Tripoli's Target

Chapter Twenty-six

Justin blinked a few times, but his attempts did not clear up the fog in front of his eyes. He tried to lift his right hand to his face but noticed his wrists were fastened together with some kind of metal clasp. Handcuffs. I’m handcuffed. The second time he lifted both arms and rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers. Slowly, he regained his clear vision. At the same time, he felt jolts of pain erupting from his elbows and his shoulders. He realized someone had taken off his jacket. He counted a dozen scrapes and cuts on his arms, a few of which had been treated with butterfly bandages. He felt a few bumps on the side of his head and more scratches on his face. The fighting scene in the Bugatti replayed vividly in is mind. The Prince! Where is the Prince? Where am I?

He began to take in his surroundings. He was sitting in the corner of a small room. This is a washroom. His eyes rested on the shower glass door with a silver trim. Then, he stared at the white porcelain sink, its vanity and the large mirror of a semicircle shape. What is this noise? His ears felt plugged but still rang with a constant hum. He checked his ears with his hands, just as the entire bathroom shook sideways. I’m in a plane, he realized and swallowed hard, breathing in deep and pinching his nose. After a few tries, Justin heard a low popping sound in his ears, soon replaced by the same hum, this time much louder.

OK, the Prince has tied me up. Is this his plane? Is he here?

He found the small rectangular door and got up to his feet. He ignored the stabbing pain shooting up from his left knee and turned the round handle. The door was locked. He tried again, harder this time, shoving the door with his shoulder, wincing as the pain went through his entire body. Realizing he could not break through, Justin began to knock hard on the door, using the edge of his handcuffs.

A few seconds later, he heard the rattling of keys. The door opened slowly and Justin was greeted by the muzzle of a mini Uzi. He looked up at the gunman and frowned, recognizing the face. He was one of the two young men following him in the streets of Cairo four days ago, when he was going to the Castle, to meet with Carrie. Where is she? Where is Abdul?

With a quick flick of the gun, the gunman gestured to Justin to step out. He walked the four steps separating the airplane’s bathroom from a set of glass doors, covered by orange drapes.

“Welcome back, Justin,” he heard the voice of the Prince, as he entered what resembled a small lounge.

Prince Al-Farhan was lying in a white, L-shaped sofa. He was dressed in a golden robe, with a white headdress. A small cut was visible above his left eyebrow. Another man Justin had not seen before was sitting next to the Prince. He was probably in his forties, with a two days growth of stubble, black shoulder-length hair, and was dressed in a navy blue suit. The Prince’s aide, Zakir, who Justin recognized from pictures he had seen, had taken a seat across a glass top table, separating him from the other two men. He was typing on a laptop balanced on his knees. Two gunmen, in dark suits and matching pants, armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns, stood behind the Prince. Another dark suit was sitting by the other glass door leading to the rest of the private jet. A fourth guard rested against the door from which Justin came into the lounge.

“Sit down.” The Prince pointed at an empty seat on a couch next to Zakir.

Justin followed his order. The man from Cairo came in and stood guard behind him.

“We thought you wouldn’t join us until we completed our descent, but you keep surprising us, doesn’t he, General?”

The stubbled man nodded then showed his white teeth in a big, wicked grin. “He always does,” he replied in Arabic.

“So, you’re his dog, doing his dirty job?” Justin asked in Arabic as well, arching his right eyebrow.

The general was taken aback by the insult in his mother tongue. Before he could respond, the gunman behind Justin slammed the metallic stock of his mini Uzi at the back of Justin’s head.

“The general is a dear friend,” the Prince said, once Justin had regained his composure from the blow. He picked up a wine glass from the table and took a small sip of the red wine. “You will show him respect.”

Justin nodded slowly. “Sure, just help me understand this: The general here and you are going to kill Libya’s Prime Minister today. You’re giving him money, and he’s organizing the military.”

The Prince nodded. “Yes, you’re right. You can say I’m the brain and he’s the muscle.”

“I was thinking more in terms of beauty and the beast, but I only see two beasts here.”

The gunman behind him reacted to Justin’s words, but Justin was quick to move out of the way and avoid the blow. The mini Uzi stock missed his head by a couple of inches.

“Enough already,” the Prince shouted when the gunman tried again to hit Justin. “Your sarcasm, Mr. Hall, is not going to save the Prime Minister. Your CIA friends are not going to save him either.”

