The Madmen of Benghazi

by Gérard de Villiers

  “Why didn’t they bring me to where you’re staying?” al-Senussi asked suspiciously.

  Cynthia gave him a disarming smile.

  “Because it’s an official U.S. State Department residence. It would compromise you.”

  “What about the British?”

  “We’re working hand in glove with the Americans.”

  Al-Senussi was staring at Cynthia. His fear and surprise had almost disappeared, replaced by a renewed taste for life. Watching the young woman’s breasts moving under her blouse, he felt his blood rising.

  “You’re as beautiful as ever,” he said in a voice husky with desire.

  His hand had already grabbed at Cynthia’s pants, fondling her crotch through the fabric.

  He couldn’t help himself.

  He didn’t even bother kissing her. Clothes went flying in a confused melee. Cynthia had been expecting the outburst and didn’t fight it. She just tried to replace the Libyan’s image with that of the man she had fallen in love with.

  Al-Senussi shoved her thighs apart with his knee and plunged into her, his cock ready to explode. Biting her lip, Cynthia closed her eyes.

  Abu Bukatalla was having trouble mastering his rage. Stationed with some thirty of his men at the farm outside Benghazi, he had just learned of al-Senussi’s flight—and couldn’t understand it.

  The pretender to the Libyan throne had always listened to him and seemed to trust him.

  To complete the task assigned by his sponsors in Cairo, Abu Bukatalla just had two more things to do: eliminate the leader of the Obeidi tribe and kill Ibrahim al-Senussi. He’d done the first, and getting rid of al-Senussi should be easy. Since there weren’t any flights to Cairo, he would have to be driven there. All Abu Bukatalla had to do was to set up an ambush.

  The way would then be clear for whomever the various Libyan Islamist leaders and the emir of Qatar selected. Abu Bukatalla was counting on playing a major role in the new government, which would receive billions of dollars in Libyan assets frozen by the United States. The Americans were reluctant to turn them over to the NTC, whose weakness was obvious.

  The takfiri leader had promised himself that he would use some of those funds to support jihad in Africa through al-Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb, which lacked weapons and money. His goal was clear: establishing an Islamic caliphate in Libya that would apply sharia law with absolute strictness. Once that foundation was established, Abu Bukatalla would be able to help his brothers in jihad in their struggle against the hated infidels.

  And now that beautiful plan was in danger of falling apart. To get al-Senussi back, Abu Bukatalla would have to trick him. But first he had to find out where he was.

  It was fortunate that there weren’t any planes available, though the Americans could still get him out by road, with an armed escort and NATO support.

  Abu Bukatalla ate a few dates, then called one of his men.

  “Go out to the American base and keep an eye on it,” he said. “If al-Senussi’s still in Benghazi, that’s where he’ll be.”

  Attacking the base would be very risky, except maybe at night. The CIA men were armed and trained, and they would know how to defend themselves.

  The takfiri leader had just finished his tea when his cell phone rang. It was one of his contacts at the Ouzou Hotel, who told him that a Libyan man and a foreign woman had just checked in, protected by two Americans.

  Abu Bukatalla blessed the name of Allah: he had located al-Senussi! The two militiamen guarding the Libyan at the safe house said he’d met a woman and run off with her. It was now up to Abu Bukatalla to make his move. A direct assault on the hotel was out of the question, so he had to devise a ruse to draw al-Senussi out of hiding—and kill him.

  “The NTC just announced that it had nothing to do with General Younes’s death,” said Ted, holding a press release that had just gone out on the Net.

  “I’m going to contact Cairo,” said Malko. “Is Ibrahim settled at the Ouzou?”

  “Looks that way,” said the American. “Our two guys are with him.”

  “Great. I’ll talk to Cairo and see where we stand.”

  Al-Senussi’s stay at the Ouzou was only temporary, and they had to decide what to do next. Malko felt a twinge, thinking about Cynthia. He went back out onto the sun-splashed lawn, the only place where his Thuraya worked.

  “The situation’s under control,” he told Tombstone. “Ibrahim is safe at the Ouzou. We just have to exfiltrate him from Benghazi.”

