Tripoli's Target (Justin Hall # 2) (18 page)

Eliakim grinned. “More like ‘neutered’ the pervert. People say you blew his balls off and that got you an honorable discharge.”

Carrie shook her head. “See, I told you people exaggerate. He lost only one of his family jewels.”

“Well, for all purposes, one of the US allies in Afghanistan is now fixed.”

“He should have listened when I told him I wasn’t interested in becoming one of his concubines. And the honorable discharge came because I refused to apologize. I’ll make no apologies for defending my honor and my life. Not then. Not ever. Now, you’ll have to excuse me.”

Eliakim nodded. He raised his right hand in the air, waving his goodbye.

“Mike, escort the agent to the fence gate,” Carrie spoke on her microphone. “Then, have a team follow him. I want to make sure they pick up their man right away.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mike replied.

“James, the SUV,” Carrie ordered another agent, as she left the room and headed to the right, toward the exit. “And get me Justin on a secure line. I need to talk to him right away.”

Chapter Fourteen

Tripoli, Libya

May 15, 4:00 a.m. local time

Justin woke up covered in hot sweat. The air conditioner did not work well. The Four Seasons Hotel still used old, bulky models from the nineties, and Justin felt like he was riding a rickety train. Lying in his twin bed and staring at the gray ceiling, Justin’s mind wandered from his fiancée Anna, to his father Carter, to his phone call last night with Carrie, to her meeting with the Mossad, and to Abdul and the Glock under his pillow.

“What will happen today?” He found himself asking the question aloud, albeit in a little more than a whisper. Then, he frowned at the sound of his voice, and at the realization he was talking to himself.

It’s interesting. We say it’s OK to think, but if you start talking to yourself, people think you’re crazy. Am I crazy? Am I going crazy? Well, here I am, risking my life, Abdul’s life, and now I’m bringing Carrie into this dump. What am I doing here? Why can’t I let the Americans handle this? After all, it’s their President. And if Israelis want to kill Prince Al-Farhan, why should I care? Am I getting so blind by my urge for action that I’m willing to overdose myself with a danger rush? When will this urge stop? Will it ever stop? Have I not given my country enough already? Have I not given myself enough?

He rolled over to his side, staring at the window. The curtains were parted in the middle and a sliver of light from an office tower across the street fell on his bare chest.

Is Johnson trying to kill us? Why? Or was it just a fuck up, with us being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Johnson should have told us about the Mossad mission. But if she’s trying to kill us, then it makes sense to send us to Libya, so the mukhabarat can finish her job. I’ve had it with being stabbed in the back by the people who are supposed to watch my back and whom I’m taught to trust.

Maybe I should take Anna’s advice and request a transfer. A transfer to a place closer to her. A place safe, for both of us. Maybe after this mission. Maybe this one will be my last. After all, it’s extremely important to stop this plot against the US President. The life of our Prime Minister is at stake as well. The world doesn’t need another war in North Africa.

Justin rolled to the other side and glanced at the alarm clock. 4:05 a.m. He argued with himself whether he should head to the gym but dismissed the idea. He needed to keep a low profile. He wasn’t really sleepy, so he chose to spend a few more minutes relaxing in his soft bed. The day was going to be extremely busy.

* * *

Justin dozed off until the alarm clock woke him up at 6:00 a.m. He placed a short call to Anna on the satellite phone Abdul had given him, ensuring her answering machine he was doing well and promising to call again, perhaps in the evening. Then he ordered breakfast, while surfing through TV news channels, mostly from the Arab world. They all reported on Tripoli’s bombings, but none gave any new details.

Still wrapped in a housecoat, he worked through his French toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon, washing everything down with a generous portion of orange juice. He showered, shaved and changed into a pair of blue jeans and gray polo shirt, courtesy of Abdul. However, he felt unprotected without his bulletproof vest. He could not have brought one inside Libya and Abdul had forgotten to bring one.
Let’s hope we’ll go a day without shooting.
He buttoned his shirt in front of the mirror and placed his Glock inside the waistband holster to his right side.

