The surviving gunmen returned fire, and divots of mortar and brick blew from the outside of the wall Jet and Salma had taken cover behind. Jet yelled to Salma, nearly deaf from the rifle fire.
“Forget the truck. Pick off the stragglers. They’re the low-hanging fruit.”
Salma adjusted her aim and squeezed off two shots at one of the active gunmen. Sand fountained into the air near his head, but he continued shooting, her fire off by a hair. Jet swiveled her rifle toward the man and loosed three rounds in rapid succession, and one of them took the top of his turbaned head off in a geyser of brains and bone.
The gunman in the truck passenger seat managed to pull himself through the window and tumbled onto the sand, and Salma put a bullet through his torso, and followed with a second to the chest as he groped at his stomach with bloody hands. He fell face forward, and Jet nodded to Salma. “Good shooting.”
“You were right about the range. They suck.”
Automatic fire rattled from where a man who’d landed near the truck was spraying the building with bullets, and they waited until he’d exhausted his ammo to answer with a hail of death that shredded him while he fumbled with a fresh magazine.
The air grew still, and Jet and Salma exchanged a glance.
“What do you think?” Salma asked.
“There may be a few who are wounded but still dangerous. Or who are playing possum.”
“Should we try to mop them up?”
Jet shook her head. “No. I don’t want to find out that their friends are right behind them. Let’s get out of here before our luck turns.”
Salma gazed out over the scene in front of them. “Forget their ammo?”
“Not worth the risk. I’ll cover you. Make your way back to the truck. After you get in, do the same for me.”
Salma straightened, checked her magazine, and exchanged it for a fresh one before taking off at a run, zigzagging toward the Nissan while Jet scanned the surroundings. She was almost to it when shots rang out from one of the downed men, and Jet fired five rounds at him in half as many seconds. He fell still and Jet looked over to Salma, who was still in motion, nearly at the passenger door.
She swung it wide and climbed in, and moments later the snout of her AK jutted from the window, trained on the wrecked truck. Jet waited several seconds and then repeated Salma’s maneuver, staying low, legs pumping as the sand sucked at her feet and slowed her to what felt like a crawl.
Jet made it and heaved herself behind the wheel. She started the engine with a blast of exhaust from the tailpipe and tromped on the accelerator, sending a curtain of sandy soil into the air behind them.
“What now?” Salma asked.
“We find someplace to ditch this truck and go the rest of the distance on foot. It’s too tempting a target.”
“But two women swimming against the current back into Tripoli isn’t?”
“Not wearing filthy robes and carrying assault rifles. At least I hope not.”
Salma gave a half shrug. “You may be right. If we look like we don’t have anything to steal, everyone might leave us alone.”
“If not, we’ll deal with it.”
The Tripoli skyline was thick with black smoke when they abandoned the truck behind a gutted commercial building, and they proceeded toward the city on foot, each with a saddlebag and an AK. The refugees fleeing the city eyed them with dull interest and looked away quickly, unsure why anyone would want to head toward a battlefield, but their curiosity was muted by the women’s bedraggled appearance.
By the time they neared the outer limits of the metropolis, darkness was creeping across the horizon, made gloomier by the smoke from fires deep in the city. An occasional gunshot rang in the distance, and Salma leaned into Jet, her tone concerned.
“We’re going to have a tough time finding someplace to charge the phone,” she whispered.
“Maybe. But it’s our lifeline to headquarters, so we’ll do whatever it takes.”
Salma regarded the darkened buildings. “Looks like the power’s at least partially out.”
Jet studied the skyline before turning to Salma. “Which will make it easier for us. All we have to do is head toward whatever’s lit up, and that’s where we’ll go to ground until I can communicate with the head of station here.”
“You have a lot of faith in him continuing to do his job in the middle of all this.”
“I’ve met him. He will. He isn’t the type to cut and run while he has agents in the field.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Jet took another look at Tripoli and her mouth hardened into a thin line.
“Me too.”
Chapter 37
Tel Aviv, Israel
The director sat forward at the conference table, where he was being briefed on the Libyan situation by three members of the crisis team.
“The report from the Italians is inconclusive – the agent had deteriorated by the time they were able to perform all the tests. Their best estimate is that it’s related to the Russian Novichok, but deadlier, and dispersed as an aerosol rather than via physical contact. That makes it far more dangerous, obviously.” He paused to tap a cigarette from a pack beside an ashtray and light it with a wheezing inhalation. “We need a sample. Or at the very least, we have to find where it’s being stored and how much of it there is, and then arrange to have it destroyed.”
“Which we agree with, sir. The problem is that right now we have virtually no assets there other than the head of station and your operative, who hasn’t checked in for two days. Not exactly a robust network.”
His mouth twisted in a humorless grin. “You don’t know this operative. I would bet my life that she’ll reappear shortly. She’s the best we’ve ever produced. Perhaps we should have her nose around to see if she can find it?”
“And how would she do that in a war zone?” one of the analysts asked.
