The place was deserted.
“This is al-Kish,” he said. “Qaddafi’s troops’ old headquarters. When the soldiers took off, people ransacked it.”
They seemed to have stolen everything but the paint off the walls.
Malko noticed a shiny new Japanese SUV parked in front of the one of the ruined buildings. He turned to Jafar and asked:
“Does that belong to somebody?”
“No. The Qaddafists left it there on purpose, hoping the thwars would take it. It’s almost certainly booby-trapped, so no one’s touched it.”
“And nobody has neutralized it?”
“All the mine-clearing specialists were at the front. Now that Qaddafi’s dead, they’ll be coming back.”
Malko looked around. Where could Peter Farnborough be?
He suddenly noticed a white car off on the right, across from the steel frame of what had once been a warehouse.
Malko walked over to it. The car was a Kia Spectra with Libyan license plates. It was empty. A low whistle made him turn his head. A man wearing a light-colored suit had just appeared behind one of the openings in another ruined building, right across from him.
The man waved, and Malko joined him.
The stranger was short and plump, with a long, sharp nose, white hair, and a brick-red complexion. He looked like an officer in the British Indian Army.
“Peter Farnborough,” he said, putting his hand out. “Have any trouble finding the place?”
“No, but it certainly is strange.”
“And totally abandoned,” said the Brit with a smile. “There’s nothing left to loot, so the locals don’t come here anymore.”
“Where do you live in Benghazi?”
“I’m at the Ouzou Hotel, on the lagoon. Everybody stays there, but there are too many strangers. The NTC doesn’t have an intelligence service yet, but all the Islamist groups have spies at the Ouzou.” Farnborough laughed. “I’d rather be living in a nice villa, like you.”
“Who does my place belong to?”
“To a Libyan who has his fingers in a lot of pies and made a lot of money. He’s in Cairo, waiting for things to settle down. Put his villa at the disposal of the U.S. State Department, at least on paper. He pretends not to know it’s actually a CIA base.”
Farnborough paused.
“So you’re looking for Abu Bukatalla, are you?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Met him once. Officially, I’m a correspondent of the Saudi newspaper Arab News. I interviewed Abu Bukatalla in Derna, right after he formed his brigade. A tough nut. Refused to go fight on the front because it would mean fighting beside the NATO infidels. He’s a fanatical takfiri, and the Qatari have loaded him with weapons and money.”
“Why do that?”
“Why do you suppose the Pakistanis gave arms and money to the mujahideen in Afghanistan when they were fighting the Russians? Same situation here. Qatar wants to build a real Islamist state, protected from Western influences. Abu Bukatalla is one of their bullyboys.”
Farnborough fell silent and glanced around.
“So what can I do for you?” he asked.
“Do you know where Abu Bukatalla is?”
“I used to. He’d set up his headquarters in an old car-body factory in the Abu Ovamina neighborhood next to a public garbage dump. It was convenient for him; he used it to toss out the people he executed—former Qaddafist Mukhabarats who had once pursued the Islamists.
“The day I went to see him, he was interrogating a prisoner, a dark-skinned man on his knees in front of him, wrists bound. Swore he was just a construction laborer; begged not to be killed. Abu Bukatalla told me that he was actually a Nigerian mercenary and had raped Muslim women.”
“So what happened?”
“As I was leaving, I heard a burst of AK fire behind me. I turned around and saw the ‘mercenary’ sprawled on the ground. One of Abu Bukatalla’s men had shot him.
“Abu Bukatalla pulled up stakes a few days after this happened, and nobody knows where he is now. Benghazi is full of large, walled properties, and he only has about a hundred men with him, so hiding is easy.
“Still, I have a lead. There’s a Spanish woman at the Ouzou who works with a Danish NGO, teaching people how to clear mines. Her name’s Manuela Esteban. She often goes to the arms market in the Assabri neighborhood to buy beer.”
“Beer?”
