The Madmen of Benghazi

by Gérard de Villiers

  Ted shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, miss. There’s no customs or immigration here. But we can cobble you a stamp that’ll look just as good as a real one, if you like.”

  They exited under a billboard with the words “Thank You, France” above two Libyan fighters flashing a victory sign. The locals hadn’t forgotten that France had been among the rebels’ earliest supporters, sending its warplanes on sorties all over the country. In Benghazi, French air attacks had decimated Qaddafi’s armored forces.

  As they climbed into the back of the Cherokee, Cynthia cried out in pain.

  “Ow! I bumped into something on the floor.”

  She leaned over and picked up an Uzi submachine gun, holding it by the barrel.

  Ted turned around.

  “I apologize, miss,” he said. “That’s mine.”

  He took the weapon and stowed it at his feet. The young woman stared at him, openmouthed.

  Beyond the airport, the highway ran straight ahead, lined by dusty eucalyptus trees, with desert on both sides. Not much traffic.

  “How are people here reacting to Qaddafi’s death?” asked Malko.

  “They’re firing in the air like crazy,” said Ted over his shoulder. “You can tell they’re not paying for the ammo.”

  They entered Benghazi.

  Wide, empty avenues in a city as flat as a pancake. Few pedestrians, the occasional local shop, hardly any stoplights, and lots of cars. Endless rows of walls encircling hidden properties alternated with empty lots and little clusters of buildings.

  After a half-hour drive, they pulled up in front of a metal gate topped by two ultramodern surveillance cameras and guarded by a Libyan sitting on a folding chair with a Kalashnikov in his lap. Ted honked, and the metal barrier swung open to admit the Cherokee, revealing two men in civvies. Each had an M16 rifle on his shoulder and dark glasses on his head, and carried a pistol and a walkie-talkie.

  The Cherokee parked near a beautifully manicured lawn in front of a villa big enough for a pharaoh. Ted led Cynthia and Malko inside.

  Deliciously cool thanks to air-conditioning, the place had marble floors, imitation Louis XV gilt furniture, heavy drapes, and carpets. It sure wasn’t the Salvation Army.

  Ted opened a door to an enormous bedroom, furnished with a twelve-foot bed covered by a quilt woven with gold thread.

  “You’re in here, sir. There’ll be a briefing in the lounge in fifteen minutes.”

  As he turned to leave, two people came in, a man and a woman. They were barefoot and very slim, with skin that was dark but not black. The woman was quite pretty, with fine features. The man’s regular features showed no expression.

  Ted turned and came back into the room.

  “This is Hissine and Aya. They’re from Chad. They’ll be taking care of you.”

  Smiling slightly, the two Chadians bowed and left.

  Cynthia flopped onto the bed, looking amazed.

  “This place is beautiful!” she exclaimed. “And your company’s footing the bill for all this?”

  “I think it’s renting the house from an expatriate Libyan,” said Malko. “If you want to take a bath—”

  There was a knock at the door, and the Chadian woman entered, carrying a big basket of fruit. She crouched in front of Cynthia.

  “Would you like some fruit, miss?” she asked softly, in English.

  The two women’s eyes met, and Malko thought he felt a spark fly between them.

  When he left the room, Cynthia was peeling an orange.

  The meeting was held in a large, ornate lounge with rich carpets, heavy velvet curtains, soft sofas and armchairs, and a long, low table.

  A young Libyan man was perched on the edge of a sofa, looking serious and alert. With his short hair, polo shirt, and jeans, he could be mistaken for a student attending a lecture.

  “This is Jafar,” said Ted. “He’ll be your driver and fixer. He’s okay. He has a car with Libyan plates and he speaks English.”

  Jafar smiled and shook Malko’s hand.

  “I’m a doctor,” he said. “Just finished my medical studies. I’m at your disposal.”

  Ted broke in. “Okay, we’ll continue without you.”

  Jafar slipped out of the room.

  The young American proceeded to give Malko the lay of the land.