“You sit and watch. Nothing will happen to the Prime Minister. Your plan has already failed. We know there’s no assassination attempt against the American President. You were using her as a decoy, but your true target is the Prime Minister of Libya.”

“You’re right, Mr. Hall. Why bother with a puppet that will disappear from public life in four to eight years? If Libya’s history teaches us anything, is that this Prime Minister will stay in power for a long, long time, like the previously toppled Colonel Qaddafi.”

“But why do you want to kill him?”

The Prince sat back on the sofa. “We have a saying, Mr. Hall, which goes like this: It is better to die in revenge than to live on in shame. The Prime Minister has dishonored the House of Saud, my own family. Now, it’s time for him to pay for his shameful acts.”

“I see,” Justin said. I’m sure the fact that Libya has the ninth largest oil reserve in the world and pumps more than three million barrels of oil per day has nothing to do with your plans. But, OK, you have confirmed what I needed to know. Now, give me the details. “The motorcade. You’re attacking the Prime Minister’s motorcade?”

The Prince responded with a surprised look. “You think so? That’s how you would do it?”

The Prince’s voice was flat, giving no hints about the attack. Justin decided to change tactics.

“Look, I’ve failed to stop you.” He showed his cuffed hands. Then, he gestured toward the guards. “And I’m not going anywhere. At least, do me the courtesy of telling me.”

The general leaned forward and seemed to be getting ready to speak, when the Prince silenced him with a headshake.

“You’ll be there to watch with your own eyes, Justin,” the Prince said, “but I can tell you one who’s supposed to help the Prime Minister may actually end up killing him.”

Justin pondered on his words. The assassin is one of the Prime Minister’s bodyguards? One of his drivers? One of his closest aides?

The voice of the captain was heard over the public address system of the airplane.

“We have begun our descent over Tripoli, and we should land within the next fifteen minutes.”

The airplane trembled slightly and Justin felt it beginning its descent. Once we’re on the ground, it’s all over. If I’m to escape, I have to do it before we land.

“What’s on your mind?” the Prince reached for the wine bottle on the table and refilled his glass. “You’re going to tell us where the CIA men are hiding?”

“Sure, once you tell me where and how you’re planning to kill the Prime Minister.”

“Mr. Hall, I don’t think you’re in a bargaining position.”

“Think again.”

Prince Al-Farhan frowned and placed his wine glass back on the table without a sip. The gunman behind Justin moved closer. Justin felt him breathing on his neck.

“The CIA’s waiting for you,” Justin said. “As soon as you land, you’re their target.” Maybe I can convince him to call off the assassination.

“That’s impossible,” the general replied. “My men control the airport. You’re bluffing.”

Justin opened his mouth to reject the general’s claim, when the corner of his right eye caught a quick movement in between the orange drapes. It came from behind the dark suit guarding the right side entrance to the lounge. It lasted less than half a second, but he saw Carrie’s eyes taking in every detail of the lounge. She was about the storm in.

“I’m not bluffing, you bastard,” Justin blurted.

The gunman behind him growled, but Justin was expecting his move. As the gunman lashed with his gun stock, Justin leaned to the right, turning around in his seat. He grabbed the shoulder stock of the mini Uzi with both his handcuffed hands and pulled it hard toward him. The submachine gun slid from between the fingers of the gunman. Once his hands reached the trigger, Justin jabbed the muzzle of the weapon at the gunman’s chest.

“Drop your guns,” he shouted at the two gunmen guarding the Prince.

One of them began to lower his gun. The other pointed his at Justin.

“No, you moron,” the Prince yelled at the defiant guard. “Put it down!”

“Drop the gun,” Justin said.

“No way,” the defiant guard replied.

Justin began to climb up to his feet, when his left knee jerked, hitting the glass table. The bump knocked over the wine bottle with a loud crack. At the same time, a spray of gunfire poured out of the defiant guard’s submachine gun. Bullets hit the aircraft’s walls, ricocheting around the lounge. One of them pierced through the man Justin had disarmed, killing him instantly. Justin was able to slip behind the couch, clenching the mini Uzi in his hands.

“No, no, stop,” the Prince shouted in between shots as he fell to the floor.