At 7:25 a.m. Justin walked through the hotel lobby, nodding at the young clerk behind the reception desk. He declined the clerk’s offer to fetch him a taxi and walked outside through the main doors. A couple of blocks south of the hotel, he climbed into one of the unlicensed taxis parked in an alley and ordered the driver to take him to Bab El Bahr Hotel. His true destination was four blocks south, the Corinthia, where he was meeting Nour.

After making sure no one had followed him, Justin sat on one of the benches of the pristine lawns surrounding the Corinthia. He glanced at the glittering of the occasional sunray over the Mediterranean’s stormy waters. A few gray clouds fluttered in the distance, hovering over two oil tankers awaiting their turn to dock at the port. The sea breeze kept toying with the bank of clouds, tossing them toward north, and then, sweeping them in the opposite direction.

Ten minutes later, a white GMC Envoy with US diplomatic license plates stopped a few yards away from Justin. He gazed over his sunglasses. Nour waved at him.

“Hello,” Justin said. “How are you doing this fine morning?”

“Great, what about you?”

“Wonderful. I’m glad its cooler and maybe it will rain. At least, that’s what the forecast said.”

“I doubt it. Those clouds have been hanging around for a week, but we haven’t seen a drop. Get in.”

Justin buckled his seatbelt before Nour stepped on the gas.

“Where do you live?” Justin asked.

“Palm City, Janzour. That’s about ten miles southeast.”

“How do you like it?”

“OK. Beachfront homes in a fenced complex. The embassy rents apartments and houses for its staff. Most expats live there.”

“You’re an expat?”

Justin wanted to confirm if Abdul’s intelligence was accurate and see if Nour was going to lie to him.

“I was born in Jordan, and I lived all over Africa before moving to the States in the early nineties. I came here when the embassy reopened. You?”

“Born and raised in Canada, although my relatives came from Scotland and Italy.”

“That explains the hair and the temper.”

“Eh… thanks?” Justin replied with an arched eyebrow.

“You’re welcome.”

Nour honked his horn, to tell the other drivers he was going to make a lane change, illegal as it was, in the middle of an intersection. Justin noticed traffic had become heavier as they were getting closer to Tripoli’s downtown business district.

“What family do you have?” Nour asked.

“I’m not married,” Justin replied. “With our job, there’s never time.”

“I found time not only to tie the knot, but also to have a couple of sons.”

“Congratulations,” Justin said. He added as an afterthought, “At the moment, I’m dating this gal from back home.”

“I hope things work out.”

“I hope so, too. It’s difficult to keep it going when I’m away for weeks at a time.”

Nour nodded. His eyes became warmer, and a smile began to form in his face.

“I know what you mean. My wife didn’t want us to move to Libya. Too dangerous, too hot, too far away from home. Any excuse you may think, she had it on her list.”

“She agreed at the end, didn’t she?”

“There was no other option. I follow orders and so does she.”

Nour’s smile disappeared and Justin realized that was the end of their small talk.

“Speaking of orders,” Nour said, “Mr. Garnett has arranged for a meeting with a senior official at the Internal Security Service. At 9:00 a.m. we’re to exchange our intel with Colonel Farid Haydar.”

Justin’s face remained still as Nour mentioned the name of the man Abdul had warned him about last night.

“Who is Farad?” Justin mispronounced the colonel’s name on purpose.

“Not Farad, it’s Farid. And he prefers ‘Colonel’ or ‘Mr. Haydar.’ He’s the chief of the Agency’s Counter Terrorism Branch for Tripoli, and he’s also in charge of the car bombings investigation.”

“Is he keen on cooperating with us?”

“Would you? If some guy from the Libyan embassy in Ottawa knocked on your door and demanded to take over your investigation because he thinks you’re not doing a good enough job, would you want to be on their beck and call?”

“We’re not taking over anything; we’re simply doing our own investigation, in order to show to our, I mean American, citizens that we’ve done due diligence.”

“Libyans don’t see it that way. They interpret this as the US meddling in their internal affairs, and as a lack of appreciation for their efforts. Remember, most of the victims are Libyans, and they’re within their rights to carry out this investigation.”

Justin nodded. “I understand.”

“However, the colonel seemed unusually accommodating of Mr. Garnett’s request. He agreed to meet us in person. That’s very strange, considering two days ago he wasn’t even taking our calls.”