  “This is the Special Operations Group Benghazi station,” he explained. “There are eight of us and we’ve got six Marines for protection. Our boss is Milton Crawford. He’s gone to see what’s happening on the Sirte front. We’ve got secure communications, and thanks to the Chadians, we eat pretty well.”

  “Does anyone know I’m in Libya?” Malko asked.

  “Negative, sir. Nobody keeps tabs on anyone here. We’ve got all the artillery we need, and I’ll show you where to get anything you want. We’ll help you any way we can, of course.”

  “Do you know what I’m here to do?”

  Ted gave a predatory smile.

  “Sure. To terminate one of those bearded bastards with extreme prejudice. We’ll be glad to lend a hand.”

  Young Ted clearly wasn’t exactly a human rights defender. Or at least he drew the line at the white race.

  “Excellent,” said Malko. “There’s a person I have to meet.”

  “I was briefed on that, sir. A Brit. Here’s the number of his cell, but it doesn’t work very well. He’s staying at the Ouzou Hotel, but I wouldn’t see him there, if I were you; you’d be spotted right away. I’d set up a discreet meeting.”

  He paused.

  “That’s about it, sir. Jafar’s available, and if you need a Marine to go with you anywhere, just say so. Catch you later.” When Malko got back to his room, he found Cynthia in the bath, eating slices of fruit handed to her by the young Chadian woman, who was kneeling on a bath mat next to the tub.

  “It’s really nice here,” said the model with a sigh.

  “I’ve got some work to do,” said Malko. “I’ll see you in a little while.”

  Back in the big lounge, he dialed Peter Farnborough’s local number.

  The Englishman answered right away.

  “Jerry gave me your phone number,” Malko said. “When can we meet?”

  “Tomorrow, if you like. Do you know al-Kish?”

  “No.”

  “It was the Qaddafi troops’ old headquarters, out on the Brega highway. Everything’s been ransacked or burned and the place is deserted, so it’s a nice, quiet place to meet. Shall we say ten o’clock? Do you have transport?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “All right, then. See you tomorrow.”

  Very carefully, al-Senussi dialed Cynthia’s number. As before, he got no answer, then a busy signal. It was the twentieth time he had tried. Calling with his Thuraya, he should’ve gotten through. What did this mean?

  On arrival in Benghazi he’d been lodged in a little two-story house in the heart of the Old City. His room was on the second floor and had an ancient air conditioner. The ground floor was occupied by several men crowded into a single large room.

  He hadn’t met with Abu Bukatalla yet, but he didn’t care. He’d been able to reach General Abdul Fatah Younes, one of the most powerful men in the new Libya, through his nephew and contact person, Abd al-Raziq.

  Younes had been Qaddafi’s minister of defense, but he joined the rebellion very early, and the National Transitional Council named him its chief of staff. He was one of the few professionals in the tangled stew of militias, which were headed mostly by amateurs or crackpots. In addition, Younes was an important member of the Obeidi tribe, one of the most powerful in eastern Libya.

  If al-Senussi could enlist Younes in his cause, it would attract the other militia chieftains. And he had learned through intermediaries that the general was favorably disposed to his idea of a constitutional monarchy.

  Now there was nothing for al-Senussi to do but to wait for Younes to call. The general wasn’t in Benghazi, but on the front somewhere to the west.

&nbs
p; The Libyan stared at his satellite phone.

  If only he were able to reach Cynthia, everything would be perfect.

  When Malko returned, Cynthia was stretched out on the bed eating grapes, with her cell phone next to her.

  “I tried to call Ibrahim but couldn’t get through,” she said. “There’s no signal. It’s strange.”

  “Wait here. I’ll see what’s up.”

  He found Ted in the kitchen making himself scrambled eggs—six of them. The American wasn’t surprised by Malko’s question.

  “That’s normal,” he said. “Foreign cell phones don’t work here. You need either a sat phone or a local SIM card with a lot of credit.”

  “She needs to contact someone,” Malko explained.

  “Then she’ll have to use your Thuraya,” he said, turning back to his eggs.

  That wasn’t going to work. If Cynthia called her lover on Malko’s satellite phone, he would notice and start asking himself questions.