His shouts were stifled by more gunfire, coming from the other gunman who had begun lowering his gun. Justin replied with a single shot, through the back of the couch, which struck the gunman. A second later, another single shot came from the other section of the plane. The dark suit guarding the right entrance to the lounge collapsed, as Carrie fired at him through the glass door. She stormed the lounge. Without a word, she planted a bullet in the second gunman’s head and another one in the general’s chest. The last gunman, who was standing by the left entrance, responded with a short burst. Carrie rolled on the floor toward Justin.

“You’re hit?” he asked.

Carrie shook her head. “You are,” she added, glancing at his bloodied arm.

“That’s not mine.”

A barrage ripped through the couch over their heads, just as the airplane leaned to the left. They heard the empty click of the last gunman’s weapon.

“Now,” Justin whispered.

He peeked through the holes in the couch and shoved the short barrel of the mini Uzi in one of them. Then, he squeezed off two rounds. The last gunman let out a muffled scream and fell over the table, his head crashing through the glass top.

“The Prince,” Carrie shouted.

Justin knelt by the Prince, who was whimpering on the floor, lying on his back. Blood was gushing from a large wound in his chest. His golden tunic had turned crimson.

“No, don’t, don’t move,” Justin said, as the Prince tried to lift his head.

The man’s face was losing its color. He tried to speak but was only able to gurgle a bloody cough, followed by a raspy sigh.

“Shhh, shhh, shhh.” Justin reached for a cushion from the sofa. As he tucked the cushion under the Prince’s neck, he noticed the Prince’s right hand twitching. His eyes were glassy and dim; his breathing barely noticeable.

“Zakir’s gone,” Carrie said, before kneeling next to Justin, “You think he’ll make it?”

“No, he won’t.”

Carrie placed her hand on the right side of the Prince’s neck, checking for his carotid pulse. She found it irregular and slow.

“Any last words?” She leaned over the Prince, almost whispering in his ear. “Where’s the attack taking place?”

The Prince seemed to shake his head, but Justin thought it was the airplane shaking as if going through turbulence.

“Tell us,” Justin said, “where’s the ambush?”

“Sa… Sameer… Please don’t hurt… don’t hurt Sameer…” The Prince gasped, his eyes blinking rapidly. He swallowed and a mouthful of blood bubbled in this throat. A second later, his eyes stopped moving, and his head fell to his left side.

“He’s gone,” Justin said.

“And we still don’t know any more about the attack.”

The sound of running startled them, and they pointed their weapons at the right side entrance.

“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, it’s me,” Abdul shouted, before entering the lounge.

“Abdul, I’m glad to see you.” Justin climbed to his feet.

Abdul shook his head as he observed the carnage. His lips were moving rapidly but made no sound. Finally, he said to Carrie, who was still clenching her pistol, “You killed the Prince.”

“You wish,” she replied. “How’s the kid?”

“What kid?” Justin asked.

“Sameer, the Prince’s son. He’s in the other lounge,” Abdul replied.

“Oh, that’s what the Prince was worried about. Us hurting his son,” Justin said, making sense of the Prince’s last words.

He began to walk toward the next lounge, which was smaller than the first one. Four guards were sprawled against the walls.

“They’re all dead, in case you’re wondering.” Carrie followed one step behind.

“I had no doubt. How were you freed?”

“They made a mistake.”

“Turned their back for a second?”

“Half a second.”

“Where’s Sameer?” Justin looked behind the couches.

“I told you, he’s in the other lounge.” Abdul had caught up to them.

“How many lounges are here?”

“Three. This is the private jet of a Saudi prince, remember?”

Justin looked over his shoulder at Abdul’s grinning face. “Yes, I remember.”

“He’s playing videogames,” Carrie said. “I bet you he didn’t hear a thing.”

Justin looked through a small crack between the drapes. He saw a little boy lying on the floor, in front of a large television screen, frantically handling a controller. Large wraparound headphones rested on his head. The screen erupted in a series of explosions and the boy nodded in satisfaction.

“An eight-year-old is playing Halo?” Justin asked.

Carrie shrugged. “I’m not his mother.”

“Let’s go in.” Justin placed his hand on the door handle.

The voice of the captain coming from overhead stopped him.

“We’re, hmm, we’re experiencing some trouble with one of our engines, but…”

“Trouble? What trouble? Why did he stop talking?” asked Justin.

Carrie turned around, heading for the cockpit. “I’ll check.”

“Go with her. I’ll talk to the boy,” Abdul said.

Justin nodded. “Be gentle with him.”

“Of course, Justin. I have a son of my own.”

