She said, “No, I feel fine. No symptoms at all.”
He spoke in Arabic to the nurses. A technician left to fetch something. To Mitch he said, “Let’s try a couple of meds. One to calm the nausea and stop the cramping, another to ease the pain and maybe allow you some sleep.”
Both sounded wonderful and Mitch smiled again. In an effort at toughness, he asked, “When can I get out of here?”
“You’re being admitted, Mr. McDeere,” the doctor said with a smile. “You’re not leaving anytime soon.”
And he was fine with that. He especially liked the part about the painkiller and a long nap. Cramps were still rolling through his guts. His head was still spinning. He had no desire to do anything but drift away for a few hours. He thought of Abby and the boys and knew they were safe. The last thing they needed was an urgent call from Libya with bad news. He would be fine in a few hours.
Giovanna said, “Mitch, it’s almost four A.M. We were supposed to leave at five.”
Dr. Omran said, “He’s in no condition.”
“Can we delay it twenty-four hours?” Mitch asked.
Samir and the doctor stared at each other, then both shook their heads. The doctor said, “I’m not sure I can release you in twenty-four hours. I want to see the blood work.”
Samir said, “The trip is approved for today. I would have to go back and ask for another approval. As I’ve said, the government is getting stricter. For obvious reasons they are not thrilled with this claim by Lannak, and they are approving today’s visit only to make themselves look good in court.”
Mitch asked, “So, they might not approve another date?”
“Who knows? I think they will, but they’ll delay a decision for a few days, just to make us wait. These are bureaucrats, Mitch. Tough guys.”
Giovanna said, “I’ll go, Mitch. I know the summaries, the checklist, everything. I can handle it. Let’s do it and get it over with.”
Mitch closed his eyes and endured another wave of cramps. At that moment, he had been in Libya long enough and couldn’t wait to leave. He looked at Samir and asked, “And you still think it’s safe?”
“Mitch, if I didn’t believe so, we would not be here now. As I’ve said, I’ve made the trip a dozen times and never felt threatened.”
“And you’ll go today?”
“Mitch, I work for you, your firm, and your client. You are in charge. If you want me to accompany the team, then I’ll go.”
Mitch grunted “Ahh!” and said through clenched teeth, “Diarrhea! Someone get the bedpan!”
Samir and Giovanna found the door and fled down the hallway. They waited and watched a few minutes as orderlies and nurses went in and out of Mitch’s room. She finally said, “Let’s go back to the hotel. I need to change.”
The armored truck was waiting near the front entrance of the hotel. Youssef, the driver, was asleep behind the wheel. He was joined in the cab by the sixth member of the detail, Walid, another Libyan driver brought along in case Youssef needed a nap. He was facing a long day with at least ten hours at the wheel. The four Turks loitered near the street, all smoking, all dressed in desert fatigues and canvas boots.
Samir spoke to them as they waited, then walked away with his phone stuck to his ear. He met Giovanna in the lobby and said, “Dr. Omran thinks I should stay here today and help with Mitch. There might be some complications.”
“Such as?”
“Maybe it wasn’t food poisoning.”
“And that’s supposed to be reassuring?”
“You don’t have to go, Giovanna. We can try again next week, or maybe in two weeks.”
“You’re not worried about this trip?”
For the fourth or fifth time, Samir said, “No. You have plenty of security and I’m sure it won’t be needed.”
“Okay, I’m off. You take care of Mitch.”
He pecked her on both cheeks and said, “I’ll meet you here for dinner tonight, okay?”
“Lovely. But let’s skip the seafood stew.”
They both laughed, and he watched her stride purposefully through the revolving door.
Chapter 11
The cab of the truck was like a cockpit with two captain’s chairs for the drivers. A narrow passageway ran to the back so that the drivers could talk to the passengers if necessary. Unmarked crates of supplies were stacked near the rear door, with more loaded onto a deck above the roof. When Youssef was satisfied that everything was strapped down and secure, he took the wheel and shifted gears.
Giovanna and her bodyguards were in heavily padded chairs that could recline a few inches and were quite comfortable, at least on the paved city streets. Haskel, the leader, explained to Giovanna that the roads were not quite as smooth out in the country. According to him, the truck had been modified to haul Lannak engineers and executives from the city to the bridge and back, and had been used practically every day for years now. Youssef could make the drive in his sleep, which he often did.
Aziz offered her thick Turkish coffee, which smelled delicious as he poured it into a metal cup. Haskel handed her a twisted pastry of some sort, flaky around the edges with a distinct sesame aroma. He explained, “It’s called a kaak. Very tasty.”
Over his shoulder, Youssef said, “My wife makes them all the time for these trips.”
“Thanks.” She took a bite and smiled her approval.
The city’s streets were still dark and empty and it was too early for even a hint of sunlight. Two narrow windows on each side of the cargo hold gave them glimpses of the city. Within minutes, Gau and Abdo were slumped in their seats, eyes firmly closed. After two sips of the coffee, Giovanna knew sleep would not be possible. She nibbled on the Libyan version of a biscuit and tried to absorb her surroundings. Two days earlier she had been at her desk in London, same as always, dressed to kill and not looking forward to another round of dull meetings. Now she was in Tripoli, in the rear of a converted truck, sitting with four heavily armed Turks, and venturing into the desert where she would inspect a billion-dollar bridge to nowhere. She was wearing loose jeans, hiking boots, no makeup whatsoever. She pulled out her cell phone. Haskel noticed this and said, “Service is okay for about an hour, then nothing.”
“How do you speak with your construction people at the bridge?”
“A satellite system for phones and internet. You can use it when we get there.”
She was worried about Mitch and sent him a text. She did not expect a response. She sent one to Samir, who quickly replied with the news that Mitch was feeling better. He, Samir, planned to spend the day at the hospital. She thought about Luca and decided to wait. Hopefully he was still asleep.
Aziz nodded off, leaving only Haskel to stand guard, though no security was needed at the moment. Boredom hit hard, and Giovanna opened an exciting office memo that purported to summarize the sorry state of modern Libya, or at least since 1969, when Gaddafi pulled off his coup and installed himself as dictator, ruler, and king for life. At the edge of the city, as the highway narrowed, she began to yawn and realized that she had slept less than three hours. Mitch had called near death at 2 A.M. and she had been wired ever since.
She checked her phone. No service. Only four hours to go.
The security guards at the checkpoint were regular Libyan Army. There were five of them, and they had been dead for an hour by the time Youssef made the long turn and the concrete barriers came into view. Their bodies were in the rear of a stolen truck that would soon be burned. Their uniforms were now being worn by their killers.
Youssef saw the guards and said, “Checkpoint. We may have to get out.”