He typed the code that gave him access to the CIA’s top-secret list of Islamists. A series of names scrolled by, and the screen stopped on the photograph of a fierce-looking bearded man. Tombstone leaned closer to examine the text by the photo, with Malko reading over his shoulder.
It was very enlightening.
Abu Bukatalla hailed from the eastern Libyan town of Derna, a jihadist hotbed. He’d been the regional head of the Libyan Islamic Fighting Group, an anti-Qaddafi group with ties to al-Qaeda that had carried out violent actions against the regime for years. Abu Bukatalla then traveled to Iraq to fight the Americans and in 2003 was arrested in Fallujah and sent to Guantanamo, where he spent the next four years. He was released in 2007 because it was determined that he hadn’t committed any crimes against the United States in Iraq.
On the other hand, a note indicated that while at Guantanamo, he had become even more radical, embracing the takfiri cause.
Handed over to the Libyan authorities, Abu Bukatalla spent a few months in jail and was released after swearing an oath that he had given up activism.
A big gap in his résumé followed, until March 2011, when he emerged as the head of the Abu Salim Brigade, a Benghazi-based militia. Not much was known about his activities, or even the location of his base in Libya. And unfortunately, the phone number Malko had found didn’t appear in his file.
Tombstone looked up and said:
“I’ll try to find out more about Abu Bukatalla from the Cousins.”
“Why them?”
“They’ve got a very good man in Benghazi working for the Arab press. He’s undercover; name’s Peter Farnborough. He’s a Brit, a bit queer, speaks perfect Arabic, and is tight with the Saudi intelligence services. He must know this guy.”
“Abu Bukatalla seems like a small-scale takfiri,” remarked Malko. “Why would he get involved in a complex operation like an attack on a British Airways plane?”
“No idea,” admitted Tombstone, “but we’ve got to find out. You’re going to have to find Abu Bukatalla for us.”
“How am I going to do that?”
The station chief smiled innocently.
“By going to Benghazi, of course! If you’re a bee, you go where the honey is. I realize you may be reluctant to leave your new love, but events have shifted to Libya.”
“What can I accomplish there?” protested Malko. “I don’t have a contact on the ground, and I don’t speak Arabic!”
Tombstone was unruffled.
“We have a nice, comfortable station in Benghazi staffed by some Marines and special-ops guys. They’ll give you a vehicle and a fixer. This Peter Farnborough probably knows more than our friends here in Cairo are telling me. The Cousins always tend to be a little secretive.”
“How can I even get to Benghazi? There’s no transport!”
The American merely smiled.
“Ah, but there’s the World Food Program! They have flights from Cairo to Benghazi and Tripoli twice a week. They’re normally for members of the various U.N. agencies, but I’m on good terms with the travel manager, Mr. Vayla. I think I can get you a seat on the next flight, which should be Monday.”
Malko tried to steer the conversation in another direction.
“Do you have any news of our client? He must have crossed the border by now.”
Tombstone shook what remained of his thinning red hair.
“No, he hasn’t, and that puzzles me. The Egyptians say he didn’t show up at the Sallum crossing, and that’s the only one open on the Libyan border.”
“Which means he still might be in Egypt,” said Malko hopefully.
Libya was receding a bit.
“Anything’s possible,” agreed the American, “but I don’t think so. Why would he ditch his girlfriend and rush off, just to go to Marsa Matruh? The border’s completely porous. Go a few miles south, and you’ll find dozens of trails that’ll get you around the Sallum checkpoint. Al-Senussi has a Libyan network, remember.”
A ringing telephone interrupted them. Tombstone listened briefly; then he hung up, looking serious.
“That settles it,” he said. “You’re going to Libya.”
“What happened?”
“Qaddafi was just killed trying to escape from Sirte. Shot in the head by a thwar fighter with the Misrata militia. Sirte has fallen, so Libya is free. Now the real problems begin. We’re facing a major power struggle. The country doesn’t have a government, a national army, or any real political structure. And you can count on the Islamists to push it over the edge.