  Back in the bedroom, Malko said:

  “It’s probably a temporary glitch. The NATO AWAC planes sometimes jam communications.”

  “All right,” she said. “Let’s go out to dinner. I’d like to see the town.”

  “We can take a drive around, but the restaurants aren’t much good. We’ll do better eating here.”

  Cynthia gave him an odd look.

  “Isn’t there anyplace to go?”

  “Sure, but there aren’t many women in public places. This isn’t Cairo.”

  “I’ll put on a scarf,” she said, sounding half amused, half irritated.

  Malko could tell she was nervous and tense.

  Just then, someone knocked on the door. It was Ted.

  “You better decide about dinner, sir. They aren’t very fast.”

  He was wearing a tank top, and the gun in his belt stood out like a sore thumb. After he left, Cynthia frowned.

  “Do your friends carry guns in the house too?” she asked, now frankly suspicious.

  “The country’s dangerous,” said Malko. “Lots of people carry weapons.”

  Cynthia seemed to think for a moment; then she said flatly:

  “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

  Malko started. “No, of course not! Why do you say that?”

  “There’s something weird going on. All your friends have guns, and the place is guarded. It’s like a fortress.”

  “I told you, the country’s still at war,” Malko insisted. “Qaddafi’s only been dead for two days. We have to be careful. Not everyone likes us being here.”

  Keeping her eyes on his, she spoke again, in the same even tone:

  “Ibrahim wrote an important phone number on a piece of paper and left it on the desk in Cairo. Why did you take it?”

  Cynthia’s level gaze remained on Malko, and it wasn’t exactly friendly. She lit a cigarette and continued.

  “I think you’ve been lying to me. You aren’t who you claim to be.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Everything! All these weapons, this house out in the middle of nowhere, these guys who look like mercenaries. Why did you bring me here?”

  “You’re the one who wanted to come,” he said. “And I’m very happy you did.”

  “Why did you take that piece of paper? And don’t lie.”

  Her voice was icy.

  This was a situation Jerry Tombstone hadn’t quite anticipated.

  Malko weighed the pros and cons. If he lied to Cynthia now, there was no telling what she might do. It would be hard to keep her from telling her lover the whole story. Malko made up his mind, fast.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I haven’t told you the whole truth. I’m not in the oil business.”

  “So what you do?”

  “I work for the American government, and I’m protecting Ibrahim al-Senussi.”

  “Protecting him? What you mean?”

  At this point, Malko figured he might as well tell her everything.

  “There are people here in Libya who want to kill him. We’re trying to keep that from happening.”

  “Who is this ‘we’ you’re talking about?”

  “A powerful government organization.”

  “Bullshit!” she snapped, shaking her head. “Nobody’s trying to kill Ibrahim. Tell me the real story, or I’ll have myself immediately taken back to Cairo.”

  “That might not be so easy,” said Malko incautiously.

  Cynthia’s look darkened.

  “You’ve kidnapped me! You better watch out. I’m sure there’s a British consulate here.”

  She was becoming dangerous.

  “You almost never made it to Cairo,” said Malko. “Someone fired a surface-to-air missile at the plane you and Ibrahim were in. Luckily, the guidance system malfunctioned.”

  “Are you having me on?”

  “I’m in no mood for joking.”

  Enraged, Cynthia jumped to her feet.

  “All right, now you’re going to tell me why you picked me up. Because you did pick me up.”

  “That’s right,” he admitted. “I wanted to get close to Ibrahim.”

  “By sleeping with me? You bastard! You don’t give a shit about me!”

  Malko tried to calm her down.

  “It’s true that I was acting under orders, but I can’t complain that I got lucky.”

  Now trembling with rage, she looked him up and down.

  “I was a fool for giving in to you.”

  “I didn’t force you,” Malko pointed out, smiling apologetically. “You’re a very beautiful woman, and sometimes work and pleasure go hand in hand. Besides, I didn’t think you would be so easy to seduce.”

  “So now you’re saying I’m a whore!” she snarled. “Okay, that’s it! I’m packing my bags.”

  “And going where, exactly?” he asked sarcastically.