They walked back through the two lounges, making their way to the cockpit. Carrie threw open the door, and Justin pointed his mini Uzi at the startled faces of the captain and his co-pilot.

“Who the hell are you?” asked the captain.

“I’m the one giving you orders,” replied Justin. “What’s wrong with the plane?”

“I’m not sure.” The captain eyes bounced between the airplane’s control panel and Justin’s submachine gun. “Two of our engines are not responding. There a slight loss of cabin pressure coming from the Prince’s lounge.”

“The hydraulics system is failing too,” the co-pilot added.

“The shooting,” Carrie murmured.

“What?” the captain asked.

“Nothing,” Justin replied. “How far is the airport?”

“Five miles,” the co-pilot said. “We’re approaching from the north.”

He was a bit calmer than the captain and still manning the tens of gadgets of the control system.

“What’s our altitude?” Carrie asked.

The glass cockpit was wrapped in a thick curtain of gray clouds.

“Almost six thousand feet,” the captain replied after reading the altimeter.

“Can we make it?” Justin asked.

The captain hesitated for a second. A loud bang came from the left side of the airplane. Carrie looked through a side window and saw a column of smoke pouring out of the engine.

“That was one of our working engines,” the captain cried.

“We’re losing power fast.” The co-pilot fumbled with the switches. A second later, he heaved a great sigh of resignation.

“We’re screwed,” the captain said.

“We’re crash-landing?” asked Justin.

“May Allah help us.” The captain turned his complete attention to the control panel.

“Let’s get ready.” Carrie led the way out of the cockpit.

“I’ll tell Abdul,” Justin replied.

He ran to the back of the airplane. Carrie stayed in the smaller lounge, since it was the closest to a set of exit doors. She dragged the guards outside the lounge and threw away every object unfastened to the floor or the walls. Then, she began gathering all cushions and blankets next to the large sofa, in order to make a soft protective pad.

“Bring cushions from the rest of the plane,” she said, as Abdul and Justin walked in. Sameer was following them, still holding his videogame controller. His face was pale and his lips were pursed.

“It’s going to be OK,” Carrie said to him, extending her hand. “My name is Carrie. What’s your name?”

“Sameer.” The boy shook her hand very gently. He sat next to her, on one of the cushions, following her lead. “Are we going to die too, like daddy?”

“No, we’re not.” Carrie rested her arm on his trembling shoulders, bringing him closer to her. “I’ve got you and I’m not letting you go.”

Sameer smiled and tucked his head on her chest.

“I found this.” Justin held Zakir’s laptop in his left hand and a bundle of cushions under his right arm. “We may find some good intel in it once on the ground.”

“You found the handcuffs key as well,” Carrie said.

“Yeah, one of the guards had them in his pocket.”

Abdul came in with a stack of bath towels and blankets.

“Spread them here.” Carrie pointed around them. “The softer the landing, the greater our chances of survival.”

“I’ll take the suits of the guards,” Abdul said.

“Hurry up,” Carrie said. “I saw a safe in the third lounge,” she added, this time talking to Justin.

He shook his head. “No time for that. Whatever secret it holds, it’ll have to wait until we land.”

If we’re still alive, he wanted to add, but did not want to frighten Sameer any more, if that was even possible. The boy was curled up into Carrie’s chest, sobbing quietly. Carrie was gently stroking his hair.

The airplane shook violently then took a nosedive. A great rattle came from the only working engine. Justin tightened the grip of his hands around the sofa legs bolted to the airplane’s floor.

“Abdul,” Justin called. “Quick.”

Abdul appeared in the doorway, struggling to stay on his feet. Four black suits were wrapped around his arms.

“What’s happening?” Sameer asked in a whimpering voice.

“The plane is broken. The pilots are trying to fix it and land us safely,” Carrie explained.

“Will they do it?”

“Yes, they will,” she said. “I hope they do,” she added under her breath.

The rattle grew louder. The airplane continued to shake greatly as if going through severe turbulence. They huddled around each other, holding onto each other and the sofa, bracing for the crash-landing. Abdul was muttering a prayer. His eyes were closed, his lips moving faster and faster, as the airplane came closer and closer to the point of impact. Justin had wrapped his arms around Carrie.

“When will it be?” Carrie asked.

“Anytime,” Justin replied.