“So we need to support our boy al-Senussi more than ever, and keep him alive. Otherwise, we get an Islamic caliphate and everything that entails. They’ll start by cutting thieves’ fingers off, and then the whole hand. And if the regime doesn’t abandon terrorism, it’s going to be Afghanistan in the days of the Taliban all over again. They’ll let radical groups come in as ‘guests’ and look the other way.
“And this will be happening in the shadow of a triple powder keg: Gaza, Egypt, and the AQIM in the south. All those people will come flooding into Libya to get weapons and medical treatment and recruit new followers. Our project has to succeed.”
Malko was careful not to point out that the idea of reestablishing a king in Libya, even as a constitutional monarch, was more fantasy than reality. The station chief was on a roll and would not be deterred.
“So I’m dropping Cynthia Mulligan,” Malko said.
“I know that’s hard for your sexual equilibrium,” said Tombstone sarcastically, “but maybe you’ll find an Ersatz in Libya. Isn’t that how you say it in your beautiful language?”
“There’s more involved than just my sexual appetites,” said Malko. “Ibrahim phones Cynthia and gives her news. We’ll miss all that. And even assuming he’s in Libya, we don’t know where. Cynthia’s the only person he would tell that to.”
This time his argument hit home. Tombstone stood motionless, slowly shaking his head like a wounded elephant.
“Right,” he said. “You have a point.”
A long silence followed.
“Well, there is one solution,” he finally said. “Take her to Libya with you.”
Malko almost choked.
“What, in a cage?” he asked. “Just because she’s sleeping with me doesn’t mean she’ll blindly follow me everywhere. I barely know her and she doesn’t know the first thing about me.”
“Well, the ball’s in your court. Treat her to a honeymoon trip.”
“In Libya?”
The American made a dismissive gesture.
“Everybody in the Agency says that you’re an exceptional seducer, so now you’ll get to prove it again. I’ll arrange your trip and contact Peter Farnborough. You go persuade the lovely Cynthia.”
Sitting in the backseat of the big car that had picked him up in Sallum, al-Senussi fiddled feverishly with his Thuraya. They had crossed the Libyan border on a barely visible trail south of a mountain range. He’d slept in a small house in the middle of the desert and hit the road again at dawn. He was accompanied by two men who said they’d been sent by Abu Bukatalla, and two drivers. They took turns behind the wheel, speeding on a perfectly straight, well-paved road that ran along the coast. They had just passed Tobruk and were stopping to buy gas and water.
Despite al-Senussi’s efforts, the Thuraya couldn’t get a signal; the satellite phone didn’t work from inside a car. Taking advantage of the fact that the drivers and the men accompanying him were having a cup of coffee, he stepped out of the car, shielded the sat phone with his body, and extended its antenna. Moments later, the screen read “Libya.”
All he had to do was to key in Cynthia’s cell number. It took him three tries for the satellite phone to connect, and when she answered, al-Senussi could have kissed it.
“It’s me,” he said. “Everything is fine. I’m in Libya.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. On the road between Tobruk and Benghazi.”
Seeing the drivers returning
, he quickly added:
“I’ll call you later. I love you.”
Cynthia was lounging by the pool when Malko returned from his meeting at the embassy, and she greeted him with a radiant smile. What had happened the night before was clearly a pleasant memory.
Malko sat down on a folding chair next to her.
“Do you have any news of your friend?” he asked.
“Yes. He called me on his satellite phone earlier. He’s fine. He’s in Libya.”
Malko seized the opportunity.
“I think I may have to go there too,” he said. “Qaddafi’s just been killed, and things are going to start moving.”
The young woman put down her magazine.
“What will you be doing there?”
“We’ve got to get oil production going right away. I told you I was in oil.”
The young woman was unmoved.
“And what am I supposed to do?” she asked coolly. “All alone in Cairo.”
“Want to come with me?” asked Malko casually.
Cynthia stared at him in astonishment.
“Are you having me on? Libya’s a land of savages. Seems there aren’t even any more planes.”