  “Not yet,” the American objected. “We’re going to try to capitalize on General Younes’s murder. The Obeidi tribe has sided with us from the very beginning, and now they’re furious at the Islamists. Ted’s been in touch with them. I’ll ask him to set up a meeting with the head of the tribe, through the general’s nephew, Abd al-Raziq. If they decide to support Ibrahim, we’ll be able to exfil him.”

  “You think that’ll be enough?”

  “Frankly, no,” Tombstone admitted, “but at least we’ll have that much. And there’s another matter to settle: Abu Bukatalla. Qatar wants a puppet Islamist state, and as Qatar’s muscle, he could be a major nuisance.

  “The NTC is too weak to do anything against him, so I’m putting you in charge of the problem. You’ll earn yourself some friends among the Cousins. They haven’t gotten over Peter Farnborough’s killing.”

  “But I don’t know where Abu Bukatalla is,” objected Malko. “You said that NGO staffer Manuela Esteban is coming back to Benghazi today, right? Maybe she can help you pick up his trail.”

  “I’ll try,” promised Malko, “but the special-ops men aren’t eager to mount an operation against him.”

  “They’ll follow orders,” said the station chief sharply. “Anyway, if you find Abu Bukatalla, you can count on the Obeidi. They have a debt of honor to settle with him, and people here don’t kid around with that sort of thing. I’m relying on you.” As he went back to the lounge, Malko understood two things. First, the Ibrahim al-Senussi project was in trouble. Second, Abu Bukatalla had become a personal matter for the Agency and the Cousins. The Anglo-Saxons didn’t just honor their dead; they avenged them.

  To find Manuela Esteban, Malko had to go to the Ouzou, where he might bump into al-Senussi and Cynthia—and that could be a big problem. The Libyan had seen him in Cairo. If he saw him again in Benghazi, he might start to ask himself questions and figure out that Malko was the person who had brought Cynthia to Libya.

  If Ibrahim tumbled to that, it could seriously screw up the CIA operation.

  Luckily, a solution occurred to him. Ted could take al-Senussi out to a meeting with General Younes’s nephew al-Raziq. Malko could then go to the Ouzou, sure that he wouldn’t run into him.

  He just had to get the timing right.

  Al-Senussi was sitting in one of the deep leather armchairs in a study off the Ouzou lobby. He couldn’t take his hand off Cynthia’s thigh as she chastely perched in the chair next to his.

  Ted was trying not to look at them.

  A conservative Christian, he considered these public displays of intimacy very distasteful. So did the Libyans nearby, who felt that in a properly run country the sinner’s hand would be chopped off. It was hard to believe that the young woman didn’t have a brother, father, or cousin to exterminate this sex-crazed scum.

  “We have an appointment with Abd al-Raziq, General Younes’s nephew,” said Ted, who had just arrived at the Ouzou. “He’ll be accompanied by representatives of the Obeidi tribe. It’ll be up to you to convince them to support you.”

  Bounced back and forth between people who all seemed to be playing a double game, the Libyan no longer knew which way to turn. He would have preferred to spend the afternoon with Cynthia, but he understood that the American planned to stick with him.

  “Can I bring my girlfriend?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” said Ted, managing to keep his composure. “It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  That was a major understatement. In Libya, nobod
y would dream of bringing a woman to an important meeting.

  Al-Senussi was mulling over Ted’s answer when his cell phone rang. An unknown number.

  “Whatever happened to you, brother?” asked Abu Bukatalla in honeyed tones. “I was told you were kidnapped by foreigners. Where are you? And why didn’t you let me know?”

  Fortunately, al-Senussi now knew whom he was dealing with. Ted had just shown him the NTC communiqué about General Younes’s death. So instead of confronting the Islamist, he pretended to be apologetic.

  “I wasn’t kidnapped,” he said. “I wanted to see my girlfriend, who just arrived from Cairo. I’m at the Ouzou Hotel.”

  “I need to see you. I’ll send a car for you.”

  “I can’t right now,” said al-Senussi. “I have an important meeting.”

  Ted scrawled on a newspaper: Tell him who it’s with.

  “Who are you seeing?” asked Abu Bukatalla.