“The intel we received from Salma connects Tariq Qaddafi with the bioagent. Which doesn’t surprise me in the least. He’s a particularly nasty piece of business we should have terminated while he was in custody, if we’d been thinking clearly. And we’re hearing chatter in some of the foreign networks that support this, that indicate he’s making a move to take over in Tripoli. If that’s the case, it may be as simple as locating him and his main supply depot and then taking it out.”
Another of the analysts spoke up. “It’s not out of the question that we could fly a squadron of fighters to Tripoli and destroy a target. We wouldn’t have to take responsibility for the strike, any more than we did for hundreds of strikes in Syria. Just a surgical in and out, and we can let the world agonize over who did what, assuming anyone cares.”
The first analyst smirked. “It is Africa, after all. They’ve been blowing each other up forever, and it rarely even makes the news.”
The director nodded. “Exactly. So all we need is targeting data, and we can hit them hard before they know we’re in the air. There are no defenses at this point – the armed forces have literally gone missing.”
“Can our head of station on the ground do this if your operative doesn’t surface?”
The director drew a long drag on his cigarette and blew a stream of gray at the ceiling. “I suppose we’ll have to ask him to. But it would be better if we could have a seasoned field agent do so.” His stare moved from analyst to analyst before settling on the screen on the wall, where a summary of the briefing was projected. “We’ll get in touch with the head of station and tell him what’s at stake. That’s all we can do at this point. That, and pray.”
The meeting broke up, and the director walked with heavy steps back to his office, lost in thought, leaving a trail of nicotine in his wake. When he arrived, he stubbed out the butt of his cigarette and lit another, and then stabbed a button on his desk phone to life and instructed the Libya control officer to patch him in to the Tripoli head of station.
Five minutes later, Leo’s voice emanated from the speaker. The director co
ughed and leaned into the device to better be heard.
“Has the operative or the target surfaced yet?” he asked.
“No, sir. Nothing from them, although I’ve arranged transport, as agreed. I told the captain it was only one passenger, but the boat can easily accommodate two, if they show.”
“Belay that. Only the target is to be transported. I have a redirect for the operative.”
“The situation here is…chaotic, sir. Any assumptions that are being made about it are likely in error. I’ve filed a report.”
“Which I’ve read with great interest. But it doesn’t change the situation. You are to issue the following instructions to her,” the director said, and then laid out what he wanted Jet to do. When he was done, he extinguished his smoke and sat back. “Any questions?”
“Given that neither of them have surfaced and we have no idea if they will, what’s the contingency plan?”
The director sighed. “Fair question. You’re plan B.”
“Locating this Tariq won’t be easy, sir. If he’s making a move to take over the city, he’ll be well insulated, and any competent group would keep his whereabouts secret so one of the local warlords can’t take him out.”
“Understood. I didn’t assume it would be easy. It’s necessary, not easy. I’ve described the stakes. Was I somehow unclear?”
A long pause. “No, sir. I understood. I’m just saying it may not be possible.”
The director cleared his throat. “Leo, is that right?”
“Correct, sir.”
“Leo, your job is to make the impossible happen. Not best efforts. Not close, but no cigar. You’re to carry out your orders, or die trying. Now start putting out feelers on where Tariq may be hiding, and don’t waste my time with probability assessments. Call back in when you have news. You have my permission to utilize any and all resources. There is no higher priority than locating him.”
The director terminated the call and frowned at the speakerphone. What was it with this latest generation of operatives? In the old days, nobody would have questioned a direct order from the top. Now it seemed everyone felt as though following orders was a negotiation.
If there was ever evidence that the world was going to hell on skids, that was more than enough.
Chapter 38
Outskirts of Tripoli, Libya
A sea of weather-bleached tents stretched out endlessly, with migrants from the south milling around the shelters like ants, the heat of the day ebbing as the sun set. The desperate from all parts of Africa were drawn to Libya as their gateway to Europe and the unimaginable life of limitless opportunity there, if only they could somehow make it across the Mediterranean without perishing. Refugees from Chad, Sudan, Niger, and Nigeria waited in silent misery for their chance to brave the crossing, the human traffickers who could transport them to their new lives a necessary evil.
Children barely out of diapers ran between the legs of the residents, mouths gleaming with white smiles, joy radiating from oversized eyes in malnourished heads. Women stood by a hand pump with all types of containers, waiting their turn at barely potable water. The stench from the nearby open trench latrines made eyes water whenever a breeze blew over the camp. Black clouds of flies thick as ink swarmed the area, and the exhausted inhabitants merely waved them away, resigned to their presence as a constant.
A gaunt man with skin the color of charcoal squatted at the dirt track that led to the encampment, watching the road in the distance and the stream of humanity escaping the city. Any irony of his thousand-mile journey north ending in a camp at the edge of a town where the residents were becoming refugees was lost on him, and his world-weary gaze merely tracked their progress for lack of anything else to do.
A pair of split-axle bobtail trucks turned off the road and onto the track, and the man’s interest piqued at the sight. Ordinarily nobody ventured over to the refugee settlement other than an occasional government functionary or aid organization worker, and neither came in cargo trucks. The vehicles grew in size as they neared, and then groaned to a stop at the mouth of the camp, diesel engines idling with a sound like rocks being shaken in a can.
