“Would you feel safe going where we’re going tomorrow?”
“Of course. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, Mitch. You’re safe, or as safe as a foreigner can be.”
“That’s what Luca says.”
“Luca knows the country. Would he allow his daughter to be here if he was worried?”
The Corinthia Hotel was ground zero for Western businessmen, diplomats, and government functionaries, and the ornate lobby was hopping with corporate types in expensive suits. As Mitch waited to check in he heard English, French, Italian, German, and some tongues he couldn’t identify.
His corner room was on the fifth floor with a splendid view of the Mediterranean. To the northeast he looked down on the ancient walls of the Old City, but he didn’t gaze for long. After a hot shower he fell across his bed, slept hard for an hour, and woke up only with the aid of an alarm clock. He showered again to knock off the cobwebs, dressed for business but without a necktie, and went to find lunch.
Samir was waiting in the restaurant off the hotel lobby. Mitch found him at a dark corner table, and they had just been handed menus when Giovanna Sandroni arrived. They went through the rituals of hugging and pecking and when everyone was properly greeted they settled in and plunged into the small talk. She asked about Abby and the boys, and with some effort they agreed that their first meeting had been about six years earlier for dinner in New York. She’d spent a summer in New York as an intern in a rival firm. Luca was in town, and they met at, not surprisingly, an Italian restaurant in Tribeca where Abby knew the chef and there was talk of a cookbook.
Giovanna was full-blooded Roman, with the dark sad eyes and classic features, but she had spent half of her life abroad. Elite boarding schools in Switzerland and Scotland, an undergraduate degree from Trinity in Dublin, one law school diploma from Queen Mary in London, and another from the University of Virginia. She spoke English without a trace of an accent and Italian like a native, which, of course, she was. Luca said she was “picking up” Mandarin, her fifth language, which for Mitch was too frustrating to think about. He and Abby were still clinging to their Italian and often worried that it was slipping away.
Giovanna had been with Scully for five years and was on the inside track to a partnership, though an inside track would never be acknowledged by the firm. After the first year of associate boot camp the higher-ups usually knew who was a lifer and who’d be gone in five years. She had the brains, tenacity, and pedigree, not to mention the good looks that in principle counted for nothing but in reality opened many doors. She was thirty-two and single and had once been linked by the tabloids to a deadbeat Italian playboy who’d killed himself skydiving. That had been her only brush with fame and it was enough. As a member of a prominent family she was an easy target for gossip in Italy; thus, she preferred a quieter life abroad and had been in London for the past five years.
“How’s Luca?” Mitch asked as soon as she settled in.
She frowned and got right to the point. His health was deteriorating, his prognosis was grim. They talked about Luca for almost fifteen minutes and practically buried him. Samir had known him for thirty years and almost teared up. They ordered light vegetables and green tea.
As they waited for the food, Samir pulled out a folded sheet of paper and held it so that it was obvious he had the floor. In his learned opinion, they should leave at dawn the following morning, around 5 A.M., when the city traffic was light. The bridge was a hard six-hour drive south of Tripoli. Assuming they arrived by noon, they could spend a maximum of three hours at the site before returning to the city. It was too dangerous to travel after dark.
“What kind of danger?” Mitch asked.
“Two hours out of the city, the roads are in bad shape and not safe. Plus, there are gangs and no shortage of bad characters. At the bridge, Lannak is breaking camp and almost finished with the job. The company is quite eager to close up shop. At least two of its engineers are still on-site and they will walk you through the design, history, problems, and so on. Luca thinks it’s important for you to actually see some of the changes that were dictated by the Libyan government as the project went out of control. We have plenty of materials — architects’ drawings, sketches, photos, videos, whatever — but the entire project is something you need to see. Luca has been there at least three times. We’ll work quickly, then start the return to Tripoli.”
Mitch asked Giovanna, “Have you reviewed Luca’s summary?”
She nodded confidently and said, “I have. All four hundred pages, not quite a summary. He can be windy at times, can’t he?”
“No comment. He’s your father.”
Lunch arrived and she removed a pair of bulky sunglasses. Mitch had already decided they were for fashion only and had nothing to do with improving her eyesight. She wore a long, black, loose dress that almost dragged the floor. No jewelry, no makeup, none needed. She said little, was sure of herself but deferential as an associate, and gave the impression that she could handle her side of the table in any discussion. They talked about the Great Gaddafi Bridge as they ate. Samir amused them with stories that had been circulating for years about the project, another boondoggle dreamed up by the Colonel. A man born in a tent. The stories, though, had never made it to print. The press was tightly controlled.
The best story, and perhaps the most likely, was that once the bridge was finished, the Colonel wanted to blow it up and blame the Americans. His engineers had been unable to redirect the flow of the nearest river. He sacked them all and stopped paying Lannak.
As first-time visitors to the city, and with a few hours to spare, they asked Samir if he could walk them through the Old City for a bit of sightseeing. He was delighted to show them around. They left the hotel on foot and soon entered the walled section of ancient Tripoli. The narrow streets were packed with small cars, delivery bikes, and rickshaws. A market was lined with stalls of vendors selling fresh meats and chickens, nuts roasting in hot pans, scarves, and all manner of clothing. The chorus of shouting and bantering, the honking horns and sirens, and the distant din of music combined to make a constant earsplitting roar. Then, at 3 P.M., unseen loudspeakers erupted with the adhan, the afternoon call to prayer, and virtually every man in sight scurried away and headed to the nearest mosque.
Mitch had been to Syria and Morocco and had heard the adhan blare through the streets and neighborhoods five times each day. Though he knew little about the Muslim religion, he was fascinated with its traditions and the discipline of its adherents. Hustling off to church to pray in the middle of the day had never caught on in the States.
The markets and streets were suddenly much quieter. Giovanna decided to do some shopping. Mitch tagged along and bought a scarf for Abby.
Chapter 9
Any worries about being ambushed in the desert by warlords or bandits were allayed when Mitch and Giovanna met their Turkish security detail. There were four of them — Aziz, Abdo, Gau, and one whose name sounded like “Haskel.” Their first names were such a challenge they did not offer their last ones. All Turks, they were large young men with thick arms and chests, and their bulky clothing was layered in such a way that it was evident they were concealing all manner of weaponry. Haskel, the unquestioned leader, did most of the talking in passable English. Samir was quick to point out a few things in Turkish, just to impress Mitch and Giovanna with his language skills.