Tripoli's Target

Chapter Five

After two hours of bouncing over the rough desert terrain, Carrie had had enough of the Sahara. She had seen more than her fair share of deserts during her two tours of duty in Afghanistan. She served with the Joint Task Force Two, the elite counter-terrorism unit of the Special Operations Forces, before joining the CIS. Carrie took to heart the motto of her unit: Facta non verba. Deeds, not words. Her hands were itching for some action, but they were still travelling to the meeting point.

A paranoid Nassir had insisted they steer away from the flat, sturdy trail, the common route for crossing the vast ocean of sand. The Land Rovers snaked around rocky cliffs and wandered around sandstone boulders, climbed over gravel dunes and descended into barren valleys. At some point, Carrie thought she could make out the tall ridges of Mountain Jebel Uweinat by the border with Egypt and Libya, but she was not certain whether it was real or simply a mirage.

Justin and Ali were absorbed in a deep discussion of the geopolitical state of affairs in North Africa after the Arab Spring. Nassir seldom threw in his two cents worth, mostly at the expense of “blood-thirsty infidels,” “scumbag Westerners,” and, of course, “the great Devil, America.” According to Nassir, America influenced everything and shaped everyone’s positions in politics. At times, Omar would jump in, usually with a rhetorical question or a not-so-subtle approval of Ali’s opinions.

“Hey, Carrie, what are you thinking about?” Justin asked.

“Are we there yet?”

Justin threw her a sideway glance.

“Five, maybe ten minutes,” Ali replied. “See that cliff there?” He pointed straight ahead to a tall black ridge jutting out of the sandy hills, about a hundred and fifty feet high. “There’s a clearing and a cave right behind it. That’s where we’ve camped.”

Carrie began scanning the sharp rocks for signs of gunmen’s positions. Machine gun muzzles, tips of RPGs, or even a glimpse of a turban flap would give away the men defending the sheikh’s hideout. She felt a certain amount of satisfaction mixed with a hint of concern. The perfect camouflage of Islamic militants and Ali’s men meant their trip to this God-forsaken land would prove to be worthwhile. A sheikh surrounding himself with well-trained fighters definitely held a high rank in the Islamic Fighting Alliance. So he was likely to have access to important and accurate information. But if things went haywire, fighting their way out of this place would be just about impossible.

“How many tribesmen do you have?” Carrie asked.

“Fifteen, including the three of us,” Ali replied. “Everything’s OK. You can trust us.”

Why do they keep repeating we can trust them? Carrie wondered. It’s like they think saying it over and over again will make us believe them.

Nassir steered slowly through a narrow pathway chiseled through the ridge. Steep, serrated rocks rose up on both sides. The rugged trail dropped considerably and the Land Rover crawled almost to a standstill because of uneven stones in the pathway. What a perfect place for an ambush. Her fingers automatically tightened around her rifle. She shifted in her seat and raised the gun toward the left side window, her forehead resting against the vibrating glass. The grayish brown sandstone wall stood less than three feet away. She looked up at a stretch of blue sky framed between the jagged peaks stabbing at the heavens, about sixty feet above their heads.

The Land Rover bounced over a deep crack in the ground. The rear end of the car swerved, almost scraping a couple of overhanging rocks spiking out of the wall. Carrie was able to see a wider view of the surroundings. She spotted the glint of an assault rifle and the banana-shaped magazine of an AK as two gunmen gave away their positions.

“Is this the only way in and out?” Carrie asked.

Nassir nodded slowly.

“Unless you’re a bird,” Ali said.

The trail widened into an oval clearing. Two black BMW Suburban vehicles parked at a V-shape angle had formed a checkpoint. Four black-clad gunmen toting AK assault rifles and RPK machine guns and standing to the sides of the Suburbans focused their complete attention on the approaching Land Rover.

“Is the Rover bulletproof?” Carrie asked with a hint of nervousness in her voice as she looked at Justin. Her pulse was thrumming, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Relax.” Ali turned around to face Carrie. “They’re not going to shoot us. I’ve got my men on higher ground.” His hand made a circular gesture in the air. “Plus, the prisoner wants to talk to you.”

