The Madmen of Benghazi

by Gérard de Villiers

  The policeman smiled and, without checking the interior of the car or opening the trunk, ordered a soldier to raise the barrier. He was a member of the Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood, which was working to establish an Islamic caliphate in Libya. He didn’t know who the car’s passengers were, only that its driver belonged to the same cell in Sallum that he did and that Cairo had given orders to let the car through.

  The Mercedes quickly crossed the hamlet of Bir Jubnai, driving on a dirt road that ran parallel to the Sallum–Marsa Matruh highway. In about ten miles, after going over a pass, the driver angled north toward the highway. The Egyptian Army knew about the side road, of course, and occasionally set up checkpoints to catch arms smugglers. The soldiers wouldn’t necessarily be members of the Muslim Brotherhood, either. So there was some risk.

  Thirty miles of bumpy dirt road and an hour and a half later, they reached the little coastal town of Sidi Barrani and the main highway, now free of checkpoints. It took them two more hours to reach Marsa Matruh.

  Bukatalla was feeling on edge. He didn’t like being in Egypt, at the mercy of the ferocious Mukhabarat. True, the Egyptians had switched sides, supporting the new rulers of Libya. In the beginning they even allowed Qatari planes to land at the Egyptian military airport in Sallum, where weapons were carried across the border to the rebels. Forgotten were the compromises of the Mubarak regime, which would occasionally accept suitcases full of cash in exchange for anti-Qaddafi opponents who had taken refuge in Egypt.

  But the Mukhabarat was known for its shifting alliances and was close to the Americans.

  Only an important reason would have led Bukatalla to cross into Egypt. But his initial plan to kill al-Senussi had failed, and he now had to come up with a Plan B, one that might have other advantages.

  The driver stopped the Mercedes in front of a square house far from downtown and honked. A young man immediately opened the wooden door, and Bukatalla entered a room with old carpets on the ground and food set out in bowls.

  A lanky man in a white robe jumped up and hugged him. He was very thin, with a gaunt face, prominent nose, and fierce eyes. He sat down with Bukatalla near the mezzes and bowls of lamb and rice.

  Bukatalla glared him.

  “Why did Allah not guide your arm properly, brother?” the takfiri asked reproachfully. “Have you committed sins that angered him?”

  Abdul Gamal al-Afghani bowed his head, muttering that his soul was as pure as crystal. It wasn’t his fault that the damned Strela made by infidels hadn’t worked.

  He had done everything properly, he said. Naturally, he was surprised not to hear the Boeing 777 explode, and now it was too late for another attempt. Still, he was prepared to try again if Bukatalla wanted him to.

  The militia leader listened thoughtfully. This wasn’t the first time that a ground-to-air missile had misfired. And he had complete confidence in al-Afghani, who was a member of the Muslim Brotherhood and had fought the Americans in Afghanistan. He had come back to Egypt and become the takfiri’s liaison with their friends in Gaza.

  Bukatalla had ordered thirty Strelas stolen from al-Qaeda to be delivered to al-Afghani as a way to strengthen the extremist Gaza group. So when Bukatalla’s emissary asked him to fire one of them at a British Airways jet—without telling him why, of course—he couldn’t very well refuse.

  The trouble was, the failure of the attack was forcing Abu Bukatalla to change all his plans. Normally the al-Senussi problem would have been settled by now. The order to eliminate him had come from Qatar, and Bukatalla had obeyed without argument. Now he had to devise an alternative strategy to eliminate the man in the pay of the infidels.

  The only thing the takfiri could think of was to draw him into Libya, where he would be easier to kill. Al-Senussi himself had given him the idea when he asked for a meeting—though in Egypt, not Libya—because Bukatalla was one of the Islamist leaders whose support he hoped to win.

  So Bukatalla decided on a two-stage plan. First, lure al-Senussi into Libya to meet possible supporters. Bukatalla didn’t know who they might be, so this would allow him to unmask and kill them. That done, he would kill al-Senussi himself.

  In the end, it would be even more effective than the plan hatched in Qatar.