“Yes, they sell beer, too—five dollars a bottle. Manuela was chatting with her supplier and learned that he was in touch with the Abu Bukatalla group, who earn cash by giving him weapons to sell on consignment. I’ll go see him and try to find out where Abu Bukatalla is now.”
“When do you expect to know?”
“I’ll go at the end of the day; the bazaar doesn’t open ’til four. You and I could meet again tomorrow, same time.”
“Here?”
“No. It’s not wise to meet twice at the same place. The best would be to meet at Abu Bukatalla’s old headquarters, the body shop. Your driver must know it.
“You leave first,” said Farnborough. “I’m going to smoke a cigarette.”
After a long handshake, Malko walked back to the Cherokee, passing dozens of graffiti in English and Arabic on the ravaged buildings’ walls.
One was quite explicit: “My name is freedom. Next step, Palestine.”
Driving out of al-Kish, Jafar hadn’t covered more than a hundred yards when a furious burst of gunfire erupted behind them. Heart thudding, Malko swung around to see a pickup racing toward them. The shots were coming from a twin-barrel 23 mm antiaircraft gun mounted in the truck bed, firing like mad.
The pickup truck was gaining on them, and Malko tensely looked for a way they could take evasive action. Jafar wrenched the Cherokee’s steering wheel, and they swerved to the side of the road.
“Don’t be afraid!” he shouted to Malko.
The pickup pulled level with them, its twin cannons blasting into the sky. It was full of thwars with cartridge belts across their chests. Behind the rebels came a dozen cars, one of whose door handles were decorated with lengths of white muslin. From every window of every car, the occupants were firing bursts from AK-47s while yelling slogans punctuated with shouts of “Allahu akbar!”
A second pickup brought up the rear, the 14 mm Dushka on its bed firing at an amazing rate. It felt like the siege of Stalingrad.
“It’s a wedding!” Jafar shouted over the shooting. “And they’re celebrating Qaddafi’s death.”
The convoy pulled away, and Jafar continued in a normal voice:
“Everybody has an AK-47 now, not like before the revolution. Last year, my younger sister was behaving badly. She was flirting at the university, and my father was afraid that she would have an affair, which would dishonor the family. I bought an AK-47 so I could kill her if she continued. It cost me two thousand dinars. That was very expensive, but it was for the honor of the family. Three months later, after February 17, I could’ve had one for a hundred dinars.”
A violent bump interrupted him. Distracted by his conversation, Jafar hadn’t noticed the first of many large speed bumps set in the pavement. They stretched on and on, forcing him to keep his eyes on the road.
Malko was stunned.
“Would you really have killed your sister if she’d had a love affair?”
The young Libyan didn’t hesitate.
“Of course! To save the family honor. Normally my father would do it, but he’s handicapped.”
“Is this a matter of religion?” asked Malko.
“No, it’s custom.”
“Even if the man agreed to marry her?”
“Too late. The family would already be dishonored. If she had sisters, they could never marry either. Isn’t it that way, where you come from?”
“Not really,” said Malko.
If America’s allies had this kind of attitude, he reflected, what must the Islamists’ thinking be like?
Libya was clearly a very different wo
rld.
A little farther, they were passed by a pickup truck covered with Arabic writing and carrying a 23 mm gun in the back. It stopped in front of a little house, and a man wearing a T-shirt, bandanna, crossed cartridge belts, and camouflage fatigues got out. He went into the house, leaving the truck parked outside.
“He’s a fighter back from the front,” Jafar explained.
Malko realized that he’d seen those pickups everywhere, including parked at people’s homes like any other car. Civilian vehicles with a gun mount rigged in the truck bed, they were the backbone of the rebel army.
The Cherokee stopped in front of the CIA base. Recognizing the white SUV, the guard spoke into his radio, and the gate swung open a moment later.
Jafar parked between the lawn and the house. Ted came out on the porch and greeted Malko.
“Good trip?”
“Not bad,” said Malko. “I’ll tell you about it.”
They went to sit in the fancy lounge with the gilt furniture. The barefoot Chadian woman with the angelic face brought them coffee.
