Chapter Ten
The front desk clerk, a young woman with smooth mocha skin and large hazel eyes, quoted Justin the cheapest room at five hundred dollars per night. And that was for a standard room with a queen-size bed. Justin paid no attention to the details: the satellite TV, the high speed Internet access, the mini-bar, and, of course, the panoramic view of the Mediterranean Sea. His room served simply to cement the cover of his business trip to Tripoli: photographing Libya’s natural and historical landmarks.
After coughing up enough cash for three nights’ accommodation, Justin turned down the bellboy’s services. He lingered in the hotel lobby and the lounge area for about ten minutes, to make sure he had not been followed by any suspicious character. No one fitting the general profile of a government minder or a mukhabarat officer entered the hotel during that time. Only then he felt comfortable to proceed to his room on the tenth floor.
He had no reason to search the room for electronic bugs since no conversations were going to take place in there. He disarranged the sheets and the bed covers and tossed one of the pillows on the floor, then spread out his toiletries on the bathroom counter. The room now had the feel of being used by a careless man, just in case the mukhabarat paid him a visit.
After a quick shower, Justin changed into khaki pants and a beige shirt. He rode the elevator down to the mezzanine floor and found the Venezia Restaurant. He wanted to enjoy a good meal and wanted to like Libya, but everywhere he set his eyes, he found a source of irritation and a reason to feed his growing hate for everything in this country. The waiter serving him spoke bad English. The lights flooding from the ceiling were too bright. The restaurant was too crowded, with noisy patrons and slow service. The food was bland and there was no wine or alcoholic drinks on the menu, since Libya was a dry country.
In silence, Justin ploughed his way through a lukewarm minestrone soup and a dull frutti di mare risotto. He tasted nothing, but a feeling of premonition sizzling down in his gut. Bad things happened every time he visited this country. People died or were badly hurt, sometimes innocent people, and, more often than not, he was the one pulling the trigger. Hating the place and its people, in theory, should make his job easier. But Justin knew psychology experts who wrote those theories had never completed a covert mission on the ground. He had. On days like today, he wished he really worked as a travel journalist and relied on cameras and voice recorders, instead of pistols and carbines.
“And here is your bill, signore,” the waiter said, faking a big smile.
The waiter’s lame attempt at Italian pulled Justin back to the restaurant and away from his bad omens. He was actually pleased to see the waiter and left him a generous tip.
The front desk clerk called him a taxi. While waiting for its arrival, Justin complained to the clerk about knee pain in his left leg. Carrie had neatly cleaned the wound he suffered during the gunfight in Sudan and had wrapped it in surgical gauze. It hurt, but not enough to complain about it. But Justin needed to give the clerk a reason why he needed to visit a medical center or a hospital. As if coached, the clerk recommended the Libya British Diagnostic Center, which, in her exact words, was “the best in the entire country.” The clinic was open until 10:00 p.m. and it was exactly in Justin’s direction, a short walk to the US Embassy.
The heavyset man pacing up and down the reception hall of the Corinthia grew more frustrated and impatient with every passing moment. The target he was supposed to be watching had disappeared. He was last seen climbing aboard a taxi, whose driver was picking up neither his employer’s radio, nor his personal cellphone. The front desk clerk insisted “the Australian” was limping and had gone to the Libya British Diagnostic Center. A sweep of the Australian’s room had revealed nothing out of ordinary. However, his instructions were clear. Every move of the foreigner should be carefully monitored and reported.
Unknown to the heavyset man, earlier that day Prince’s Al-Farhan personal aide had placed a call to Colonel Farid Haydar, who commanded Tripoli’s Counter Terrorism Branch in the Internal Security Service. Colonel Haydar had immediately agreed to offer the Prince, his long time benefactor, the unconditional assistance of the Agency. A team of six men was dispatched without delay, in anticipation of Justin’s arrival. Two of them had subtly welcomed him at Tripoli’s International Airport. Another pair had followed his taxi, which dropped him off at the Corinthia. However, the last two men, one of which was nervously pacing the hotel’s reception, had lost track of their target on their way to the medical center.
The man’s cellphone rang inside his jacket pocket, but he ignored it. It buzzed again, this time a bit louder, yet he still did not answer it, hoping the caller would realize the man was busy and would hang up. The annoying sound buzzed a third time, attracting stares from a group of people huddled around one of the coffee tables. The man dashed up the white marble staircase leading to the second floor and flipped open his cellphone.
“Hello, Colonel,” he said quickly.
“Tell me you’ve found him,” Colonel Haydar demanded.
“Hmm…it’s… hmm…” the man stumbled, “we’re waiting for his return to the hotel.”
“I can’t believe you’re so stupid. You can’t even follow an old man in a taxi.”
“The driver was going like a crazy maniac. We didn’t want to give away our position and our mission.”
“Our mission? There’s no mission anymore because of your fault. Our target has disappeared and we’ve no idea of where he is or what he’s doing.”
“His luggage is in his room, and the receptionist says he took nothing with him,” the man whispered on the receiver, as a bellboy in a black uniform walked by, slowly wheeling a luggage cart. “He’ll come back eventually.”
“I wanted to know what he was doing at all times. He may or may not return to the hotel. This man is a trained pro; he speaks Arabic fluently and has many contacts in Tripoli. I wanted to know whom he’s meeting with, but thanks to you now I can’t.”
The man listened patiently to the colonel venting, while staring below at the ring-shaped fountain in the center of the lobby and at the two small palm trees to its sides. The atmosphere was supposed to relax the hotel guests, but the only thing the man was experiencing was fear about his mistake.
“What are my orders?” he asked.
“There’s no point in giving you orders if you can’t follow them. I’ll find someone else who can actually do what he’s told to do.”
The line went dead.
“Do you see all these idiots working for me?” Colonel Haydar slammed the phone onto the receiver. “They can’t even follow a basic order.”
“You should never send an amateur to do a pro’s job,” Nassir replied.
The colonel looked up at the man standing next to the tall bookcase. Ever since Nassir had refused to take a seat, the colonel had begun to resent the man. He was too proud, too full of himself. The colonel was going to tolerate Nassir, since he was the Prince’s envoy, but that did not mean he had to like him.
“I don’t think the Prince sent you here for your great sense of sarcasm,” the colonel said. “Let’s see what you can do.”
Nassir cracked his knuckles. “We can do this the hard way or the easy way.” He slid his hand over a large combat knife hanging in its sheath at his thigh.
“Just do it the efficient way,” the colonel said. “As much as I want Mr. Hall dead, it’s not the right time. Find out whom did he meet or is meeting, what help did he get or will get.”