“And bring him here to the base?”
“I’ll see what Langley says. We have to be careful not to compromise him too much. Go ahead with the plan.”
Malko went back into the house. In the bedroom he found Cynthia awake but still in a fog.
“That was horrible, yesterday,” she mumbled. “I’ve never been so scared in my life.”
“You did great!” said Malko approvingly.
“I want to go back to Egypt,” the young woman said, shaking her head. “This country’s too dangerous.”
“I understand your feelings. But first you have to do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re going to use my satellite phone and call Ibrahim. If his Thuraya isn’t switched on, you’ll leave a message asking him to call you back.”
Cynthia stared at Malko in horror.
“You mean tell him I’m here?”
“I’m afraid so.”
She shook her head again.
“He’s going to kill me!”
“We’ll keep him from doing that,” said Malko. “But this is vital.”
He handed her the Thuraya.
“Get up and come outside.”
Standing next to Cynthia out on the lawn, Malko listened as the Thuraya searched for a connection. When it succeeded, a recorded voice announced that the device they were calling was not in service. Malko took the sat phone, switched on the other Thuraya’s voice mail, and gave it back to her.
“It’s me,” said Cynthia. “Ring me back on this number. It’s extremely important. Love you.”
She hung up and gave Malko the Thuraya.
“What do we do now?”
“We wait. Sit here on the steps so you can get a signal, and leave the phone switched on. I’ll call Cairo to find out the next part of the operation.”
“Do you think he’ll call back?” she asked anxiously.
“I’m sure of it, but I don’t know when.”
“What shall I tell him?”
“That we have to get him out of where he is because his life is in danger. Don’t go into detail. All he has to do is set a time when we can pick him up. Be convincing.”
Malko went inside to the office where Ted had installed the communications links. The young American operative was working with one of the Marines.
“Send a man out to Cynthia,” said Malko, “and have him tell me the moment the Thuraya rings. Meanwhile, I need to reach Cairo.”
“This is a secure line,” said Ted, handing him a satellite phone. “Go ahead.”
Malko went back out to the lawn, which made the presence of the Marine unnecessary, since Cynthia was just a few feet away.
Jerry Tombstone must’ve been waiting for his call, because he picked up his direct line immediately.
“We phoned Ibrahim,” Malko announced, “and we’re waiting for him to call back. If he does, what do we do? Bring him here?”
“No,” said the CIA station chief. “I discussed it with Langley and it’s too risky politically. He would be connected to us. We’ll put him somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“In a hotel. Ted told me that there are lots of foreigners at the Ouzou and that the hotel is guarded by NTC thwars. That seems like a safe place. Abu Bukatalla can’t very well go there to kill him. And once Ibrahim’s safe, we’ll have time to flush out the son of a bitch and get rid of him. If need be, you can do it with men of the Obeidi tribe. They’ll kiss your hands.”
The communication ended, Malko went over to sit by Cynthia on the steps in the sunshine.
“I’ve spoken to Cairo,” he said, “and they don’t want Ibrahim to come here. Too dangerous politically. So we’ll set him up at the Ouzou Hotel, guarded by CIA men. The hotel is controlled by the National Transitional Council.”
“But he still hasn’t called,” she objected.
“Let’s hope he does,” said Malko with a sigh.
She turned to him.
“If he agrees, what do I do? Do I go with him?”
“I’m afraid that’s going to be necessary,” he said diplomatically. “You’ll be the carrot.”
The young woman glared at him.
“Bastard! You don’t care about me.”
“That’s not true,” Malko assured her. “But my overriding goal is to keep Ibrahim alive, regardless of my personal feelings.”
She was furious, but she dropped the subject.
“Anyway, he hasn’t called.”
Ibrahim al-Senussi was listening to Cynthia Mulligan’s message for the third time, torn between the joy of hearing her voice and anxiety. What did this call mean? He’d been shattered by what Abu Bukatalla told him about General Younes, and now he was paralyzed with indecision. After hesitating a long time, he dialed the unknown satellite phone, his throat tight.
