Tripoli's Target

Chapter Twenty-seven

Justin drove over the rough ground and cut through a patch of scraggly shrubs. The borrowed BMW, a model of the 90s, bounced over a shallow irrigation ditch and landed with a loud bang on the Airport Highway. It fishtailed as Justin jacked the steering wheel.

“We need to get their attention,” Abdul shouted from the back seat. “Before the Prime Minister arrives at the airport and before you kill us all.”

“I’m sure they’ve seen the plane crash,” Justin replied, “or the smoke from the explosion. If not, they’ll see us coming.”

Abdul said, “I know they’ll see us. I just hope they don’t shoot on sight.”

“Well, here’s where we need our man in the mukhabarat.” Justin stepped on the accelerator.

“Wow.” Carrie’s hands gripped Zakir’s laptop. She was in the passenger’s seat, going through his files, looking for any specifics about the assassination. “Almost flew out of my hands.”

“Sorry. Anything useful yet?”

“No. Lots of names and faces but no details. Not yet.”

Justin swerved around a couple of cars and stared in the distance. The last police truck of the Prime Minister’s convoy came into view, about five hundred yards away. Earlier, he had counted about thirty vehicles, including the Prime Minister’s white stretch Mercedes limousine.

“All right, Abdul,” Justin said, “we need the chief of security. Get someone to radio him.”

“I know, I know,” Abdul replied, his voice shaky and tense.

He wiped large drops of sweat from his brows and his eyes. Then, he ran his hands through his hair. At least my face will not scare them into shooting me. He pulled out a white handkerchief from one of his shirt pockets. The flag of surrender.

Justin kept getting closer to the last vehicle in the convoy, as they were going through a straight section of the Airport Highway. Large arable fields stretched on both sides. Occasional one-story houses dotted the landscape.

“Now! Go, go, go,” Justin said, when they were about fifty yards away.

Abdul sighed and stuck his head and his upper body through BMW’s sunroof.

“Hey, guards, guards, hey, hey, guards,” he shouted at the two guards in the back seats of the Toyota truck. He waved his hands, the right one holding the white handkerchief. “Guards, guards. Listen up.”

The noise of the truck’s engine drowned out his shouts.

Justin waited until Abdul paused to catch his breath and punched the car’s horn. Three quick, short honks, followed by a long blare.

His alarm drew the guards’ attention. The one on the right stuck his head out of the back window. The second guard pointed his AK-47 rifle at the BMW.

“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot,” Abdul shouted, “I got to tell you something. Something important. I got a message.”

The second guard fired off a warning shot. Abdul flinched and ducked, even though the shot rang out high above his head.

“Don’t shoot, we’re not a threat,” Abdul continued his plea even louder, “I got a message. Listen to me. I need the chief of security.”

The second guard lowered his rifle, leveling it to Abdul’s head.

“No, no, no,” Abdul shouted, closing his eyes, waving his arms even faster. “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot.”

Justin readied for a sharp turn, but noticed the first guard elbowing the second. He was saying something to him, which made the second guard lower his weapon.

“I think we got through to them,” Justin said. The first guard was shouting at them and gesturing for the BMW to drive to the left of the Toyota.

“I would still be careful.” Carrie set aside the laptop and reached for the mini-Uzi by her feet.

“Abdul, you’ve got to convince them,” Justin said. “We’ve got only one chance.”

Abdul replied with a cold sigh. Justin drove parallel to the police truck. Carrie hid her gun under the laptop and looked at the Toyota.

“I know you,” the first guard said, “you’re with the Counter Terrorism Branch. What do you want?”

“The Prime Minister’s in danger. His life is in great danger,” Abdul spat out his words as fast as he could, before the AK-47 was pointed at him again. “Someone’s trying to kill him. Take me to the chief of security.”

“Who’s trying to kill the Prime Minister?”

“A Saudi prince.”

“What? Who?” the guard asked over the loud noise of the truck’s engine.

“A Saudi prince seeking revenge. The convoy will fall into an ambush.”

“No, I can’t believe this.”

“Trust me, neither could I, at first. But we’ve got proof. Let me talk to—”

“When is this ambush happening?” the guard interrupted Abdul.

