‘All we have to do is wait for Mutassim,’ I conclude. ‘As soon as he comes, we shall withdraw.’
‘Four o’clock is the most favourable time,’ the general ventures.
‘Out of the question,’ I interrupt him. ‘There is no favourable time, Abu-Bakr. We need to get out of this wasps’ nest as soon as possible. The coalition’s warplanes will be dropping their bombs on us at any moment.’
‘I agree,’ Mansour says.
‘It makes no difference whether you agree or not,’ I shout at him. ‘I am in command here. Prepare to withdraw. Mutassim will not need to leave his vehicle. As soon as his convoy approaches, we form up in column formation and we head out. I do not want anyone to know that I am with my troops.’
The lieutenant-colonel picks up his map, folds it carefully and replaces it in his briefcase.
‘You may go now, Colonel Trid. You need to get your breath back. You are a remarkable officer,’ I add, glancing scornfully at the general and Guard commander. ‘You deserve my respect.’
The young officer does not turn away. With a mischievous smile he says to me, ‘I didn’t come empty-handed, Brotherly Guide.’
He snaps his fingers. Two soldiers push a bound prisoner into the room. He is wearing a flapping pair of jogging pants torn at the knees and a nondescript sweater. His complexion is greyish-brown, he has the physique of a flabby bear, and his face bears the marks of a beating. His eye, ringed with a thick purplish bruise, is swollen and horribly closed. His white hair and jowls put him in his fifties.
They throw him at my feet. He falls to his knees and I see a deep gash bleeding on the back of his neck.
‘Who is he?’
‘Captain Jaroud, General Younis’s aide-de-camp,’ Trid says, proud of his trophy.
‘Is he not a little old for the job?’
‘Correct. This coward was a corporal, then staff sergeant and the general’s personal driver. He was promoted to officer rank by Younis without attending a military academy.’
I push the prisoner away with my foot. He stinks so badly that I hold my nose.
‘Did you find him in a drain?’
‘I picked him up hitchhiking on the ring road,’ the lieutenant-colonel says ironically.
‘I was trying to find you, sir,’ the prisoner moans. ‘I swear.’
I look at him in disgust.
‘Because General Younis had dismissed you?’
‘I’m not important enough for anyone to be that interested in me, sir.’
‘Why did he betray me?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘He thought he saw an opportunity to get in with the rebels and save his career,’ Mansour says.
‘His ambitions were outrageous,’ the minister adds.
I prod the former aide-de-camp once again.
‘Have you swallowed your tongue?’
A guard hits him hard on the back of the neck.
‘Answer the rais.’
The prisoner gulps several times before quavering, ‘General Younis was jealous, sir. He didn’t like you. Once I surprised him in his office with his arm outstretched and a revolver pointed at your picture.’
‘And you kept it to yourself.’
He bows his head. His shoulders heave with the pressure of a muffled sob.
‘You could have warned me.’
‘The general must have dangled the prospect of greater status in front of him,’ the lieutenant-colonel remarks.
Mansour gives him a look that warns him not to intervene.
The renegade sniffs, wipes his nose on his shoulder. He does not have the strength to raise his gaze to my face. The same guard jabs him with the barrel of his rifle.
‘The rais asked you a question.’
‘I was scared of him …’ the prisoner admits. ‘To be aide-de-camp to a vulture like him is like expecting to be devoured raw at any moment. He could sense things that were happening miles away and he read people’s minds like a book. If he had the slightest suspicion he reacted instantly. And he was ruthless. I felt in danger every time he looked at me. The only way I could function with him was by taking antidepressants.’
‘How did he die?’
‘Like a dog, sir.’
‘How do dogs die?’ the minister of defence asks. ‘I had one once. He died of old age, surrounded by my sons’ affection. Is that how General Younis ended up?’
‘Was he really killed, or was it a cover-up? He was invited to the Élysée palace by Nicolas Sarkozy, after all. That is a big deal. Younis is an impressive negotiator. I feel sure he saved his skin. Perhaps as we speak he is in some tax haven somewhere, making the most of his fortune?’
‘He was executed, sir. There’s no doubt about it.’
‘Were you there?’
‘No, sir.’
‘So how can you be so categorical? People deluge us with inventions these days. I have even heard people say it was me who was behind the general’s assassination. I would have been delighted for that to be the case, except that it is not true.’
‘He wasn’t there, but he knows something about it,’ the lieutenant-colonel informs me, despite being reprimanded by Mansour. He crouches next to the traitor, grabs his ear and forces him to raise his head. ‘Tell the rais what happened, you son of a rat. You were at your boss’s side when he was summoned to that sham trial. Tell him what you saw and heard that day, nothing more.’
‘I’m thirsty,’ the turncoat groans.
The minister sends for someone to bring water.
Having quenched his thirst, the prisoner tells the story without stopping. According to him, General Abdul Fatah Younis had observed the balance of power beginning to shift dangerously towards the faction of the February 17th Martyrs Brigade commanded by the Islamist Abdelhakim Belhadj, a hardline activist who had spent six years locked up in my gaols. Despite the enormous support the general had brought to the rebellion, his operational powers were being whittled away. Relegated to the position of a mere adviser to the National Transitional Council, he felt that the hothouse atmosphere was rapidly becoming stifling and that he needed to take charge of things again, but they had only left him his eyes to weep with. The French did not like him; they had used him as a common pawn in their negotiations and were ready to drop him now that he had no more than a walk-on part and no influence on events. As for the Americans, his fate was sealed: the general was, at worst, a dead man walking, at best a war criminal to be packed up and delivered to the good offices of the International Criminal Court.
‘Keep it short,’ Mansour orders him. ‘Just tell us how your boss died.’
‘I’m coming to that, sir.’
‘We’re not here to wait for you, scum. Stick to the facts.’
The traitor clears the frog from his throat and says, ‘The general was accused of being a double agent, of working for you, Rais, and for Sarkozy. I was with him when he was served with the arrest warrant, signed by Abdul Jalil in person.8 He was spitting with rage, shouting that he had been betrayed. I escorted him to the military tribunal where the charges against him were read out. The general protested, then said that he did not recognise the court’s legitimacy and attempted to return to his headquarters. A cousin of mine, who had joined the Islamists and was at the tribunal, stopped me from going with the general. He advised me to go to our aunt’s house in Tripoli and not to show myself on the street. The general was held by the Islamists as he left the tribunal and driven away in a 4×4. He was executed the same day.’
‘How?’
‘My cousin came to our aunt’s house in Tripoli afterwards. He had been one of the abductors. He told me that the general had tried to jump out of the 4×4. They knocked him out and took him to a shed to be interrogated. He was tortured with pliers and a blowlamp. They cut off his toes, put one of his eyes out and cut his stomach open with a hacksaw.’