Justin nodded. At the same time, he flicked his carbine firing selector to automatic. He cocked the gun and held it firmly in his hands, the barrel slightly raised up, and pointed it to the windshield.

“I said relax.” Ali’s hand slid instinctively over his AK-47.

“I am relaxed,” Justin replied. “Have you forgotten?”

“I must have,” Ali mumbled. “Stop the car there,” he barked at Nassir and pointed to the right, about fifty feet away from the checkpoint.

Two of the black-clad gunmen marched toward the Land Rover while everyone was getting out of the vehicle.

“Where are your men?” Justin asked Ali.

“The guests insisted their guards wait here for you.” Ali stepped around a few rocks barricading any attempt to swerve around the checkpoint. “My men are at the back.”

Justin peered straight ahead and noticed the entrance to a small cave behind the two BMWs. It was next to a couple of green tents. Ali and Nassir proceeded to meet the guards, with Justin, Carrie, and Omar following a few steps back.

“The guns,” one of the guards said in Arabic, gesturing toward Justin and Carrie, “they have to give us their guns.”

Ali turned toward Justin, who kept cradling his carbine in his hands in a semi-alert position.

“We were summoned here for this meeting, and we’ve satisfied your chief’s request,” Justin replied in Arabic, speaking in a firm voice. “Our guns are for our protection. They guarantee we can also protect anything your chief may give us.”

The guard was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a short pointy beard. He peered at Justin and asked, “Are you Algerian?”

“No.” Justin reinforced his denial with a strong headshake. “And I’m not American either.”

Justin was told by more than one North African his language proficiency showed no traces of local dialects. Maybe he is Algerian, or has friends who are Algerians. People typically explain what they don’t know with what they do.

The bearded guard kept staring at Justin.

“We don’t have all day.” Ali waved his hand impatiently.

The bearded guard flogged Ali with a vicious glare and clenched his teeth. The other guard muttered something in an Arabic dialect unknown to Justin. The bearded guard nodded.

“This way,” he ordered them gruffly. He raised his hand and gestured for Justin and Carrie to follow him.

Ali began to lead the way, but the second guard took two steps forward to block him.

“Your job’s done,” the bearded guard growled at Ali. “They’re ours now.”

Ali looked like he was pondering a reply for a brief moment but chose not to talk back to the guards. “We’ll wait at the tents,” he said to Justin and Carrie in English. “Don’t worry. My men are looking out for you.”

“Thanks. We’ll see you there.” Justin exchanged a quick glance with Carrie. Her tiny grin at the left corner of her lips confirmed his suspicions. They were all alone to fend for themselves.

The bearded guard led Justin and Carrie between the two BMWs. Justin’s eyes rapidly took in the details of the valley. Seven men in black and white robes huddled in front of the cave next to a Toyota truck. Two men were sitting by the tents to the right of the cave. A third BMW, identical to the first two forming the checkpoint, was parked about three hundred feet away from the cave and the tents. It was under the shade cast by the ridge and behind a tall dune, which separated it visually from the rest of the valley. They were led in that direction.

“Wait here,” the bearded guard ordered Justin and Carrie when they were a few steps away from the BMW.

He knocked on the front passenger door. The window was rolled down and a few hushed words were exchanged.

“Come here,” the bearded guard called the agents and opened the BMW’s rear door. Justin and Carrie approached the car slowly.

“Welcome,” a low, deep voice greeted them in English. “Take a seat.”

Justin recognized the sheikh’s voice. He was sitting in the front passenger’s seat and was alone. Carrie’s eyes checked the car for any signs of danger, wires sticking out, or anything else resembling a deathtrap.

“Care for a drink?” the sheikh asked politely after they got in and closed the doors.

Carrie shook her head.

“No, thanks,” Justin said.

He inspected the sheikh’s face. The high brow with deep carved wrinkles and the receding gray hairline made him appear older than his late forties. He had a long hooked nose and a thick black moustache. His eyes were staring at Justin from behind a pair of square-shaped glasses. Justin recognized the sheikh’s scar at the left side of his protruding jaw, where an Israeli-fired bullet had grazed the skin of his face. Five years ago, the Mossad had made an unsuccessful attempt on the sheikh’s life in Jordan.

