car, if you ask me,” Carrie said.

“Maybe he just doesn’t like Bugattis,” Abdul suggested, “I mean, there are other supercars missing here.” Abdul picked up one of the documents listing the Prince’s automobile collection. “I see no Porches, no Lamborghinis, no Bentleys.”

“One can do without those,” Justin replied, “trust me, Abdul, I know cars. And I know car collectors. You can’t have a one hundred racecar collection without a Bugatti. You just can’t.”

Abdul shrugged.

“Fine,” Carrie said.

“I’m gonna have Chris find out if the Prince is still in the market for a Bugatti,” Justin said, referring to one of the analysts with the CIS Dubai office.

“Why? You’ve got one for sale?” Carrie asked.

“No, but it may give us the hook we need. We’ll figure out our next step if the Prince is still game.”

“I’m not going to argue with you.” Carrie turned her chair around and sat in it with a loud thump. “At this point, everything is worth a shot. I’ll trace back the Prince’s last few days in the French Riviera. Again.”

It took Chris and his team in Dubai less than an hour to come back with an answer. Indeed, Prince Al-Farhan was still looking for a Bugatti, but not any Bugatti. Justin could hardly believe his eyes when reading the note Chris has drafted. The Prince was not satisfied with more than a thousand brake horsepower of the 8.0 liter W16 engine in the Bugatti Veyron, which reached a top speed of more than 235 miles per hour. He had also shrugged aside the more exclusive, limited production of Bleu Centenaire, or even the most recent and the fastest model of the supercar, the Super Sport. Instead, the Prince had insisted the Bugatti manufacturing plant roll out a tuned-up car to his own liking, boasting around 2000 brake horsepower. The Prince wanted his car to beat all other souped-up supercars of the uber-rich. He had to own the ultimate machine in power, speed and, of course, price. Still, he had not succeeded in convincing the Bugatti plant executives. Lately, the Prince had begun looking for a modified Bugatti, one with a considerable aftermarket upgrade.

“I think we’ve got our hook,” Justin said, his eyes squinting. The left corner of his lips formed a sly grin.

“Uh-oh,” Carrie said with a headshake. “I know that grin and it usually means trouble, big trouble.”

“Here’s my idea: we find a Bugatti Veyron the Prince wants and offer it to him. He’ll agree to come out and meet—”

“It’s never going to work,” Abdul cried.

“Hear me through.”

“OK, first of all, where are we going to find a Bugatti?”

“I know a friend.”

“Which one?” Carrie peered at Justin over her reading glasses.

“Romanov.”

“I can’t believe you’re calling that Russian son of a bitch a ‘friend.’” She threw her arms in the air.

“He owes me one, Carrie, and I was describing him to Abdul, who doesn’t know him,” Justin said. He continued to Abdul, “He’s not really my friend.”

“So, who is this Romanov?”

“He’s a Russian oil thug who owns half of Moscow.” Carrie snorted. “And who has bribed and killed his way to the top.”

“And this billionaire owes you one because…” Abdul’s bushy eyebrows arched and his forehead wrinkles doubled.

“Regretfully, he saved the thug’s life,” Carrie replied. Noticing Abdul’s awestruck face, she explained, “We were staking out this bar in Nice, a couple of years back, looking for a CIS agent gone rogue. At some point, Romanov pulls in with his bodyguards and that’s when we realize our agent turned sniper was planning the oil thug’s death. Our guy pops two of the bodyguards and wounds Romanov on the shoulder, before Justin could get close enough to our agent. The thug’s alive because of Justin.”

“The whole story it’s a bit more complicated, but, yeah, that’s the gist of it,” Justin said.

Abdul kept shaking his head.

“Even if Romanov agrees to lend you his Bugatti Veyron, which he would be crazy to do, how are we going to tune it up and show it to the Prince, all in less two 48 hours?” Carrie asked.

“Valerie,” Justin replied.

Carrie looked sideways at Justin.

“Let me guess,” Abdul jumped in, “she owes you her life as well?”

“Ha, ha, not funny,” Justin said. “When I used to race, she worked for Joy’s, this hotrod garage in north Montreal.”

“And you dated her for some time,” Carrie added. “Now, I doubt she learned at Joy’s how to fine-tune Bugattis.”

“You’re right. She got out of there about the same time I did, oh, fifteen years ago. Now she works for Monsati, a small Italian car tuner, out of Milan. And she’s already souped-up two Bugatti Veyrons.”

“How come you know so much about this woman?” Abdul asked, his voice implying more than simple curiosity.

“Facebook.”

“Does Anna know you’re tweeting her?” Carrie asked with a wink.