  “Representatives of the Obeidi tribe, at the house of Abd al-Raziq, General Younes’s nephew. They asked to meet with me.”

  A brief silence followed. Then Abu Bukatalla spoke:

  “Good, good,” he said smoothly. “That’s encouraging.”

  “Why don’t you come have tea with me at the hotel later today?” suggested al-Senussi.

  “That’s an excellent idea. I’ll come one hour before evening prayers, and we can go together.”

  “Inshallah, until this evening,” said Ibrahim before hanging up.

  Ted gave him a wicked grin.

  “Well done!” he said approvingly. “We’re gonna rock ’n’ roll today.”

  “What do you mean?” asked al-Senussi, looking at him quizzically.

  “I’ll bet a pizza against a pound of caviar that the son of a bitch will try to kill two birds with one stone—terminating you while taking out some of his worst enemies.”

  “I better not go to that meeting,” the Libyan concluded.

  “Oh no, just the opposite! We’re going to spring a little surprise on them. C’mon upstairs, and we’ll outfit you.”

  Cynthia watched anxiously as al-Senussi was fitted with a Kevlar GK bulletproof vest that Ted had taken from a sport bag.

  Al-Senussi was looking a little green around the gills. When the British originally suggested that he could be the next king of Libya, he’d found the idea very attractive. He’d imagined leisurely chats, with lots of tea and cakes, with friendly, civilized people.

  Not ferocious killers bent on assassinating him.

  Ted, who under his photographer’s vest carried a .357 Magnum automatic that could kill an elephant, hustled him out of the room.

  “Let’s roll!” he said, flashing a smile at Cynthia. “We’ll bring him back in one piece, miss.”

  The Englishwoman, who was learning about the new world she’d been thrown into, wasn’t so sure. She merely smiled tightly and planted a kiss on her lover’s dry lips.

  Downstairs, al-Senussi found four more Americans in the lobby. Two unmarked Cherokees were parked in front of the hotel, with yet more Marines aboard.

  Everybody piled into the cars, and the convoy took off down Algeria Street. Each Cherokee was as heavily armed as a small aircraft carrier, with RPGs stowed on the floor for safety.

  Ted dialed a number on his cell.

  “We’re leaving the hotel,” he said briefly. “ETA in thirty.”

  Al-Senussi couldn’t hear the answer, which was just as well. Ted was talking to General Younes’s nephew Fathi, who had assembled twenty heavily armed pickups near the villa where al-Senussi was heading.

  The trucks had 23 mm cannons and Dushka machine guns manned by Obeidi tribesmen all bent on avenging the murdered general. They were prepared to risk their lives if it meant wiping out their enemies. This mattered a lot more than tracking down former Qaddafists. In Libya, debts of blood were paid in full, and with interest.

  Squeezed between two husky Marines, al-Senussi watched the flat landscape with its walled estates roll by. To avoid imagining what might happen in the coming hours, he tried to think about Cynthia. His convoy’s show of strength didn’t fully reassure him. He knew the takfiri Islamists’ ferocity and their willingness to sacrifice their lives to attain their goal.

  Even if the Americans killed them all, it wouldn’t do al-Senussi much good if he wound up with a bullet in his head.

  The convoy slowed. They were now in an upscale neighborhood, with beautiful houses protected by high walls, and no pedestrians. Only rich people lived here.

  As they waited for the gate to open, al-Senussi saw a little red Hyundai come out of a neighboring property. It was driven by a very pretty brunette with full lips, her head barely covered by a purple scarf.

  Heavenly.

  The Cherokee entered the property. A young man waiting on the front steps hugged al-Senussi, kissing him twice on the shoulder as a sign of respect.

  Inside, the residence was luxurious, with new furniture and hangings everywhere. The place was so neat, you’d almost think it was a model apartment. A dozen men were sitting on the floor along the walls, leaning on embroidered cushions: the representatives of the Obeidi tribe. The nephew handled the introductions, and Ted discreetly slipped out.

  He had to be ready for a possible attack by Abu Bukatalla.

  Malko passed through the Ouzou’s metal detector and headed for the front desk. There was no one there, so he took the elevator and knocked on the door of Room 315, the room of Manuela Esteban, Peter Farnborough’s friend.