“How was the trip?” the sheikh asked with genuine interest, turning around in his seat.

“Hot, very hot,” Justin replied. “I would have preferred we met at the Nile City Fairmont.”

The sheikh nodded. “That would have been my preference as well. We might have been able to prevent that bombing attack in Tripoli.”

Justin and Carrie exchanged a quick glance.

“You’re telling us the Alliance is behind those car bombs?” Justin asked.

The sheikh shook his head. “No, those car bombs are not the work of the Alliance.”

“But you know who did it?” Justin asked.

“Let me start at the beginning,” the sheikh replied. “But, before I do, come up here in front. I don’t like to twist my neck as I talk to you.”

Justin sat in the driver’s seat.

“First things first: the Islamic Fighting Alliance is not at war with and does not target Libya, its government, or any Muslim brothers in that country. We’re waging a holy war against infidels, against America and its bastard child, Israel, along with their many slaves who serve their insatiable greed for our oil and our wealth.”

That’s new, Justin thought. He remembered reading scores of briefing notes and reports covering clashes between the Alliance and rebel groups in Sudan and factions of militants in Lebanon and in the Gaza Strip. The Alliance’s support for various groups fighting among themselves depended on their expectations of the most likely winner and the greatest gains to their cause in the long run. New approach or new bullshit, Justin wondered, but nodded nonetheless.

“Recently, a breakaway faction within the Alliance has supported an increase of attacks against Westerners’ interests in North Africa. America and Britain and their local dogs are crushing the bones of the people living in these lands. North Africa is soaked with billions of oil barrels, but the only ones enjoying the oil profits are the foreign companies. The poor go hungry and naked.”

“How large is this breakaway faction?” Justin asked, repeating the exact words of the sheikh.

“A few dozen people, but they’re well-funded and well-connected to certain organizations based in Afghanistan and Iraq. They have the resources and the willingness to turn North Africa into a bloodier and messier Middle East.”

“The bombing of the First Union Bank in Tunisia was their work?” asked Carrie.

“Yes. This splinter unit began targeting foreign investment firms, oil companies, banks, and their interests in Tunisia, Algeria, and Morocco. Of course, they work together with local militia groups who hate the regimes in their countries.”

Carrie shrugged. “So, what’s the problem? Isn’t that what jihad is all about?”

Sheikh Ayman smiled. “Yes, we want to spread our Muslim faith, fight back the occupiers and the oppressors of our people and bring the peace of Allah to the infidels. But the means of achieving these goals do not include the slaughter of innocents, people who share our same faith. Besides, we cannot allow things to get out of hand. Realistically speaking, the Alliance can fight only one war at a time.”

“So the Alliance, the part still under your command, refused to engage in this expansion of jihad in North Africa?” Justin asked.

The sheikh’s furrow at the bridge of his nose deepened. His eyes became narrow and his stern gaze fell on Justin. “The Alliance is under the command of Sheikh Issa Mahub Al-Arhabi, to whom I offer my humble support,” he said in a cold voice. “Most of the Alliance’s faithful members stand behind Sheikh Al-Arhabi’s decision not to take part in these attacks. This will break up our resources, which in turn will weaken our efforts and affect our expected results.”

Spoken like a true economist, Justin thought, wondering whether Sheikh Ayman had received a degree in economics or had worked as an economist in a previous life. If he did, it would have been before he embraced a more radical approach to the redistribution of the wealth of nations than the one suggested by Adam Smith. Justin tried to hide his grin and asked, “This splinter unit is responsible for last afternoon’s attacks?”

“That’s correct. Regretfully, we were not able to stop the carnage.”

Justin peered at the sheikh, trying to read his face, taking advantage of a few seconds when he looked through the window’s dark glass. He’s really regretting suicide bombings?

“Did you know about the intended targets of these attacks?” Justin asked.

“We had a pretty good idea. A couple of trusted men inside this faction keep us informed about their plans. And we know exactly who’s going to be the target of their assassination attempt.”

The sheikh casually brushed the left corner of his nicely trimmed moustache.