Justin sneered. “I’m not tweeting her; we exchange an e-mail or two now and then. And yes, Anna knows I have friends, like she does, and that occasionally they happen to be of the opposite sex.”

“So, just to clarify, your plan is to borrow Romanov’s Veyron, have Valerie pimp his ride, and then we’ll use it as bait for Al-Farhan?” Carrie asked.

“In a nutshell. Anyone has any better idea?”

Carrie shook her head. Abdul spread his palms.

Justin fell silent for a few seconds.

“Now, what’s wrong?” Carrie asked.

“This… this plan. This crazy plan. I can’t make you follow me into this hell I’m creating.” Justin’s eyes moved from Carrie’s face to the table and then rested on Abdul.

“You’re not making me do anything,” Carrie said. “This is my job, stopping terrorists and their evil plots. This seems the only way to do it.”

“I just feel this time we’re getting very close to the fire, to a large hellish fire.”

“Eh, we play with fire all the time. It’s a professional hazard.” Carrie tried to lighten up the mood.

Justin looked at Abdul, who was staring at them in silence. “What do you say, Abdul?”

“Let’s assume everything goes without a flaw, and we do get to see the Prince face to face,” Abdul said in a dry voice. He coughed a couple of times, before adding, “Then what? We tie him up? Force him to confess? What do we do?”

Justin nodded. “We’ll talk to him. We’ll tell the Prince we know about his plot and demand he calls off his dogs.”

“And point out the obvious, that we’re not the only ones who know,” Carrie said. “It wouldn’t hurt to add that the Prime Minister has a few dozen mukhabarat agents ready to storm the Prince’s mansion if something happens in Tripoli. People dear to his heart, like his son, could get hurt.”

“But there’s no such a thing—”

“Of course not, Abdul,” Carrie said, “but the Prince should believe an assassination attempt against the Libyan Prime Minister will cost him dearly, and he’ll have to pay for it, if not in blood, then in tears.”

Abdul shrugged. “When I joined the Internal Security Service, well, at the time it was called the Internal Security Agency, I vowed to protect my country. Here’s a chance for me to make good on my promise.” His voice, quiet at first, grew stronger and steadier. “If the government is toppled and terrorists come to power, first, they’ll go after mukhabarat members, since we’ve been fighting them for years.”

“Oh, and don’t forget the reward from the Prime Minister,” Justin pointed out.

“Yes, the reward, how can I forget that… If I’m still alive to enjoy it.” Abdul’s voice wavered and he looked out the window. “I don’t want my son to receive a medal of honor for his fallen father.”

Justin nodded. “I’ll understand if you stay behind.”

Abdul shook his head and took in a deep breath. “No, no, no,” he said quickly, “worse than leaving my son as an orphan is to shame him with a coward father.”

Justin laid a reassuring hand on Abdul’s shoulders. “We’ll try to ride this out, my friend, but it won’t be easy.”

“Nothing’s easy. A simple ride through Tripoli can get one killed,” Abdul said. “Let’s get him,” he added strongly. “The Prince tried to kill me.” The thought of revenge had renewed Abdul’s spirit.

Justin nodded. “Well then, I’ll get on the phone with Romanov and convince him to hand us the car keys. If that doesn’t work, then we’re out of luck. If Romanov agrees, I’ll call Valerie and arrange for the Veyron to be flown to Milan. Carrie, if you can find us accommodation in Nice, that would be great. Prince Al-Farhan’s yacht is close by, so it shouldn’t take him long to get there. And we have to look like billionaires if I’m pretending to be a rich Russian who we can afford a Veyron.”

“Russian? Why do you have to be a bloody Russian?” Carrie asked, her voice filled with venom.

“Because besides Saudis, only Russians are snob enough to buy a Bugatti Veyron, and then decide it’s not good enough for them and demand the car be modified to suit their whims. Plus, I speak Russian. The Prince doesn’t. You’ll easily pass for my trophy wife.”

“I hate this part,” Carrie said, “I hate it.”

“I know and I’m sorry, but there’s no other way.”

Carrie clenched her left hand into a fist, and slammed it into her right palm. “We’re running through a minefield here.”

“Yeah, blindfolded,” Justin said.

“What a way to inspire confidence,” Abdul said with a sigh.

“Sorry, never been good at pep talk.”

“We can say we’re selling the Veyron since we lost a fortune in the recession.”

“If Carrie’s going to be your wife, who will I be?” Abdul raised his left hand to rub his chin.

“You’ll be one the bodyguard,” Carrie replied. “We’ll come up with a cover story and stick to it.”

“If God wills,” Abdul whispered with a deep, loud sigh, “if God wills.”