“Hmm… I’m not quite sure,” Abdul said, “we… eh… we don’t know that.”

The guard groaned. “So, what am I to say to the chief?”

This is not good, this is not good. Justin shook his head, glancing ahead at the motorcade making a wide turn, as it reached the entrance to the airport complex. He had a clear view of the Prime Minister’s stretch limousine.

“Shit, shit, shit, it’s a landmine, it’s a fucking landmine,” Carrie shouted. She tapped the laptop screen, staring at the assassination plan she had just found. “Abdul there’s a landmine right by the—”

Her words were interrupted by a loud explosion. The ground shook as if an earthquake ripped through its surface. The top layer of the highway was peeled back, throwing large chunks of concrete against the convoy’s vehicles. Thick palm trees along the side of the road were blown away like matchsticks. Two trucks burst into huge fireballs. The Prime Minister’s limousine flipped over to its passenger’s side. The shockwave rippled through the convoy, smashing windows of other vehicles. A second later, the front of the convoy was swallowed up in dark gray smoke.

“Go, go, go, quick, quick,” Abdul shouted at the guards. “We’ve got to help the Prime Minister.”

The guards talked to the driver and the Toyota swerved hard to the right. It drove into the highway shoulder, the driver and the guards shouting at the people in the other cars. Justin followed right behind. Other vehicles rushed toward the Prime Minister’s limousine. Many guards, men and women, in police and military uniforms, poured out of the cars. Justin had to slam on his brakes more than once, to avoid crushing into people scurrying in front of his car.

Just as they were entering the smoke cloud, Justin saw one of the police officers collapse to the ground. At first, Justin thought it was from smoke inhalation. Then, he saw the arm of a man in a military uniform explode with a blood gush.

“Someone’s shooting,” Justin said, slamming again on the brakes and putting the BMW on reverse.

“Stay back, stay back,” Abdul shouted at a group of female bodyguards running next to their car, “there’s a shooter.”

More chaotic gunfire followed, this time from the police officers and the Prime Minister’s bodyguards.

“Actually, there are four shooters.” Carrie tapped the laptop screen. “The ambush is in two stages. Snipers are positioned on the second story of the airport’s towers and the terminal rooftop.”

“The general’s men.” Justin frowned.

“Yes. According to Zakir’s notes, their plan is to kill the Prime Minister if he’s pulled out of the car alive.”

“In case the landmine didn’t kill him,” Abdul said. “It’s so clever.”

A few high caliber rounds scrapped the asphalt in front of the BMW and Justin began to back up slowly.

“We’ve got to tell them,” Justin said, “otherwise the Prime Minister will die, if he’s not dead already.”

He opened the driver’s door.

“I’m coming with you,” Carrie said, before Justin could step outside.

Justin shook his head. “No. Talk to Johnson. She can call in help.”

“What help? We don’t even have a station in Tripoli.”

“The Americans do. They have clout in this place. This plan may have other stages, assassinations of other government officials.”

“I’ve got his back,” Abdul said.

Carrie nodded. “If the two of you get shot, I’m gonna kill you.” She handed the mini-Uzi to Justin.

Justin and Abdul doubled over as they snuck out of the car. The guard who recognized Abdul joined their group. He brought an extra AK-47 for Abdul.

“Let’s get these people,” he shouted, as they huddled behind an armored truck. Sporadic gunshots and gasps of pain pierced the thick cloud of smoke and dirt hanging just above the convoy.

“First, we need to eliminate the snipers,” Justin said.

“You know where the snipers are?” asked the guard.

“Yes, second story of the control tower and the terminal rooftop,” Justin said. “We need to tell the security chief, so that all firepower is hitting those targets.”

“The Prime Minister’s limo is bulletproof, but the landmine has damaged it,” Abdul said. “I wonder if the Prime Minister is still alive.”

“We can’t extract him until all snipers are gone,” Justin said.

“I agree,” the guard said.

They ran along the stopped cars, the guard leading the way. Occasionally, he gestured at police and military officers, all of them positioned around their vehicles, to explain that the two civilians with him were on their side. The smoke thickened as they came near the middle of the convoy. Justin coughed and squinted, in order to see his footsteps.