Justin rested his back against the door and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I suppose you’ll present us your demands before giving us the name of the target.”

The sheikh nodded slowly. “You’re right. I will ask for something in return, yes, but the information you’ll receive is more than worth it.”

“I’m listening,” Justin said.

Sheikh Ayman leaned forward. “Here is what the Alliance is asking from the Canadian government.” After checking that his guards were not standing too close to the car, he lowered his voice to barely a whisper. “Tripoli’s explosions have unleashed the wrath of Libya’s mukhabarat upon the Alliance’s network of connections, not only in that country, but also in Egypt, Sudan, and elsewhere. They can’t tell between traitors and faithful members and don’t care who they slaughter. We don’t want our brothers to be gutted for crimes they didn’t commit.”

I’m sure your brothers are already guilty of a multitude of crimes even without these car bombings, Justin wanted to explode in the sheikh’s face, but he just nodded in silence.

“Canada’s mediation between the Alliance and the Libyan government officials, especially the Prime Minister, will ensure the punishment falls on the true instigators and executors of these attacks. At the same time, this will help bring an end to hostilities already started against families and relatives of the Alliance members in Libya.”

Justin frowned. “Let me understand this: you want Canada to take the side of the Alliance in your war with Libya’s government?”

“Absolutely not. Libya’s government is not our enemy,” the sheikh blurted out, unwittingly grinding his teeth. Realizing his blunder, he flashed them a reassuring smile and added in a much softer, lower voice, “Libya is not our enemy. We simply want its government to understand our true position. We have no involvement at all in these explosions in their country. In exchange, we’re able to provide the Libyan mukhabarat with a list of names of those who are responsible for this bloodbath and where they can be found.”

The sheikh paused and stared into the agents’ eyes. Justin’s face betrayed no emotion. He was looking at the sheikh’s bodyguards standing about ten feet away from the car. Carrie seemed more concerned with wiping a stream of sweat from her forehead than giving any thought to the sheikh’s proposal.

“This is a very tall order,” Justin said. “Senior political figures will have to sign on to this deal. Concrete and valuable evidence will be necessary to convince them.”

Sheikh Ayman closed his eyes and nodded slightly. “You’re right, but we have a good chance of preventing further killings, killings that may lead to a new, bloody conflict.”

“Why haven’t you asked for help from the US?” Carrie asked. “They have much more clout than Canada in Libya now that their relationship is back on track.”

The sheikh sighed. “America is our greatest enemy. Plus, once I tell you the identity of the faction’s target, you’ll understand our reasons for not contacting the US. But before we go that far, I need some assurances that Canada will facilitate the Alliance’s negotiations with Libya.”

“You have my personal commitment that we’ll make our best efforts to clarify the Alliance’s position and to seek a peaceful solution.” Justin chose his words carefully, unwilling to make a promise he could not keep. “Still, I need the approval of my superiors, and they’ll have to agree on the next steps.”

Sheikh Ayman was nodding continuously, satisfied with Justin’s reply.

“Now who’s the next target?” Justin asked.

“The next target is the President of the United States of America.”

“What?” Justin and Carrie asked in a single voice.

“You heard me correctly. The breakaway faction is planning the assassination of the American President in Tripoli next week, during her visit for the G-20 Summit.”

“No freaking way,” Carrie said, “how can you be sure of that?”

“We know about their plans and their preparations under way to execute a very sophisticated assassination. I have them in my briefcase, here with me.” The sheikh pointed to a leather briefcase resting next to his feet.

“Is this intel true?” Justin asked.

“Absolutely. I trust these sources with my own life,” the sheikh replied.

Here the T-word creeps up again. Justin pursed his lips. He always became tense whenever someone began to lean on the weak crutches of trust instead of the firm foundation of facts.

“I need to review these documents and verify this information,” he said, “if, and when, we are certain about their—”

A rumble from the sky interrupted him. The familiar rattle of heavy helicopters grew louder.

“What the hell is that?” the sheikh asked, rolling down the window.

Before anyone could reply, the screeching sound of a missile cut through the air. A second later, a great explosion rocked the sheikh’s car.