  Bukatalla was taking a risk by agreeing to travel to Marsa Matruh to meet al-Senussi, who might have the Mukhabarat on his tail. But that was a risk he decided to take. Establishing an Islamic caliphate in Libya was worth taking some chances.

  Feeling more cheerful, he dipped a piece of pita bread in a bowl of hummus. He was hungry.

  Al-Afghani was watching him anxiously, and Bukatalla gave the man a reassuring smile.

  “I believe you, brother. You haven’t committed any sins.”

  Reassured, the Egyptian began to eat some lentil soup. He felt annoyed at having missed the British Airways plane. In Afghanistan he had hit much more difficult targets. He prayed to Allah for a chance to redeem himself.

  The television set was still blaring when the plate of mezzes finally arrived: hummus, falafel, meatballs, lamb sausages, and stuffed peppers. The Arabesque was full now, mainly with men sitting at the bar and drinking beer under a row of unusual chandeliers made of empty bottles.

  Malko watched as Tombstone fed his big carcass, tearing through the mezzes like a lion devouring a gazelle. Suddenly Malko noticed a couple heading their way.

  “Jerry!” he muttered. “Take a look.”

  The American grabbed a last meatball and looked up to see al-Senussi and his shapely companion take a table near theirs.

  When the young woman looked around, her gaze fell on Malko and Tombstone. She gave Malko a surprised and amused glance, then turned her attention to the menu.

  “God’s on our side,” said Tombstone. “They can’t suspect us of following them.”

  “So what? We’ve already seen them.”

  “Yes, but she noticed you. When you talk to her back at the hotel, she’ll remember you.”

  The two men finished their dinner. The desserts on the menu looked pretty terrible, so they ordered only coffee.

  The CIA station chief’s cell phone chimed, and he answered it.

  “Hm, they’ve attacked the Israeli embassy again. I imagine we’ll be next on the list. The Egyptians are sick of the old Mubarak pro-Israel politics. This is all gonna end badly.”

  When they stood up, al-Senussi’s companion turned her head slightly, this time looking directly at Malko. He looked back. Their eyes locked for a few seconds; then she looked down and went back to cutting a very old lamb chop.

  Outside, the heat was heavy. A few volleys of automatic gunfire clattered in the distance.

  “I have to go back to the embassy to send a telegram,” said Tombstone with a sigh. “Anyway, this is a night to celebrate.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ve made eye contact. When that beautiful blonde looked at you, it wasn’t casual. Now you just have to try your luck.”

  “Let’s hope our friend Ibrahim doesn’t take his sweetheart to the seaside.”

  “Tomorrow should be your day.”

  Sitting at the wheel of the Mercedes, Nasser watched the entrance of the Four Seasons. The previous evening, Jerry Tombstone had asked him to check if al-Senussi was actually going to Marsa Matruh. He was now inconspicuously parked among the taxis and tourist vans. He yawned. It was ten past seven in the morning, and al-Senussi should have left the hotel at seven. A few moments later, Nasser abruptly straightened in his seat: the Libyan had just appeared, alone.

  Al-Senussi got into a big white Cherokee that immediately headed north on the Corniche el-Nil, with Nasser close behind. As usual, traffic was terrible. The cars worked their way through a maze of streets leading to the Ring Road, which would eventually lead them to the highway to El Alamein. That was one of the country’s main arteries, and driving would be easier despite the heavy truck traffic. There were gas stations and truck stops everywhere, with semis lined up in the rest areas.

>   At Abar el-Brins the highway led to Alexandria, and the Cherokee took the road along the coast to El Alamein. Nasser stayed a good distance behind. It looked as if al-Senussi was indeed heading to Marsa Matruh, a hundred miles ahead.

  Suddenly Nasser saw the same green Toyota in his rearview mirror that he had first noticed when they were leaving Cairo. He cautiously pulled off near a café to let it pass. There was no danger of losing his target: there was only one highway. Nasser waited for a few minutes, then drove on. He easily caught up with the Toyota, which was staying close behind the Cherokee.

  So al-Senussi was being followed, but by whom? Nasser was there, so it wasn’t the Mukhabarat. Keeping a safe distance back, he jotted down the Toyota’s license number. A lone young man, bearded, was driving. The beard alone didn’t mean much in Egypt these days; Nasser had one, too.

