“Yes, I take you there,” said the driver.
Justin was not staying at the Corinthia. He had reserved a room at the Four Seasons Hotel, more than ten city blocks south of the Corinthia. If the driver moonlighted for the mukhabarat or was pressed to reveal his client’s destination, the diversion could buy Justin precious time. In Libya, a few seconds of advantage made all the difference between life and death.
“And I don’t want to share the taxi with anyone else,” Justin said.
Sharing taxis was a common practice and taxi drivers stopped regularly along the road to pick up more passengers. A general understanding existed among taxi drivers that foreigners disliked this practice, but Justin wanted to make sure there were going to be no uninvited guests and no unscheduled stops.
“Of course, not,” the driver replied. “My taxi black and white. We don’t stop for no one. Yellow cabs, they do that.”
“Great. If you make it a good trip, I’ll give you forty dinars.”
The driver’s eyes lit up. The usual fare from the airport to downtown Tripoli varied between twenty to twenty-five dinars, about twenty dollars. “You must be a rich man.”
“Not really. But I appreciate good service when I can find it.”
“It will be very good trip. If you want, I don’t talk.”
“A little talk doesn’t hurt.”
Justin leaned back in his seat.
“First time in Tripoli?”
“Yes.”
“Where you from?”
“Australia.”
“Oh, Australia. Sydney?”
“No, Perth.”
“Perth?”
“Yes. It’s in west Australia. Sydney is on the other side.”
“My cousin Ishmael live in Sydney. He drive taxi there.”
“Sorry, I don’t know him.”
“Ishmael very good man. He doing good in Australia. He ask me to go and work there.”
“Well, you’re still here. How are things in Libya?”
The driver hesitated before giving an answer. “It’s OK. After civil war over, more foreigners came, more companies, more clients, so more money.”
“How safe is Tripoli?”
The reply came after another moment of hesitation. “Well, so-so. Many people disappointed with the new government. Some say Qaddafi was better. Violence continue.” As an afterthought, the driver added, “The suicide bombers, they stupid. The ones who sent them, the men of the Alliance, they will be caught and hung. All of them.”
“Where are you from?”
“My mother Libyan, my father from Burkina Faso. But I want my country safe.”
Justin nodded.
They drove in silence over the next few minutes. Justin observed the ever-changing landscape. Rows of palm trees and olive orchards were cultivated meticulously on parcels on both sides of the three-lane divided Airport Highway. Now and then, they were separated by strips of bronze-colored sand, sprinkled with scraggly looking weeds. Two- and three-story houses dotted the hills.
The houses grew larger and closer to one another as the Fiat approached Tripoli’s outskirts. Large mosques with green domes and white minarets pierced the sky at regular intervals. The driver would point out a warehouse, a hotel, or a restaurant and give Justin a word of advice about its owner, services, or meals offered at those establishments.
Justin mostly tuned out his driver and ignored the grits of sand entering through the open windows, the only air conditioning available in the taxi. His mind was planning the evening’s meeting at the US Embassy. Johnson had arranged for a briefing with Matthew Garnett, the Assistant Director of the Office of Protective Operations in the US Secret Service. Garnett was the man in charge of the US president’s security and safety in Libya. A twenty-year veteran with the Secret Service, Garnett had watched over the trip of the US vice president to neighboring Egypt less than six weeks ago. He was now running the Secret Service’s interim station in Tripoli. Justin was sure Garnett would welcome any help in accomplishing his mission successfully.
“Mister, mister, sir.”
The driver’s voice pierced Justin’s ears like the annoying buzz of an alarm clock at 4:00 a.m., pulling him away from his daydreaming.
“Huh… hmm… what?”
“You no talking to me. How you doing?”
“I’m fine, just trying to relax. Is that too much to ask?”
“Sorry, boss.”
Justin noticed they were at the edge of Tripoli. A complex of ten-story apartment towers rose up to the right of the Airport Highway. The towers were surrounded by cranes, backhoes, dump trucks, and an army of other heavy machineries and construction workers. The driver explained the government was building housing projects and he grumbled it took knowing people in “important positions” to get an apartment in the government complex.
“What’s that factory there?” Justin asked, pointing to this right as they approached an overpass. A Nissan dealership stretched out on that side, with a line-up of used cars and vans for sale. He had never seen some of the models and assumed they were produced specifically for Nissan’s African market.
“That’s the Pepsi-Cola factory,” the driver replied.
Justin glanced over the driver’s shoulders and saw another used vehicle dealership almost identical to the one they had left behind. At a distance, the tall Tripoli’s skyscrapers made their first appearance. Roadside buildings became more colorful, although green still remained the dominating color of facades, domes, and walls. The driver took a few turns, and the Fiat entered a maze of narrow alleys as they cut through the heart of Tripoli. Curbside vendors displayed their merchandise, while crowds of people lingered in squares, parks, and sidewalk cafes, sipping coffee and tea and passing their time.
Finally, the taxi reached Al Kurnish Road, which ran parallel to Tripoli’s northwest coastline. The splendor of the Mediterranean Sea unfolded in front of Justin’s eyes. The fiery disk was setting over the dark blue surface of the still waters, beyond the golden strips of sandy beaches. A cool sea breeze carried a fresh scent, inviting them to stop and enjoy a relaxing break.
The thought of strolling underneath the palm trees crossed Justin’s mind, but he quickly dismissed it with a flick of his hand, in the same way he had swatted away the flies pestering him throughout the ride from the airport. He gazed ahead and found himself under the impressive shadow of the Corinthia Hotel Tripoli. Two curving towers situated at the top of a man-made hill dominated the entire Tripoli’s skyline. Built in a unique, slanted S-shape, the 28-story and 14-story towers provided their guests with unobstructed views of the Mediterranean Sea from every one of their three hundred rooms. The hotel’s vast garden, filled with tidy, green lawns, fountains, and palm trees of all sizes, created a haven of serenity and peace, away from the chaos and the racket of the city.
Justin asked the driver to stop at the corner of Al Rashid Street and Via Antonio Stoppani, a few blocks south of the Corinthia. The driver offered to pick him up the next day at any time, but Justin declined his offer. He paid the driver, got out of the taxi, and headed toward the hotel.
As he walked through the hotel grounds, his runners tapping on the cobblestone paths, Justin could not help but marvel at the hotel’s magnificence. Its gold and cream façade was brightly lit, yet a soft and inviting glow reflected from the windows’ glass. No expense was spared when marble, glass, and steel were used to create the gigantic structure. Justin climbed a wide staircase and found himself in front of the tall, arching doors leading to the reception area. In another life, I could have come here and actually enjoy my stay in Tripoli. Maybe another time. Not tonight for sure. And not tomorrow either.