  “To Cairo.”

  “There aren’t any trains, buses, or planes. Also, the people here take orders from me.”

  “And who the hell are you?” she screamed, stamping on the carpet.

  “I work for the CIA. In cooperation with your government, as it happens.”

  “You’re a spy?”

  “That’s a word I don’t like. I’m in intelligence, and I’m trying to help Ibrahim play a major political role in the new Libya.”

  “I know. He wants to be king.”

  She strode over and stood in front of Malko, her eyes flashing.

  “Get the fuck out of my room,” she snapped. “I can’t stand the sight of you. Tomorrow, we’ll see what’s what.”

  Malko left, and the door slammed behind him. Two doors down the hallway, he found a bedroom almost as big as the first, and moved in. It would be fine for the night, he thought. For the time being, Cynthia wouldn’t cause trouble. She couldn’t communicate with anybody, and if she tried to walk away, the CIA agents wouldn’t let her get far.

  Still, he had to resolve the situation. And find out where al-Senussi was.

  Cynthia was the only person who could call him. And for her to do that, she had to be on Malko’s side.

  When al-Senussi hung up the local phone he’d been given, he felt reassured. General Younes’s nephew al-Raziq had just called to say that his uncle would be leaving the Sirte front tomorrow and would meet him in Benghazi.

  For discretion’s sake, Younes wouldn’t be accompanied by his usual escort, but only by two trusted colonels. When he reached Benghazi, he would contact the Libyan prince.

  Al-Senussi was elated and immediately phoned Abu Bukatalla to share the good news. General Younes was the key element in his plans. Younes knew all the heads of the various militias personally, so he would be able to enlist their support. Younes also hated the Islamists, whom he had pursued for Qaddafi for many years, which is why the Americans trusted him.

  A happy al-Senussi tried to reach Cynthia again. But her line was still busy.

  Malko was having trouble getting to sleep. He was bothered by his fight with Cynt
hia, because he absolutely needed her help in order to make contact with al-Senussi.

  The huge villa was so quiet you could hear the faint hum of the air-conditioning. So when a sharp cry broke the silence, it was all the more striking.

  Heart pounding, Malko leaped out of bed and ran to the hallway. Everything was still. Then a second cry, softer than the first, made him jump. It came from Cynthia’s bedroom.

  He tiptoed over and listened at the door but heard nothing. Very quietly, he turned the knob. The door wasn’t locked, and Malko slipped inside. There was very little light in the room. Holding his breath, he could make out a shape of some sort moving very slightly on the bed. It wasn’t until his eyes adjusted to the dark that he could see what it was.

  Cynthia was lying on her back, arms outstretched, legs apart. Something dark was moving between her thighs: the head of a woman, who appeared to be pleasuring her.

  Malko couldn’t be sure, but he had a hunch it was the Chadian maid who had brought Cynthia fruit in the bathroom.

  Another brief cry rang out, and Cynthia’s legs locked around the head pressed to her crotch.

  Malko silently closed the door behind himself and went back to bed. He felt better. Maybe it wasn’t only because of his lies that Cynthia had thrown him out of their bedroom.

  Which augured well for their all-important reconciliation.

  Driving the white Cherokee, the CIA stringer named Jafar turned left toward downtown on the avenue known as Carpet Makers Street. In Benghazi, few streets had names. Besides, they all looked alike. They were dead straight, lined with endless walled estates, small clusters of buildings with shops, and plots of vacant land. The city spread in a semicircle around the Old City port, the lagoon, and the seaside corniche road. The main avenues converging in the center were intersected by five ring roads. The mostly low, dun-colored buildings stood on a flat plain under a harsh, unrelenting sun.

  As they drove, Jafar pointed out a building on their left, set back from the street with a huge TV screen planted in a big lawn.

  “That’s the Venezia,” he said. “The food’s decent, but there’s no alcohol.”

  About a mile farther, he turned right at one of the few intersections with a stoplight onto an avenue that looked exactly like the last one, then pulled into a big open area surrounded by ruined buildings. The structures no longer had doors or windows and had clearly been sacked and burned.