He was standing on the little terrace, his pulse racing as he waited.
The seconds slowly ticked by until his phone finally connected to the satellite and dialed the number.
When al-Senussi heard a female voice say “Hello?” he thought his heart would stop.
“Cynthia?”
“Yes, it’s me,” said the young woman. “I’m so glad you called me back!”
“Where are you?”
“In Benghazi.”
“In Benghazi?” Al-Senussi couldn’t believe his ears. “What are you doing in Benghazi?”
“I can explain everything,” she said. “But you have to listen to me. You’re in mortal danger. I’m calling you to save your life.”
Completely at a loss, al-Senussi protested, “I’m not in any danger! Where did you get that satellite phone? Why did you leave Cairo?”
“I’ll explain everything,” Cynthia repeated, “but you have to believe me. General Younes, the man you were planning to meet, has been killed. And he was killed by Abu Bukatalla, the man who’s supposed to be protecting you.”
Al-Senussi couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How did Cynthia know all those names? He had never told her anything.
“That’s not true! General Younes wasn’t killed. He ran away. He’s a traitor.”
“Call Herbert Mallows in Cairo. He’ll confirm it.”
Al-Senussi had never told Cynthia the name of the MI6 agent in Cairo, either.
Interrupting his train of thought, she said:
“Listen, we’ll talk about all this later. Are you free to move around al-Sharif Street?”
Al-Senussi was speechless. How in the world did she know where he was? Cynthia’s voice reached him as if in a dream.
“Can you go out or not?” she asked.
“Of course I can. Why?”
“In an hour, a white SUV will stop across from where you are. I’ll be inside, with some people who will be protecting you. As soon as I see you on the sidewalk, I’ll come meet you.”
“Are you mad? To go where?”
“To a safe place. I’m counting on you. Otherwise. I’m afraid we’ll never see each other again.”
There was a click, and the line went dead.
Al-Senussi glared at his Thuraya reproachfully, as if it were responsible for the break in communication. Then he folded its antenna and went downstairs, his mind in a whirl. He didn’t know what was going on.
Sitting on his bed, he put his head in his hands. How could Cynthia know all those things? Then a terrible thought occurred to him. What if British intelligence had put her on his path, as a way to control him? But his questions were swept away by jealousy. Whom had she come to Benghazi with?
He looked at his watch: it was 10:55. If Cynthia was telling the truth, she would be there in less than an hour. He didn’t believe this business about his life being in danger, but he felt overwhelmed by the desire to see the young Englishwoman again.
After all, he could go to the meeting, get her, and see what developed.
He had fifty-five minutes to make up his mind.
Cynthia shot Malko a dark look.
“Happy no
w?” she demanded.
“You were perfect!” he assured her. “And you’re going to help us save Ibrahim’s life.”
“I don’t give a damn about Ibrahim.”
She felt guilty about going along with this plan just to please the man she’d fallen in love with. And now that man, for some inexplicable reason, was coldly sending her back to her old lover’s arms.
“We’ll be going soon,” said Malko.
His eye caught Cynthia’s, and the young woman thought she’d felt an electric shock in her groin. She realized that she was completely aroused and that her thighs were parting of their own accord. If Malko had taken her right there on the steps in front of everybody, she wouldn’t have resisted.
But Cynthia’s pride was stronger.
“Very well,” she said coldly. “I’ll get my things together. I don’t suppose I’ll be coming back here afterward, will I?”
“That’s right.”
She walked into the villa without turning around, and Malko followed her with his eyes. He would happily have made love to her, but just then he had other fish to fry, alas. He stepped into the office where Ted was waiting.
“We’ll go in ten minutes,” he announced.
The two Cherokees drove out the gate and turned right. Ted was driving the lead car, with Malko sitting next to him. Cynthia, looking attractive in fresh makeup and jeans, was in the back, seated next to a Marine with a shaved head.