The airplane’s rattle subsided. The captain was decelerating for landing. He was dumping the leftover fuel from the airplane’s tanks, to lower the risk of a fireball explosion on impact. He found a flat, open field and realigned the airplane’s flying course. The airplane began to lose both altitude and speed at a swift pace. Its vibrations returned to a somewhat normal level. Almost a minute passed. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary, other than the repetitious cough of the engine.

Then the airplane crashed belly first on the ground.

The impact threw Justin against one of the airplane’s walls. He shouted in pain as he rolled on the floor. Abdul’s hand slipped off the sofa’s legs. He slid backwards and went through the glass door, screaming in agony. Carrie kept her left arm hooked around the sofa’s leg. Her right hand was embracing Sameer’s body. The little boy kept sobbing.

The captain fought with the reverse thrust of the engine. He applied the brakes, which were still working. The airplane ploughed through the brush and olives and palms of the field. One of the engines broke off. The airplane veered to the left. It continued to rip through the field, albeit at a slower speed. A moment later, its wingtip fell off. Within a few seconds, the entire tail split from the fuselage, causing a large opening. Strong wind gusts went sweeping through the airplane. A fire erupted in the cockpit, and a burning odor entered the lounge. One of the wings collapsed with a large bang, but the fuselage kept sliding for a few more yards. It came to a slow stop near a row of wooden shacks.

“Out, out, out, quick, quick,” Justin shouted, as soon as the airplane stopped sliding.

He checked on Carrie and Sameer and collected his gun and his laptop. He cast a glance toward the burning cockpit, realizing it was already too late for the pilots. Abdul got to his feet and began wrestling with the mangled exit door.

“It’s jammed,” he said after a few failed attempts.

“Move back.” Justin raised his mini Uzi.

He fired an entire magazine at the door, stitching up a circle around the handle. Then, he kicked open the door.

“Let’s go, before the fuel catches fire.” He jumped to the ground, eight feet below.

Carrie lowered Sameer into Justin’s arms. Then, she gave him the laptop. Abdul looked at the flames leaping at the entrance door of the first lounge. A wind gust blew the smell of burning plastic into his face. He began to cough.

“It’s time to go,” Carrie said to Abdul.

Thirty seconds later, while they were still running away from the crash site, a fierce explosion threw them to the ground. Scorched debris and metal shreds rained all around them, as the airplane wreckage turned into a burning hulk.

“Everyone’s OK?” Justin asked when the fiery hail stopped.

“Yeah, we’re fine,” Carrie replied.

She had shielded Sameer underneath her body.

“Abdul?” Justin asked.

“Welcome back to Tripoli,” Abdul replied. He lay on his back, cleaning dirt and ashes off his face.

Justin was the first one to get to his feet. He looked around to gather his bearings, and noticed an air traffic control tower to the south.

“The airport’s that way. We have to get to the Prime Minister’s motorcade before they reach the airport.” Justin stared to his right, toward the Airport Highway connecting Tripoli International Airport to the Libyan capital.

“Let’s hope we’re not too late.” Carrie caressed Sameer’s wavy hair.

He looked up at her and gave her a shy smile. Streaks of tears were still visible on his face.

“The Prime Minister is supposed to meet the American President at the airport,” Justin said. “She was landing at 5:30.”

“What time is it now?” Abdul asked.

“No idea,” Justin replied. He glanced at his wrist. “Somebody stole my Rolex.”

“Yeah. They cleaned me out of my jewelry too,” Carrie said.

Justin looked toward the highway about a mile away and squinted. He raised his hand to deflect the bright sunrays hitting his eyes, and noticed a military jeep, then a police car, followed by another military jeep. “It’s the motorcade.”

“Let’s hurry,” Carrie said.

She began to walk, but Sameer locked his arms around her waist.

“Don’t leave me,” he mumbled with a quiet sob.

Carrie crouched down so she could be at Sameer’s eye level. “I will not leave you. Uncle Abdul will find you a safe place, a home, where you can stay until I come back. I will come back to get you. OK?”

Sameer nodded.

“Those houses,” Justin said, looking at a few men running toward them from that direction. The airplane crash and the explosion had aroused their curiosity. “Let’s take Sameer there and borrow a car, so we can get to the motorcade.”

Abdul nodded.

“Still wanna do this?” Carrie touched Justin’s arm.

He held her eyes for a second, before answering, “Of course, I want too. We’ve come so far; we can’t stop now. The Prime Minister is not perfect, but the devil we know is better than the devils we don’t.”