He stopped at Walid’s supervisory console and sat down. He called up the file marked
“Jihad Wahid,” and down loaded it to a duplicate file.
He displayed the original and read it thoroughly, deleting some of the information and pasting a large segment from the center of the file to the beginning. By the time he finished, thirty minutes had passed. He saved the file, called forward an e-mail format, attached the file to it, and transmitted it. Fifteen minutes later it arrived in a nondescript building on the former British Naval base at Hong Kong.
Walid, silently observing the Libyan leader at the console, confirmed his suspicions that the colonel knew more about computer technology than he let on. the chinese general, standing at the console, saw the file arrive and impatiently demanded for it to be printed. He grabbed it, departed the room, and read the file as he walked to his office. There, he laid the file on his desk. From the full-length window across one side of the room, he looked out over the floor below, where numerous operators manned individual PCs. Wisdom came from the ways of the ancients, but a little luck, such as the computer technology left behind when the British returned Hong Kong and that purchased yearly from American commercial firms, helped also. The success of the Libyan adventure depended on the support of the People’s Republic of China. His recommendation would mean the difference between success and failure of the North African quest.
He drummed his fingers on the desk as he weighed the pros and cons on whether to recommend they continue covert support or remove China from participation. So far, little linked the actions in the Mediterranean with the People’s Republic of China, but like all secrets, the more who knew and the longer it continued, the more likely it would be discovered. He nodded once as he reached his decision, grabbed the piece of paper, and departed his office with it. Any accusations against the PRC could be adequately explained. Plausible denial was something the Chinese invented long before the American presidents put a term to it.
Colonel Alqahiray finished his tea and his third cigarette before popping the last bite of that first croissant into his mouth.
“Walid, you’re in charge while I am gone,” he said as he chewed. “I expect I will be away — maybe two hours.” He swallowed, and then leaned forward until an inch away from Walid’s face. “Remember, Walid. I trust you.”
Walid straightened. “You can trust me, Colonel.”
“Trust you, Walid? Of course I do. If I didn’t, do you think you’d be here now?” he asked, watching Walid’s face intently.
“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir.”
“Relax, Walid. Two more days and this will be over. Just two more days, praise be to Allah.”
Walid stood nervously while the colonel picked up the photographs and slid them into the envelope. “I’ll be back soon, Walid.”
He patted Walid on the shoulder and walked swiftly through the operations room to exit through the double steel doors. He walked past the elevator to the second door on the right. Walid was hiding something, and he’d find out what it was eventually, but right now, he had to execute his own event.
Walid waited a couple of minutes after the door closed. He glanced around to make sure no one was looking, got up, and left the operations room for the nearby lavatory. He latched the door and tugged it a couple of times to make sure it was secure. Then he pulled a small cellular telephone from the inside of his jacket. He plugged a connection into a wall socket, giving the telephone the means to communicate from three hundred feet beneath the surface by using the electrical lines as a makeshift antenna. When the connection was made, Walid whispered in French, “Two days,” to the person on the other end, and then disconnected.
Colonel Alqahiray entered without knocking, pleased to see the men inside the anteroom snap to attention. He nodded approvingly.
“Good morning, Captain,” the colonel said. He inspected the ten soldiers. Each of them stood ramrod-straight. Each were within one inch of six feet. Only the captain was shorter, at five feet seven.
Each man held an AK-47 tucked neatly under his right arm. The starched gray uniforms displayed razor-sharp military creases that accented the shirts. Every trouser leg was identicaclass="underline" pants wrapped tightly toward the inside of the legs and tucked into leather, spit-shined combat boots. It was enough to bring a tear to the eyes of a career soldier.
“I see your men are as impressive as always.”
“Yes, Colonel. Each man was personally selected by me for this, and all are prepared to give their lives if necessary.”
“Let’s hope that it does not come to that, Captain, but I would expect nothing less from you and the men of your command,” Colonel Alqahiray said. A slight smile escaped. The secret the two officers shared was that the captain was the colonel’s blood cousin. Nothing was stronger in the Arab world than blood kin, not religion, not patriotism, not money — nothing.
“And the photographer?” the colonel asked.
One of the soldiers stepped forward. “I am the photographer, Colonel.”
“Where’s your camera?”
The soldier pointed to three black fabric suitcases stacked in the corner. “There, Colonel. All I have to do is unpack and set up.”
“Are you any good with this stuff, Sergeant?” he asked.
“Yes, sir! I am very good.”
“Come then,” the colonel ordered. “And let’s give you an opportunity to prove it.” He stepped out of the door, without looking back, knowing the cousin-captain and the soldiers followed. The photographer carried his equipment, while another soldier carried his AK-47.
The elevator waited They squeezed into the large elevator. Two guards waited at the top when the doors opened. Two AK-47’s, quickly pressed against their throats, disarmed the two guards.
The colonel briskly led the armed men down the hallway to the room where the junta waited. He told the captain to wait outside until called, and that no one was to enter or leave while he was inside.
He opened the door; the photographer followed.
“Colonel Mumtaz Mohammed Alqahiray,” said the man at the head of the table. They all stood. “You honor us.”
“My masters,” the colonel replied. “I bring great news for the leaders of Libya,” he said as he opened the envelope and spread the photographs on the table in front of the members of the junta. “Pictures to show that Libya has tweaked the tail of the tiger and found it toothless.”
The seven men remained silent as the photographs were eagerly passed around the table. Photographs showing the USS Gearing and its sailors were mixed haphazardly with those showing the destruction and carnage of the Sigonella and Souda Bay air attacks. As they clicked their tongues in admiration, Colonel Alqahiray began a detailed briefing on every event that had occurred, the events ongoing at that moment, and the events expected in the next two days. At the farther end of the table, oblivious to the conversation, the photographer opened his suitcases and began assembling his cameras, tripods, and lights. The far end of the room began to look like a professional studio.