“Yes, that is strange.” Justin looked away from Nour’s inquisitive eyes.

“Now, when we get to the colonel’s office, let me do the talking. I’ve met him before, and I know what makes him tick. Besides, you are very unofficially in this case, Mr. Jack Schmitt, and a time bomb, may I add.”

I don’t remember your boss putting it that way,
Justin wanted to reply. Instead he returned a confident smile.
Also, your boss said something about me leading this inquiry, not you.

“Of course,” Justin replied. “I’ll wait for your signal before saying anything.”

“Great. Our experts took apart the data you brought in and concluded the voices are those of identified terrorists. There’s a slim margin of error in these voice matching exercises, but the probabilities they offered were in the higher 90s.”

“So, Mr. Garnett is convinced there’s a plot in the works to assassinate the American President?”

Nour held Justin’s eyes for a long moment.

“Yes,” he replied finally. “We’ve increased the security level surrounding every detail of the President’s visit. Everyone’s on high alert.” He stared back at the road, adding, “None of this should find its way to the Libyans. At least, not at this time.”

“You don’t have to say it.”

“It doesn’t hurt to make sure we understand each other.”

“We do.”

They drove without exchanging a word for the next two minutes. Nour made a left turn on Al Jamhuriyah Street and they kept going south.

“Where’s the colonel’s office?” Justin asked.

“In Fashloum Street.”

Justin glanced at his watch.

Nour took notice. “We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“I’m not worried about that. Just expecting an important call.”

“Your girlfriend?”

“Oh, no. My partner.”

“He’s coming here?”

“Yes,
she
is.”

“She has new intel on the bombings?”

“Well, not exactly, but we need to follow a few leads.”

“I hope that doesn’t distract you from
this
investigation.”

“It won’t. If anything, it will help me… us.”

“OK. Now, the colonel should have some reports for us, police interrogations of Satam al-Raziq, the man whose truck bomb did not explode. We’ll go through them, and, depending on how useful that information is, decide on our next steps.”

“I think it’s a good idea to visit the explosion sites and see what the police may have missed. Any witnesses they couldn’t find or hotel guests reluctant to talk to the mukhabarat.”

“And what makes you think they’ll open up to us?” Nour asked.

“Because we’re not locals. Foreigners tend to keep their mouths shut when it comes to talking to local authorities, especially here.”

“Good for them.”

“Yeah, but they may feel different about talking to Americans.”

“Let’s hope so. We know a few names of Alliance members and my men are staking out their known hideouts in the city. Once they nab someone, they’ll call me, and we’ll pay them a visit.”

Nour changed lanes and slowed down, while driving to the right, turning into Fashloum Street. They passed by mostly two- and three-story buildings hosting a variety of shops, restaurants, office complexes and business centers. Further away, Justin noticed the grayish towers of a hospital.

“The Agency’s offices are there,” Nour pointed at a narrow alley, beyond a tall row of palm trees.

Justin squinted and noted a black iron gate. Its guards, a pair of tall men in blue fatigues, were wrangling submachine guns.

“Here is your embassy ID.”

Justin took the plastic badge Nour handed him, and looked at it. The Great Seal of the United States was engraved on the badge. He touched the raised surface of the American flag and the bald eagle with its wings displayed. Justin’s cover name and his title were written below in silver accented letters.

“Senior Security Consultant?” Justin asked.

“Sorry, Chief of Security was taken,” Nour replied with a grin as the GMC inched forward toward the checkpoint.

* * *

One of the guards escorted both men through the shaded, squared courtyard. A dozen or so unmarked Nissan Patrols and Mitsubishi Pajeros were lined up by the fence. The three-story, beige-colored building, in a large L shape, had no identifying signs, not even an address number. Its colonial façade was in a dire need of repair; the faded paint and the chipped plaster of its columns were clear signs of neglect.

As they crossed the doorstep of the main entrance, Justin was greeted by a very different interior. Plush, green carpets covered most of the floor. The uncovered surfaces showed shiny, white marble tiles. The furniture in the oval hall was scarce, but practical: two sets of leather armchairs, with matching coffee tables. A row of three silver chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Ample sunlight entered through arched windows.