Malko spoke:
“I’m hoping that I’ll find out where Abu Bukatalla is hiding tomorrow. He’s the object of an executive order from the president. He’s to be sanctioned, and I’ll need your help.”
“Well, that’s good news,” Ted said with a grin. “Is he alone?”
“Not exactly. He has about a hundred men.”
The American’s smile faded.
“There are eight of us, nine counting you,” he said. “My guys are good, but I need to bring them back alive! We’ll have to find a way to get the bandit off by himself. If there are four or five of them, that’s okay too; we can handle that. But otherwise we’d need a Predator, and we don’t have any.”
Malko hid his disappointment. These special-ops men were cautious killers with their eye on retirement. At the Alamo, they might have tried to negotiate with the Mexicans.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll work the problem.”
When he stood up, Ted added:
“And we have orders: no collateral damage.”
Now Malko had to find a way to make up with Cynthia. He didn’t have far to go: the young woman was standing behind the door. Wearing a bath towel and a panicked expression, she gave him a frightened look.
“I heard everything,” she blurted. “It’s terrible. You’re a killer!”
Malko took her by the arm and led her to the bedroom. She slumped onto the bed and lit an American Legend, the only cigarettes to be found in Benghazi. At least her curiosity would spare Malko having to give her a long explanation.
He sat in an armchair facing her and said:
“Okay, you know pretty much everything now. Obviously, when you got together with Ibrahim, you had no way of knowing that he was at the heart of a major political operation. And he didn’t tell you, either.”
“No, he didn’t,” she whispered. “He talked about plans, but they seemed kind of amusing.”
“I don’t want to force you to do things that shock you,” Malko continued. “You’re free. If you like, I’ll ask Ted to have you driven back to Cairo; it’s only eight hundred miles. Once there, you’d do well to take the first plane for London and forget all about Ibrahim al-Senussi—and especially everything you’ve learned here. Otherwise your life will be in danger.”
Cynthia Mulligan listened without reacting.
“I don’t want to leave,” she murmured.
“Why not?”
“I’m afraid.”
“So what do you want to do?”
“Stay here,” she said, almost inaudibly.
“Why?” he asked in surprise.
“I don’t know …”
Silence fell, and lasted until Malko spoke again:
“If you stay, you have to be on our side.”
“What does that mean?”
“I may have to ask for your help.”
“To kill someone?” she asked in horror.
Malko couldn’t help but smile.
“No, of course not. I mean, to contact Ibrahim.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet. Right now we don’t know exactly where in Benghazi he is. Finding out could be vital.”
“I can help. I can call him.”
“No, not yet. Your cell phones don’t work in Libya. The only way to reach him is by calling him on a satellite phone. But for that, his has to be switched on. So for the time being, we can only play a passive role.”
“I’m sure he’s been trying to get in touch with me.”
“That’s true, but he can’t if he’s calling your cell. We have to wait for him to turn on his Thuraya to call MI6 in Cairo or someone else, maybe here in Libya.”
“Is he in danger?”
“Yes, but I hope to get him out of danger soon. That’s why I’m in Benghazi.”
“Was that why you were having that conversation, before?”
“That’s right,” said Malko without elaborating. “For now, we’re standing pat.”
If he managed to eliminate Abu Bukatalla, things would be different, and there would be less of a threat to al-Senussi.
“Very well,” said Cynthia. “I’m going to get dressed.”
The young woman seemed stunned. She was astonished to find herself in a situation and a world whose very existence she hadn’t suspected a few days earlier.
Abu Bukatalla was in an outbuilding at his new headquarters, meeting with a brigade man who had just arrived from Benghazi.
Al-Senussi had told Abu Bukatalla that he expected to see General Younes the next day, and asked him to suggest a safe place to meet.
For the takfiri, this was a major stroke of luck.