Two men in traditional garb stepped from the cabs and walked to where the man had straightened, and regarded the tents. After a pause, one of them raised a bullhorn to his lips and began addressing the encampment.
“A boat will be leaving the harbor tomorrow. We have space for three hundred of you, no more. The cost will be five hundred dollars apiece, two hundred for children under the age of ten. Anyone interested form a line here, and bring your belongings and the cash.”
The sedate camp transformed almost instantly into a mad scramble as refugees who’d been waiting weeks for an affordable trip to Europe grabbed whatever they had and rushed to where the men waited, jostling each other in an effort to be one of the chosen. A queue formed, and soon there were a thousand or more people waiting with their things while the men returned to the trucks and consulted with someone on a handheld radio.
They retraced their steps to the line, and the speaker raised the bullhorn again.
“All right. First come, first served. My partner here will collect the money. Once you’ve paid, move to one of the trucks and get in the back. No fighting or other nonsense, or you’ll be disqualified.”
He stepped aside and the first refugee approached them, a woman holding the hand of a small boy, crinkled twenty-dollar bills in her outstretched hand. The second man took the money and counted it, and then nodded to his companion, who pointed at the first truck. “Move all the way to the front to make room for the rest.”
The loading took an hour, and by the time the trucks were full, the camp was immersed in darkness. The unfortunates who’d stood in line for nothing shambled back to their tents, defeated, another opportunity in a string of far too few having passed them by.
Headlights blinked on, and the trucks rolled down the track as their human cargo swayed in the beds, packed tight as sardines but nobody complaining. In the cab of the lead vehicle, the second man sat beside the driver with the first riding shotgun, and counted the cash with a smile before handing it to the other.
“We did well,” he said.
His companion eyed the fat wad. “I’ll say.”
“Tariq will be pleased.”
“More funds for the revolution. He should be.”
Once back on the road, the trucks sped up and headed for an abandoned hotel in Tripoli, where the refugees would stay until the boat that would spirit them to Europe had been repaired. When the trucks arrived at the hotel, gunmen surrounded the vehicles and herded the refugees inside, where they were told to find whatever space they could and to wait for further instructions.
By the time the trucks drove away, the rooms on the lower floor were full and the refugees had settled in. They accepted the presence of the gunmen guarding them, or keeping them prisoners, as part of the price for their ticket north, their fate now in the hands of traffickers to whom their well-being was unimportant.
Late that night, Tariq stopped by with his henchmen and was given a short tour of the facility. He walked among the miserable and desperate for less than a minute, his face twisted in distaste, and quickly left the building and strode to his waiting truck.
“When will the boat be ready to leave?” he asked, glancing around the street, which was deserted other than his entourage and a score of gunmen.
“No later than tomorrow evening,” Akmal said. “The repairs should be concluded by nightfall.”
“We cannot afford the shipment to be intercepted by the blockade. It would be disastrous for us.”
“I understand. They’re working as fast as they can. But there’s only one skilled mechanic, and it’s a complicated project. We don’t want them rushing it and breaking down halfway to Italy.”
Tariq frowned. “Agreed. But if the blockade begins before we’re past the point of no return, we will have wasted all our effort.”
Tariq’s supporter
s in other countries had been communicating the news of the forthcoming blockade to him via shortwave radio, and while they knew that it was still at least thirty-six to forty-eight hours away, their anxiety was considerable over how close they were having to cut the boat’s departure. There was still time, but if anything else went wrong, it would stymie Tariq’s plan, which he couldn’t allow to happen. His rule over Libya depended on the West’s belief that he was the mover behind the nerve-gas attacks, and that if they attempted to overthrow him, it would open the gates of hell for them. Without that deterrent he would be a sitting duck for a Western-backed revolution or coup, and he wasn’t kidding himself that he could bluff his way to success.
“I want to go to the waterfront and review the progress,” Tariq said.
“Of course,” Akmal responded. “Although I would prefer it if you weren’t exposed until we have a more complete hold on the city.”
“I will not hide. Allah will protect me, as he has all along. Let us go to the harbor without delay.”
Akmal nodded, but his expression revealed his concern. “I’ll radio ahead and ensure we have sufficient security in place. We’re still far from in control of the city.”
“Do what you must. But I want to be at the harbor within ten minutes.”
Tariq’s convoy arrived at the waterfront and occupied the better part of one of the parking lots. A cordon of gunmen poured from the vehicles, and then Tariq exited and followed Akmal to where a twenty-meter-long fishing boat was moored. Three men were sitting on the back deck, passing a cigarette between them, and they stiffened at the sight of the small army that had arrived.
Akmal led Tariq to a dinghy and rowed out to the fishing boat. They climbed aboard the vessel, and a fourth man emerged from belowdecks and put his hand over his heart in greeting.
“It is an honor to welcome you aboard,” he said.
“This is the captain,” Akmal said to Tariq. “Nidal.”
Sahara Page 20