The second, protection, car carried four heavily armed special-ops men.
Cynthia leaned forward to speak to Malko.
“If Ibrahim comes out, what do I do next?”
“We’ll go to the Ouzou Hotel, where we’ll check you in. Two of our men will stay with you.”
“And after that?”
“After that, we’ll see. One bridge at a time.”
The two SUVs stopped before reaching the 23rd July Lake Bridge. Malko got out and moved to the second car, trading places with a gum-chewing, square-jawed Marine who wasn’t likely to spark al-Senussi’s jealousy.
Ten minutes later, they turned into al-Sharif Street. The lead Cherokee, with Cynthia, passed Masawi Street and stopped twenty yards beyond it. Malko’s car stopped short of the intersection, in front of a shoe store that was opening for business.
It was 11:55.
Traffic in the street was fairly heavy, but nobody seemed to pay any attention to their two cars.
They had five minutes to go.
Malko was as taut as a violin string. If al-Senussi didn’t come out, it would be difficult to go inside to get him. He might be held against his will or, on the contrary, not willing to leave his hiding place. In that case, the plan would fail.
He stiffened: someone had just emerged from the house with the armed pickup truck parked in front. Malko could see him only from behind, but the man was wearing a Western suit and heading for the end of al-Sharif Street, where it met the corniche.
Just then, a door of the lead Cherokee opened and Cynthia stepped out onto the sidewalk. She stood motionless for a moment, then walked toward the man who had come out of the house.
Malko held his breath as the two people got closer. The man threw himself into Cynthia’s arms.
Just at that moment, two militiamen with AK-47s burst out of the house and ran screaming toward the couple embracing on the sidewalk.
Malko cursed: everything was falling apart. But just then, one of the Marines in the lead car with Cynthia jumped out and fired a warning burst from his M16. The two militiamen with Kalashnikovs froze. Malko watched as al-Senussi shoved Cynthia into the Cherokee, climbed in, and slammed the door behind them. Keeping his eye on the two men, the Marine fired another burst in the air and got back into the car.
The militiamen could have shot at the Cherokee, but they didn’t. Instead, they ran back into the house.
Malko’s car started up, and by the time it passed the building where al-Senussi had been housed, the Cherokee ahead of them had reached the end of al-Sharif Street. None of the passersby had paid much attention to the gunfire. In Benghazi, you heard it all the time.
The lead Cherokee turned right, heading around the Old City toward the Ouzou Hotel on the other side of 23rd July Lake. Malko’s SUV followed as far as the turnoff to the hotel, whose entrance was still guarded by thwars under the big umbrella with the new Libya colors.
“We’re going home,” he told his driver, feeling reassured.
For the time being, Ibrahim al-Senussi was safe.
Without really thinking, al-Senussi took Cynthia’s hand.
“Where are we going?” he asked vacantly.
“To the Ouzou Hotel,” answered Ted, who was driving.
The Libyan was puzzled. Why a hotel? All he could think of was being alone with Cynthia to straighten out what was happening.
They passed through the thwar checkpoint without any trouble, and a Marine took Cynthia’s suitcase and they entered the hotel.
Ted turned to al-Senussi and said, “Give me your passport, sir. I’ll check you in with us. We’ll be in the rooms on either side of yours.”
Journalists of every nationality sat sprawled around the Ouzou’s various public rooms, reading or typing on laptops. The hotel was clean, modern, and soulless.
The Ouzou’s foreign employees had fled during the revolution, and the hotel was doing the best it could with local staff, who spoke only Arabic and weren’t very professional. The desk clerk carefully kept the guests’ passports to prevent people from skipping out on their bills.
Using all his Arabic, Ted negotiated a deposit of five hundred dinars in exchange for being able to keep Ibrahim’s passport. The clerk registered the Libyan without comment. The name al-Senussi was a common one, and in his eyes, Ibrahim was a guest like any other.
