It’s interesting. We say it’s OK to think, but if you start talking to yourself, people think you’re crazy. Am I crazy? Am I going crazy? Well, here I am, risking my life, Abdul’s life, and now I’m bringing Carrie into this dump. What am I doing here? Why can’t I let the Americans handle this? After all, it’s their President. And if Israelis want to kill Prince Al-Farhan, why should I care? Am I getting so blind by my urge for action that I’m willing to overdose myself with a danger rush? When will this urge stop? Will it ever stop? Have I not given my country enough already? Have I not given myself enough?
He rolled over to his side, staring at the window. The curtains were parted in the middle and a sliver of light from an office tower across the street fell on his bare chest.
Is Johnson trying to kill us? Why? Or was it just a fuck up, with us being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Johnson should have told us about the Mossad mission. But if she’s trying to kill us, then it makes sense to send us to Libya, so the mukhabarat can finish her job. I’ve had it with being stabbed in the back by the people who are supposed to watch my back and whom I’m taught to trust.
Maybe I should take Anna’s advice and request a transfer. A transfer to a place closer to her. A place safe, for both of us. Maybe after this mission. Maybe this one will be my last. After all, it’s extremely important to stop this plot against the US President. The life of our Prime Minister is at stake as well. The world doesn’t need another war in North Africa.
Justin rolled to the other side and glanced at the alarm clock. 4:05 a.m. He argued with himself whether he should head to the gym but dismissed the idea. He needed to keep a low profile. He wasn’t really sleepy, so he chose to spend a few more minutes relaxing in his soft bed. The day was going to be extremely busy.
Justin dozed off until the alarm clock woke him up at 6:00 a.m. He placed a short call to Anna on the satellite phone Abdul had given him, ensuring her answering machine he was doing well and promising to call again, perhaps in the evening. Then he ordered breakfast, while surfing through TV news channels, mostly from the Arab world. They all reported on Tripoli’s bombings, but none gave any new details.
Still wrapped in a housecoat, he worked through his French toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon, washing everything down with a generous portion of orange juice. He showered, shaved and changed into a pair of blue jeans and gray polo shirt, courtesy of Abdul. However, he felt unprotected without his bulletproof vest. He could not have brought one inside Libya and Abdul had forgotten to bring one. Let’s hope we’ll go a day without shooting. He buttoned his shirt in front of the mirror and placed his Glock inside the waistband holster to his right side.
At 7:25 a.m. Justin walked through the hotel lobby, nodding at the young clerk behind the reception desk. He declined the clerk’s offer to fetch him a taxi and walked outside through the main doors. A couple of blocks south of the hotel, he climbed into one of the unlicensed taxis parked in an alley and ordered the driver to take him to Bab El Bahr Hotel. His true destination was four blocks south, the Corinthia, where he was meeting Nour.
After making sure no one had followed him, Justin sat on one of the benches of the pristine lawns surrounding the Corinthia. He glanced at the glittering of the occasional sunray over the Mediterranean’s stormy waters. A few gray clouds fluttered in the distance, hovering over two oil tankers awaiting their turn to dock at the port. The sea breeze kept toying with the bank of clouds, tossing them toward north, and then, sweeping them in the opposite direction.
Ten minutes later, a white GMC Envoy with US diplomatic license plates stopped a few yards away from Justin. He gazed over his sunglasses. Nour waved at him.
“Hello,” Justin said. “How are you doing this fine morning?”
“Great, what about you?”
“Wonderful. I’m glad its cooler and maybe it will rain. At least, that’s what the forecast said.”
“I doubt it. Those clouds have been hanging around for a week, but we haven’t seen a drop. Get in.”
Justin buckled his seatbelt before Nour stepped on the gas.
“Where do you live?” Justin asked.
“Palm City, Janzour. That’s about ten miles southeast.”
“How do you like it?”
“OK. Beachfront homes in a fenced complex. The embassy rents apartments and houses for its staff. Most expats live there.”
“You’re an expat?”
Justin wanted to confirm if Abdul’s intelligence was accurate and see if Nour was going to lie to him.
“I was born in Jordan, and I lived all over Africa before moving to the States in the early nineties. I came here when the embassy reopened. You?”
“Born and raised in Canada, although my relatives came from Scotland and Italy.”
“That explains the hair and the temper.”
“Eh… thanks?” Justin replied with an arched eyebrow.
“You’re welcome.”
Nour honked his horn, to tell the other drivers he was going to make a lane change, illegal as it was, in the middle of an intersection. Justin noticed traffic had become heavier as they were getting closer to Tripoli’s downtown business district.
“What family do you have?” Nour asked.
“I’m not married,” Justin replied. “With our job, there’s never time.”
“I found time not only to tie the knot, but also to have a couple of sons.”
“Congratulations,” Justin said. He added as an afterthought, “At the moment, I’m dating this gal from back home.”
“I hope things work out.”
“I hope so, too. It’s difficult to keep it going when I’m away for weeks at a time.”
Nour nodded. His eyes became warmer, and a smile began to form in his face.
“I know what you mean. My wife didn’t want us to move to Libya. Too dangerous, too hot, too far away from home. Any excuse you may think, she had it on her list.”
“She agreed at the end, didn’t she?”
“There was no other option. I follow orders and so does she.”
Nour’s smile disappeared and Justin realized that was the end of their small talk.
“Speaking of orders,” Nour said, “Mr. Garnett has arranged for a meeting with a senior official at the Internal Security Service. At 9:00 a.m. we’re to exchange our intel with Colonel Farid Haydar.”
Justin’s face remained still as Nour mentioned the name of the man Abdul had warned him about last night.
“Who is Farad?” Justin mispronounced the colonel’s name on purpose.
“Not Farad, it’s Farid. And he prefers ‘Colonel’ or ‘Mr. Haydar.’ He’s the chief of the Agency’s Counter Terrorism Branch for Tripoli, and he’s also in charge of the car bombings investigation.”
“Is he keen on cooperating with us?”
“Would you? If some guy from the Libyan embassy in Ottawa knocked on your door and demanded to take over your investigation because he thinks you’re not doing a good enough job, would you want to be on their beck and call?”
“We’re not taking over anything; we’re simply doing our own investigation, in order to show to our, I mean American, citizens that we’ve done due diligence.”
“Libyans don’t see it that way. They interpret this as the US meddling in their internal affairs, and as a lack of appreciation for their efforts. Remember, most of the victims are Libyans, and they’re within their rights to carry out this investigation.”
Justin nodded. “I understand.”
“However, the colonel seemed unusually accommodating of Mr. Garnett’s request. He agreed to meet us in person. That’s very strange, considering two days ago he wasn’t even taking our calls.”