“If I go there, it’ll be on a plane,” he said.
“There aren’t any planes.”
“Not officially, but the United Nations has a few flights. I can get seats on them.”
Cynthia gaped at him.
“The United Nations? You know people at the U.N.?”
“My company does, sure.”
Malko’s proposal clearly repelled her, but she returned to the charge.
“Okay, but what do I do if Ibrahim rings me up? How do I explain that I’m in Libya?”
“He calls you on your cell, so he actually has no way of knowing where you are,” Malko pointed out. “And I’d really like it if you came.”
The young woman shook her head.
“You’re mad! It’s impossible. If he ever found out, he’d be furious.”
“Are you in love with him?”
Confronted with the direct question, Cynthia was silent for a moment.
“Not really,” she admitted in a low voice. “But you’ve got to do the right thing in life. Besides, we might run into him.”
“We won’t be staying at a hotel,” said Malko. “My company has rented a beautiful villa in Benghazi. You won’t have to see anyone.”
She was silent for a long time. Finally she said:
“If you swear there’s no danger of our bumping into Ibrahim, I’m willing to come.”
“That’s terrific!” he exclaimed, and kissed her on the neck. “I won’t spend all my time working.”
“When do we go?”
“I’ll let you know. By the way, can I have your cell number?”
“Yes. It’s 4477371 4662.”
“Okay, I’ll call you later and tell you when we’re going.”
Malko put a piece of paper on Jerry Tombstone’s desk.
“This is Cynthia Mulligan’s cell phone number,” he said. “Al-Senussi called her this morning on his sat phone from somewhere in Libya, so he’s definitely there. By accessing her phone, we ought to be able to find out his number. And the next time he calls, it’ll be easy to locate him thanks to the Thuraya’s built-in GPS. Incidentally, I’ll need a second seat on the flight for Benghazi. Cynthia agreed to come with me.”
The American was impressed.
“Nice work!” he said. “The seat’s no problem; I’ll get her added to the list today. And I’ll ask our technical division to identify the Thuraya’s number. The NATO AWACs screen all communications, so it should be easy, since we know the number being called.”
Tombstone suddenly shot Malko a questioning look.
“Are you sure she doesn’t know about you?”
“I hope not.”
“Let’s keep our fingers crossed.”
“And you’ll have to give me some money,” said Malko. “Lots of it. Nobody takes credit cards in Libya.”
“No problem. We’ve got everything we need there, including Marine ‘babysitters.’ They might be useful if we’re to protect our man Ibrahim.”
Useful indeed, thought Malko, considering the ferocity of the CIA’s adversaries. People who didn’t hesitate to shoot down a commercial plane with all its passengers just to kill one person had to be treated with respect.
The trip to Libya would be no walk in the park.
Cynthia Mulligan yawned. It was seven o’clock in the morning. Every conversation in the departure lounge of Cairo Airport Terminal 4 was about Muammar Qaddafi’s death, which had been announced the day before.
The World Food Program flight would be taking about fifty passengers, mostly journalists or NGO types.
“God, the things you make me do!” she said with a sigh, looking out at the Fokker 100. “That’s an awfully small plane. Are you sure it isn’t going to crash?”
“One can never be sure of anything,” said Malko. “At least we’ll die together.”
Cynthia wasn’t in the mood for humor.
“I don’t feel like dying and I don’t feel like going to Benghazi,” she said. “Besides, we don’t know what’ll happen in Libya after Qaddafi’s death.”
“Nothing’s going to be happening in Benghazi,” he said. “And if you get scared, you can always run to Ibrahim.”
She glared at him.
“And tell him what? That I’ve come to Libya with another man? You want him to cut my throat? You know those Arabs.”
The flight was announced, and they walked out onto the tarmac. It was true, the Fokker 100 was indeed quite small. The passengers were an odd menagerie, a mix of NGO staffers who looked like aging students and burly guys with shaved heads who were obviously military.
“We’ll be stopping in Marsa Matruh to refuel,” the pilot announced. “It will take twenty minutes, but no one must leave the plane.”