Gunfire erupted to his left. He hit the ground. A heavy machine gun drummed from atop one of the military trucks. A handful of spent cartridges bounced around his feet. Justin, Abdul and the guard pressed forward and stopped when they were three cars away from the limousine. Bodyguards and police officers had formed a barricade, using two of their trucks. A few men were lying in the ditch along the road. A large man in a gray suit was shouting orders at everyone.

“That’s the chief,” the guard said timidly.

The chief noticed them out of the corner of his eyes. “Who are you? What do you want?” he shouted at them.

The guard relayed the information to the chief, who listened for a few seconds.

He doesn’t believe us, Justin thought, as the chief turned his back to them.

The chief took a pair of binoculars from one of the jeeps and walked to the edge of the road. He took a few steps in the open field, away from the curtain of smoke. Then, he scouted the areas pointed out as the snipers’ positions. Once he made out the two silhouettes shooting from the control tower, he yelled at two of the bodyguards carrying light machine guns to raze down the entire tower. Moments later, more PKM machine gun fire began hammering the control tower and the terminal rooftop. After a couple of minutes, the chief ordered everyone to cease fire.

“I think all shooters are dead.” Abdul listened for any gunshots.

Justin found a pair of binoculars and surveyed the targets. All windows of the control tower were shattered. The terminal rooftop was shredded to pieces.

“I think you’re right,” Justin said slowly, “but I still have a feeling this is not over.”

A loud, sharp siren pierced Justin’s eardrums. He gazed at an approaching ambulance. It screeched to a halt a few feet away from the Prime Minister’s limousine.

“Where did that come from?” Justin asked.

“There’s a medical center at the airport,” one of the guards replied. “Someone must have called them. Or they noticed the explosion and the fighting.”

A dozen or so bodyguards rushed toward the white limousine. Two of them jammed their rifles into the twisted doors, using them as crowbars, to release the doors from their hinges. Finally, the driver was dragged out of the limousine. Then, four bodyguards escorted the shaken, but alive, Prime Minister into the ambulance. A man in a white paramedic uniform was standing by its back doors. He was glancing around nervously and looked away as Justin’s gaze caught his eyes. Turning around, he closed the ambulance doors, although the bodyguards were hardly out of the way.

“Where are they taking the Prime Minister in such a hurry?” Justin asked.

“Downtown, to a hospital,” one of the guards ventured a guess.

“They’re supposed to hurry, since the Prime Minister is probably wounded.” Abdul noticed Justin’s uneasiness. “They’re just trying to help.”

The paramedic climbed into the driver’s seat and began backing up the ambulance.

Justin turned his complete attention to Abdul. “What did you just say?”

“I said they’re trying to help the Prime Minister.”

Justin’s face turned pale. He swallowed hard as his stomach turned. “That’s what the Prince said. Those supposed to help the Prime Minister will kill him.” He looked around and shouted at one of the guards, “Give me that gun.”

Before the guard could reply, Justin had snatched the AK-47 from his hands.

“What are you doing?” the guard asked.

“Justin, what’s going on?” Abdul said.

Justin shouldered the rifle and pointed it at the ambulance, which was rounding one of the trucks in the barricade. It drove into the shoulder of the highway, and it began to come toward Justin. As the sunlight fell on the ambulance, Justin recognized the face of the second paramedic sitting in the passenger’s seat. He was the man who shot Nour.

“They’re not medics,” Justin shouted. “They’re going to kill the Prime Minister.”

“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot,” Abdul shouted at a few bodyguards and police officers aiming their weapons at Justin.

His words were followed by a quick burst of automatic gunfire. The passenger was shooting at Justin through the ambulance windshield. One of the bullets pierced the side of Justin’s left thigh. Others whizzed past his head.

“Ah,” he cried, maintaining his shooting position. He pulled the trigger. His single shot went through the neck of the shooter.

Justin moved his rifle sight half an inch, aiming at the driver’s head. The ambulance abruptly stopped. Six bodyguards stormed it.

“Make sure the driver is not lynched,” Justin said to Abdul. “We need a witness.” He dropped the AK-47 to the ground just as his left knee buckled underneath him.

“I got you,” Abdul caught Justin by his waist and arms and lowered him to the ground. “We’ll get a medic for you.”

“OK, just make sure he’s for real,” Justin said with a grin.