Now that Qaddafi was dead, things were going to start moving on the political level. The National Transitional Council was already powerless against the Misrata militias that had killed the dictator and his son at Sirte. The Misrati were even refusing to hand over the body to the council. NTC members didn’t dare travel to Tripoli, which was controlled by Abdelhakim Belhadj.
Qatar had instructed Abu Bukatalla to quickly eliminate any final obstacles to an Islamist takeover. Most of the NTC members had been part of the Qaddafi regime and would soon be out of favor and swept aside. The principal remaining obstacle was Ibrahim al-Senussi.
But before eliminating the pretender to the throne, Abu Bukatalla had some housekeeping to do. To his visitor he said:
“Brother, return to Benghazi and tell our guest that he and I will meet here, after his meeting with General Younes.”
It would be the Libyan prince’s last meeting.
Sprawled on his bed, al-Senussi lay listening to the sounds of traffic. Here in the Old City, people stayed up very late and businesses were open until midnight. His inability to reach Cynthia was gnawing at him. He didn’t know anymore how many times he’d tried calling. Even bare chested, he was drenched with sweat. The old air conditioner produced more noise than cold air.
He was counting the hours until his meeting with Younes, his main reason for coming to Benghazi. Once he convinced General Younes to support him, he was definitely heading back to Cairo. He would return to Libya only in response to a call by the people, prompted by his new friends. And this time, he would go with Cynthia.
Suddenly, he couldn’t stand it anymore. He had to talk to her. He took his Thuraya and went up onto the terrace. Thanks to a breeze from the sea, it was a little cooler there. The sky glittered with stars, and a nearby mosque sounded a piercing cry, calling the faithful to prayer.
Al-Senussi pulled out the Thuraya’s antenna, and it quickly locked onto the satellite stationed above the Indian Ocean. The moment the screen read “Libya,” he dialed the Four Seasons, whose number was in his cell’s memory. The number rang for a few seconds, and a voice in Arabic answered with the name of the Cairo hotel.
“Suite 2704, please,” said al-Senussi in Arabic.
After a few moments of silence, the operator said, “No answer, s
ir. The suite is unoccupied.”
“Are you sure?” al-Senussi insisted.
“Quite sure, sir. The suite has been free for the last three days. Would you like to speak to the front desk?”
“Yes, please.”
He soon had a desk clerk on the line, who confirmed that the suite had been empty for three days. Also, that the bill had been paid.
“By the woman?”
The clerk didn’t know.
Al-Senussi didn’t press the point. He knew the main thing, which was that Cynthia was no longer at the hotel. Now furious, he tried her cell phone for the hundredth time.
Without result.
If she’d gone back to England, she could at least have left him a message.
Where was she?
When al-Senussi went back downstairs, he still didn’t have an answer to the question. Feeling angry and depressed, he flopped down on the bed. He didn’t even have a beer to cheer him up.
“I just talked to the Cairo station,” said Ted. “You’re to call Mr. Tombstone—it’s urgent.”
Cynthia was in the bathroom, getting ready. Malko took his Thuraya and went out on the lawn. Night was falling. Two minutes later, he had Jerry Tombstone on the line.
“Bingo!” crowed the American. “NATO says al-Senussi just used his Thuraya. Thanks to the built-in GPS, we’ve been able to locate his position by matching his coordinates on a map of Benghazi. The call was made from a location in the Old City, at the corner of al-Sharif and Masawi Streets. The Thuraya doesn’t broadcast a signal from inside a house, so he either called from the street or from a rooftop. Try to locate him first thing in the morning.”
“We’ll take care of it,” Malko promised.
“There’s one more thing,” added the station chief. “Al-Senussi phoned the Four Seasons, so he now knows that Mulligan isn’t there. You’ll have to handle that.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“How’s your search for Abu Bukatalla coming? Now that Qaddafi’s dead, things are starting to move.”
“Our Six contact is supposed to tell me his hiding place tomorrow,” said Malko. “But there’s a problem: our friends here aren’t all that eager. There aren’t enough of them for serious action.”
The Madmen of Benghazi Page 11