  It took them an hour to get to Marsa Matruh. I’ll be putting in nearly eight hundred miles today, Nasser thought ruefully. For a joke of a salary.

  Hunger woke Malko. The food at the Arabesque didn’t stick to the ribs. After a quick shower he went down to the breakfast room.

  It was nearly empty, aside from a white woman helping herself at the buffet: Cynthia Mulligan, piling croissants and toast on her plate. She was wearing tight shorts and an equally tight tank top. Malko took a plate and walked over to the buffet, arranging to wind up facing her.

  They almost bumped into each other. Cynthia looked up and blinked. With a smile, Malko asked:

  “Didn’t you have dinner at the Arabesque last night?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So did I. I was there with my boss. You were the most beautiful woman in the room.”

  Cynthia smiled in turn.

  “That’s not saying much. There were only men there.”

  They were facing each other, plates in hand. Malko took the initiative.

  “Are you by yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Care to join me?”

  “No, let’s sit at my table. My things are there.”

  When they were seated, he introduced himself.

  “My name’s Malko Linge. I’m Austrian, and I’m in the oil business. I’m waiting to get into Libya to start the refineries running again. In the meantime, I’m hanging out in Cairo, but there’s not much to do here. What about you? What are you doing in Egypt?”

  Cynthia took a bite of croissant and said:

  “I’m on vacation with my boyfriend. He went to Marsa Matruh for the day.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s a businessman. He’s Libyan, and he’s in import-export.”

  “Will you be staying in Cairo long?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They ate their breakfast, chatting about this and that. Malko watched the young woman, who occasionally shot him curious looks. He clearly intrigued her.

  When they were finished, she glanced at her watch.

  “I have to go now. I’m off to visit the Pyramids. You can’t go too late; otherwise, it’s too hot.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Around two or three. Then I’ll go up to the pool on the fifth floor.”

  She stood up and added, “Maybe I’ll see you later.”

  She clearly wasn’t avoiding him. But Malko didn’t offer to accompany her. That would have been a bit much.

  He’d simply have to wait.

  He did a quick calculation. Given the distance, al-Senussi probably wouldn’t get back until late that night. That gave him a chance.

  The El-Aluina Hotel deck overlooked an empty blue sea. Marsa Matruh didn’t have many visitors at this time of year.

  Stirring his cup of coffee, al-Senussi yawned. He had decided to make the tiring trip here after being contacted by a man called Nabil, who’d been sent by his London contact, Shokri Mazen. Nabil would introduce him to Abu Bukatalla, the man who originally persuaded him to fly to Cairo and seemed prepared to support his candidacy.

  At ten past ten, a young bearded man came up to al-Senussi’s table.

  “The person you want to see is waiting for you,” he announced with a smile.

  “Where is he?”

  “Not far from here.”

  When al-Senussi hesitated, the young man added:

  “We have to be careful. The person you want to see is not here officially.”

  Satisfied, al-Senussi followed him to a small white Honda in the parking lot. Two men were standing nearby, watching their surroundings. A ten-minute trip took them to an isolated square house on the southern outskirts, its shutters closed. Al-Senussi could just make out a man inside, seated on a carpet set with plates of food and bottles of soda and mineral water.

  The man stood up briskly and walked toward him, arms outstretched.

  “Allahu akbar!” he cried in a pleasant baritone. “You’re here at last!”

  He gave al-Senussi a lengthy embrace, then stepped back, smiling brightly. With his round face, black beard, and striped brown shirt, Bukatalla looked reassuring. Only his brown kaffiyeh, one corner hanging over his right shoulder, suggested anything Islamic.

  Impressed by the warm welcome, al-Senussi forgot the four-hundred-odd miles he had just driven. Following his host’s example, he sat down on the carpet set with mezzes and bottles of soda, and the two men began to eat.

  When they’d eaten their fill, Bukatalla took a swig of soda and broke the silence:

  “I’m sure I’m not the only person you want to meet in Libya to outline your project,” he said. “But I’m prepared to help, and I might be useful. What are your plans?”