The formalities completed, Ted handed al-Senussi his magnetic room key.
“You’re in Room 407, sir. We’re in 406 and 408. We’ll go upstairs with you.”
Still under the shock of his “kidnapping,” al-Senussi didn’t protest.
The four of them crammed into one of the elevators. Upstairs, the once-pink hall carpet now showed nothing but stains.
Al-Senussi’s room was small and Spartan, with a big air conditioner and a tiny bathroom.
He collapsed on the bed, suddenly exhausted.
“I don’t have a change of clothes!” he moaned. “I left everything back there.”
“We’ll buy you whatever you need,” promised Cynthia. “Do you want to take a nap?”
“A nap? I want to find out what’s going on, and especially what you’re doing in Benghazi. Why did you lie to me?”
They hadn’t said a word to each other in the car. Cynthia, who had been carefully briefed by Malko, sat down on the bed beside her lover.
“It’s a little complicated,” she admitted. “After you left Cairo, I was approached by a man who said he was a CIA agent. He took me to the American embassy, where I met his boss, a bloke named Gerald Tombstone. He explained that the CIA was working with MI6 on a political operation designed to give you an important position in the new Libya.”
Al-Senussi listened in astonishment. Everything Cynthia was saying was true.
The young woman continued:
“They also told me that the plane we took to Cairo was nearly shot down by a surface-to-air missile. Luckily, it didn’t go off.”
“What?” The Libyan was startled. “I didn’t see a thing.”
“Yes, but it was true. The Egyptians found the unexploded missile. This proved to the English and the Americans that there were people in Libya who wanted to get rid of you, because you were an obstacle to their plans.”
“What plans?”
“Qatar’s plans,” she continued. “The emir of Qatar wants to set up a strict Islamist regime in Libya, relying on the various Islamist groups that are active here. One of them is led by Abu Bukatalla. Apparently he’s a takfiri, the most radical kind of Islamist.”
“Abu Bukatalla …,” m
urmured al-Senussi in a dull voice. “His representative in London swore that he was prepared to support me. He’s the one who asked me to come to Cairo. But if what you’re saying is true, why not kill me right away after the first attempt?”
“Because he needed you to lure General Younes into a trap. Younes was the Islamists’ mortal enemy.”
“General Younes ran away with Qaddafists,” al-Senussi snapped.
“That’s not true,” said Cynthia. “He was killed when he was on his way to meet you. You’re the only person who doesn’t know it. The NTC is investigating his death. If you want to check, you can call Herbert Mallows in Cairo.”
“Did you meet him, too?” he asked, astonished.
“No, they just gave me his name. Abu Bukatalla is double-crossing you. And now that General Younes is dead, you’re living on borrowed time. That’s why the Americans picked you up.”
“This is all crazy!” said the Libyan, shaking his head. “I have to talk to Abu Bukatalla. I’m sure he has an explanation.”
Cynthia started.
“You know where he is?” she quickly asked.
“No, I don’t,” al-Senussi admitted. Then he caught himself and gave her a hard look. “This doesn’t explain why you lied to me. Why did you come to Benghazi?”
“To save your life,” said the young woman simply. “The Americans didn’t know where you were, or if you would accept a phone call from someone you didn’t know. But they knew you would answer me.
“They located you thanks to your satellite phone. They asked me to help them, and that’s why I phoned. If you hadn’t seen me on the street, I bet you wouldn’t have come out.”
Al-Senussi shook his head again. He was feeling overwhelmed.
“Are you staying at this hotel?” he asked.
“No. The Americans put me up at their base. But I’ll stay here with you, if you like.”
“If I like! I haven’t seen you for days. I didn’t know where you were. I thought you’d gone off with another man.”
“Well, I didn’t! In Cairo I went with the Americans from the CIA. Then I flew here on a U.N. plane and they put me up in a villa on their base. It’s a beautiful place.”
The Madmen of Benghazi Page 15