  No answer.

  The door of the room across the way was open, and Malko could see a couple of people working, NGO staffers or journalists. One of them called out to him:

  “You looking for Manuela?”

  “Yes.”

  “She went to the front, to teach mine clearing. She’ll be back later.”

  Malko thanked him and went back to the elevator. But when the doors opened, he got a shock: there stood Cynthia, looking demure in a heavy blouse and jeans.

  The surprise was mutual.

  “Were you looking for me?” she immediately asked as he stepped in.

  “No,” said Malko. “I don’t want to play with fire.”

  “Ibrahim isn’t here. He went to a meeting with your friends. And in that case, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m trying to find whoever killed an MI6 agent. But the person I wanted to see wasn’t there.”

  The elevator jerked to a stop at the ground floor, and Malko stepped aside to let the young woman pass.

  “We have to talk,” she said, planting herself in front of him.

  “It’s too risky here.”

  Cynthia paid no heed.

  “Look,” she said in a contained voice that shook with anger. “If you don’t listen to me, I swear I’m taking a taxi back to Egypt. I can’t stand this anymore.”

  Malko weighed the young woman’s expression. There was no doubt that she was talking seriously, and if she carried out her threat, al-Senussi would be impossible to control.

  “Okay, let’s go to the restaurant. If Ibrahim comes in, just say I’m part of the CIA team here.”

  Cynthia gave him an ironic look as she led him into the empty dining room.

  “You’re forgetting that he saw you at the Four Seasons. You’ll have to come up with a different story.”

  Choosing a table off to the side, Malko kept his eyes on the entrance. If al-Senussi found him in Cynthia’s company, he might guess the truth, and it would be all over.

  The CIA’s plans were already limping. Malko didn’t have much time to convince the young woman not to scuttle them.

  The croissants could have been baked with rock flour, the coffee was swill, and there was nothing to eat but hard-boiled eggs and jam made from some extraterrestrial fruit.

  Cynthia took a tiny sip of her coffee and looked straight at Malko.

  “I can’t stand Ibrahim anymore,” she said. “I want to go back with you.”

  That was unexpected and fl
attering.

  “Later,” said Malko diplomatically. “You have to stay with him for the time being. Just hang on for a couple of days. Ibrahim is trying to convince some important tribal chiefs to support him. And Abu Bukatalla is on the prowl. I’m sure he’ll try to kill him.”

  “Why doesn’t Ibrahim just go back to Egypt?”

  “There aren’t any flights, and traveling by road is too dangerous. Abu Bukatalla has to be eliminated before he can attack Ibrahim. That’s what I’m here for.”

  “When will that happen?”

  “If I only knew!” said Malko with a smile. “First I have to find where he’s hiding.”

  Cynthia was silent for a few moments; then she said:

  “Well, I’ll stay, but not for long. And you have to do something.”

  “What?”

  “Come up to my room with me. Ibrahim won’t be coming back right away.”

  Malko could feel goose bumps on the backs of his hands.

  “No,” he said firmly. “I can’t do that.”

  The British woman didn’t give up.

  “In that case, take me to your friends’ villa for a while. You have a car, don’t you?”

  Cynthia put her hand on his and dug her nails into his skin. With a sly smile, she said:

  “I want you to eat me.”

  Driven only by female instinct, she wasn’t about to let him off the hook, Malko realized. She didn’t give a damn about al-Senussi’s royal projects. Malko had apparently opened a Pandora’s box.

  “All right, but we can’t stay long,” he said. “Ibrahim will be looking for you everywhere.”

  “I’ll say I went shopping,” she said, standing up.

  Malko shook his head, feeling discouraged.

  “There isn’t any shopping here! Tell him you went to change some money in the Old City.”

  He prayed that al-Senussi’s meeting would last a little longer.

  A dozen pickup trucks crammed with men and outfitted with automatic weapons that could shatter walls, including a 23 mm cannon, were parked at an abandoned farm on the Third Ring Road. Abu Bukatalla was in the rear compartment of the first vehicle, which was equipped with a quad-barrel antiaircraft gun.