  Bukatalla’s welcome had put al-Senussi in a confiding mood, and he didn’t hesitate to talk. He was walking on air. Conquering Libya was turning out to be easier than expected.

  “I have to meet with General Abdul Fatah Younes,” he said. “I spoke with a member of his tribe in London who gave me the phone number of his favorite nephew, Abd al-Raziq. I want to ask him to come to Cairo but haven’t been able to reach him.”

  Like many Islamists, Abu Bukatalla had a special hatred for Younes, who had been Qaddafi’s defense minister and had hunted them for the forty-two years of Qaddafi’s rule. But his face betrayed nothing.

  “That’s an excellent idea, brother,” he said approvingly. “General Younes is an important person, and his Obeidi tribe is powerful. But it’s almost impossible to reach him from Cairo. First, because the phones don’t work, and second, because General Younes is operating west of Benghazi, out of Brega or Ra’s Lanuf. I’m sure he would be glad to meet you in Benghazi, but he definitely won’t come to Cairo. He’s too well known.”

  Al-Senussi felt himself coming down to earth. MI6 had warned him against traveling to Libya for the time being, because some NTC members took a dim view of his ambition to rise to power.

  “Going to Benghazi would be dangerous,” he objected.

  “Not if you’re under my protection,” said Bukatalla, hand on heart. “You can cross the border discreetly and stay at a safe house. From there you can easily contact General Younes’s nephew. By the Prophet, I guarantee your security. No one will know you are in the country.”

  “There are Egyptians who are in contact with the NTC. They mustn’t know I’m in Libya.”

  “They will know nothing,” said Bukatalla. “We’ll cross the border secretly, as I did to come here.”

  Just then, the muezzin at a nearby mosque began chanting, calling the faithful to prayer. It was half past twelve.

  “Let’s pray,” suggested Bukatalla. “You can draw inspiration from what Allah the all-powerful and all-merciful tells you.”

  He unrolled a prayer rug and stood up. Al-Senussi didn’t have one and had to make do with part of the carpet they’d been eating on.

  He turned to face Mecca and knelt. Having always lived in the West, al-Senussi felt no particular sympathy for Islamists, but he knew he couldn’t do without them if he wanted to gain any kind of power in Libya. And Bukatalla’s welcom
e warmed his heart.

  Sitting on the El-Aluina Hotel terrace, Nasser struggled to contain his impatience. His first impulse had been to follow al-Senussi when they came to pick him up. Nasser followed them to the parking lot, where he immediately spotted two men guarding the Honda that al-Senussi got into. They stayed behind when the car took off, clearly making sure it wasn’t followed.

  There was nothing to be done. The main thing was not to alert his adversaries. But the upshot was that Nasser didn’t know whom al-Senussi was meeting.

  Prayer was over, and the two men were sitting on the carpet again. Bukatalla broke the silence:

  “Did Allah inspire you, brother?”

  “I’ve decided to take your advice,” said al-Senussi. “But everything has to be completely secret.”

  Bukatalla remained impassive.

  “It’s the will of Allah,” he said in a tone that suggested he had a direct line to God. “I’m going to arrange your trip, and when it’s ready, I’ll have our brothers in Cairo contact you. Brother Nabil, whom you met, will simply tell you to go to Marsa Matruh. I’ll take care of everything.”

  “Will I be away for long?”

  “Just a few days, inshallah, but the unexpected can always happen. Communications aren’t easy, and Qaddafi’s dogs are prowling everywhere. Just trust me.”

  “I do trust you.”

  Al-Senussi hadn’t dared mention Cynthia. He could hardly imagine showing up to meet the Islamists with a creature they would see as so provocative. Well, that was just too bad; she could wait for him in Cairo.

  He looked at his watch.

  “I have to leave now. I still have a long trip back to Cairo.”

  “May Allah keep you in his holy protection,” said Bukatalla. “You’ll hear from me soon, inshallah.”

  Malko was watching an unusual couple that had just sat down near the Four Seasons’ swimming pool. The fifth-floor pool was open to the sky but unfortunately faced away from the Nile and was surrounded by high walls.