Cynthia started and leaned over to Malko.
“That sounds frightfully dangerous! What if there’s a fire?”
“That’s a possibility it’s best not to think about,” he said soberly.
Privately, Malko exulted. His assignment was turning out better than expected: not only had he had seduced Cynthia, but he’d gotten her to go to Libya with him. Thanks to her, he could pick up al-Senussi’s trail there without having to wait for him to call MI6 in Cairo. Which in turn would allow Malko to protect him.
He then had to find Abu Bukatalla, the person most likely behind the British Airways attack, and neutralize him.
That wouldn’t be the easiest part of the trip.
The evening before, Tombstone told Malko that the technical division had identified the number of al-Senussi’s Thuraya. That meant they could determine his location each time he used the phone. He’d be using it to call Cynthia, of course. The CIA station in Benghazi would meet Malko on arrival and handle logistics for him. His first task would be to contact Peter Farnborough, who might help him find Abu Bukatalla.
Before he left, Tombstone reminded Malko of his assignment’s ultimate goal.
“Remember, the point of your trip is to terminate Abu Bukatalla before he kills our boy.”
“Al-Senussi may already be dead,” said Malko. “We haven’t had any news from him since he last called Cynthia.”
“I don’t think so. Before he left, he saw my opposite number at MI6. He told him that he was going to Libya to contact people like Abu Bukatalla who might support him. I’m sure Abu Bukatalla knows this, and he’ll try to use al-Senussi to identify people who would oppose an Islamist takeover of Libya. He wouldn’t kill him until after that.”
“So why didn’t we warn him of the danger he’s facing? And what Abu Bukatalla’s probably up to?” asked Malko.
“Because I don’t want him jumping on the first flight back to London. Al-Senussi’s a nice man. He thinks politics is a gentleman’s game. I’m hoping that our eliminating Abu Bukatalla will let him carry out his campaign.
Anyway, the head of the snake is in Qatar. The emir’s the one who wants to establish an Islamic caliphate in Libya.”
“But Qatar’s an American ally,” Malko pointed out. “The biggest naval base in the Gulf is there, and he and Barack Obama are kissing cousins.”
“Maybe the emir wipes his mouth afterward,” said Tombstone sourly. “Pakistan’s a loyal U.S. ally too, but that didn’t stop it from letting Osama bin Laden vacation there for a decade, or supporting the Haqqani network, the most virulent of the anti-American Taliban groups.
“Anyway, that’s about it. The Benghazi station will give you a Thuraya so you can communicate with me.”
Dozing next to Malko, Cynthia was jolted awake when the Fokker landed at Marsa Matruh. She shook him, in a panic.
“I smell petrol! We should get out of here!”
“We’re going to Benghazi, not Marsa Matruh,” said Malko, summoning the patience of Job.
Fortunately, the refueling was quick, and they had only an hour and a half flight across the desert to Benghazi.
Aside from some rusting Libyan MiGs, an old Airbus, and a pair of Russian Mi-8 helicopters in no condition to fly, the Benghazi airport tarmac lay empty under the broiling sun.
Through the plane window, Malko saw three young men waiting for the flight, chewing gum. They were big guys with square jaws, sunglasses, and loose shirts open over blue jeans. No one would mistake them for NGO personnel.
As Malko stepped off the airstairs, one of them walked over. He was built like a stevedore, with close-cropped hair and an impassive face.
“You Malko?”
“Yes, I am.”
“My name’s Ted. We came to get you. Follow us.”
Cynthia had caught up with Malko and was eyeing the three men curiously.
“They’re just here to meet me,” he explained. “It’s fine.”
They walked into the tiny terminal, and Malko pointed out their two suitcases. When Ted bent over to take them off the baggage carousel, they could see the butt of an enormous pistol stuck in his belt.
A brand-new white Cherokee was waiting for them outside. It had tinted windows and no license plates.
Cynthia spoke up.
“I want to have my passport stamped. As a souvenir.”
The Madmen of Benghazi Page 9
