“Yes, that is strange.” Justin looked away from Nour’s inquisitive eyes.
“Now, when we get to the colonel’s office, let me do the talking. I’ve met him before, and I know what makes him tick. Besides, you are very unofficially in this case, Mr. Jack Schmitt, and a time bomb, may I add.”
I don’t remember your boss putting it that way, Justin wanted to reply. Instead he returned a confident smile. Also, your boss said something about me leading this inquiry, not you.
“Of course,” Justin replied. “I’ll wait for your signal before saying anything.”
“Great. Our experts took apart the data you brought in and concluded the voices are those of identified terrorists. There’s a slim margin of error in these voice matching exercises, but the probabilities they offered were in the higher 90s.”
“So, Mr. Garnett is convinced there’s a plot in the works to assassinate the American President?”
Nour held Justin’s eyes for a long moment.
“Yes,” he replied finally. “We’ve increased the security level surrounding every detail of the President’s visit. Everyone’s on high alert.” He stared back at the road, adding, “None of this should find its way to the Libyans. At least, not at this time.”
“You don’t have to say it.”
“It doesn’t hurt to make sure we understand each other.”
“We do.”
They drove without exchanging a word for the next two minutes. Nour made a left turn on Al Jamhuriyah Street and they kept going south.
“Where’s the colonel’s office?” Justin asked.
“In Fashloum Street.”
Justin glanced at his watch.
Nour took notice. “We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“I’m not worried about that. Just expecting an important call.”
“Your girlfriend?”
“Oh, no. My partner.”
“He’s coming here?”
“Yes, she is.”
“She has new intel on the bombings?”
“Well, not exactly, but we need to follow a few leads.”
“I hope that doesn’t distract you from this investigation.”
“It won’t. If anything, it will help me… us.”
“OK. Now, the colonel should have some reports for us, police interrogations of Satam al-Raziq, the man whose truck bomb did not explode. We’ll go through them, and, depending on how useful that information is, decide on our next steps.”
“I think it’s a good idea to visit the explosion sites and see what the police may have missed. Any witnesses they couldn’t find or hotel guests reluctant to talk to the mukhabarat.”
“And what makes you think they’ll open up to us?” Nour asked.
“Because we’re not locals. Foreigners tend to keep their mouths shut when it comes to talking to local authorities, especially here.”
“Good for them.”
“Yeah, but they may feel different about talking to Americans.”
“Let’s hope so. We know a few names of Alliance members and my men are staking out their known hideouts in the city. Once they nab someone, they’ll call me, and we’ll pay them a visit.”
Nour changed lanes and slowed down, while driving to the right, turning into Fashloum Street. They passed by mostly two- and three-story buildings hosting a variety of shops, restaurants, office complexes and business centers. Further away, Justin noticed the grayish towers of a hospital.
“The Agency’s offices are there,” Nour pointed at a narrow alley, beyond a tall row of palm trees.
Justin squinted and noted a black iron gate. Its guards, a pair of tall men in blue fatigues, were wrangling submachine guns.
“Here is your embassy ID.”
Justin took the plastic badge Nour handed him, and looked at it. The Great Seal of the United States was engraved on the badge. He touched the raised surface of the American flag and the bald eagle with its wings displayed. Justin’s cover name and his title were written below in silver accented letters.
“Senior Security Consultant?” Justin asked.
“Sorry, Chief of Security was taken,” Nour replied with a grin as the GMC inched forward toward the checkpoint.
One of the guards escorted both men through the shaded, squared courtyard. A dozen or so unmarked Nissan Patrols and Mitsubishi Pajeros were lined up by the fence. The three-story, beige-colored building, in a large L shape, had no identifying signs, not even an address number. Its colonial façade was in a dire need of repair; the faded paint and the chipped plaster of its columns were clear signs of neglect.
As they crossed the doorstep of the main entrance, Justin was greeted by a very different interior. Plush, green carpets covered most of the floor. The uncovered surfaces showed shiny, white marble tiles. The furniture in the oval hall was scarce, but practicaclass="underline" two sets of leather armchairs, with matching coffee tables. A row of three silver chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Ample sunlight entered through arched windows.
“Colonel Haydar’s office is on the second floor.” The guard directed them to a set of marble stairs.
Nour and Justin followed the guard until he slowed down his marching pace and knocked on one of the doors to his left.
“Come in,” a deep, throaty voice called from inside in Arabic.
The guard ushered the two men inside and disappeared without a word. Nour and Justin stood by the door.
“Welcome, welcome,” Colonel Haydar said, standing behind his large dark table.
He was a thin, small man, perhaps in the early fifties. His hair had silvered completely, without even a sign of receding. His small, gray eyes peered at the two men from behind black-framed glasses. The colonel had a squared face, suntanned and wrinkled, and framed by large ears. A thin moustache line matched perfectly his hair color. He walked to meet them and first shook Nour’s stretched hand.
“You must be Mr. Schmitt?” the colonel turned to Justin.
“Yes, Colonel Haydar, this is our Senior Security Consultant, Mr. Jack Schmitt.”
The colonel gave no hint of recognizing Justin’s face or his alias. Justin was not expecting any.
“Pleased to meet you, sir.” Justin offered his hand.
The colonel’s handshake was firm for a man of his built. He tapped Justin on his shoulder with his left hand in a friendly gesture. “Schmitt, is that German?”
“Yes, sir. My great-grandfather was a silversmith in Bavaria,” Justin recited a part of his cover.
“Well, my friends, take a seat.” The colonel pointed at a couple of straight-back chairs across from his paper-littered table. Nour sat in the chair to the left; Justin took the other one. His eyes moved from the square ceiling light, to the air conditioner panel, to the bookshelves leaning against the wall, and rested at the portrait of the Libya’s Prime Minister staring at the men in the room.
“Thank you for meeting with us,” Nour said. “We really appreciate this opportunity to exchange information for the purpose of increasing the security in the country.”
“Of course, no problem. Cooperation with the United States is very important to us. The safety of our citizens and of our country is number one priority. Especially, in this unfortunate case when there are so many innocent victims, some of which, are Americans, Germans, and other nationalities, who were enjoying the hospitality of my hometown.”
Justin could sense no trace of a foreign accent in the colonel’s English, besides, obviously, a hint of his native tongue. He tended to divide his sentences in small phrases, and shoot them out of his mouth in one quick burst.
“Our resources are focused on arresting all members of the Alliance responsible for this massacre,” the colonel said. “In cooperation with other departments, we’ll hunt them down and throw them all in jail.”