“You’re coming up to the room,” he snapped. “We have to talk.”
“I bloody well won’t! I don’t want you killing me. Anyway, I didn’t do anything. I just wanted to get back at you. That man doesn’t mean a thing to me.”
Al-Senussi, who wanted nothing better than to believe her, began to calm down.
“I believe you. But I don’t want to hang around here. I’d rather go back to Cairo. Do you agree?”
That was certainly the only point on which the two of them saw eye to eye.
“Of course,” she said.
“Okay then, I’m going to take care of the problem—without the Americans.”
Al-Senussi went over to the front desk, whose somewhat dimwitted Libyan clerk couldn’t produce what he needed. He was about to give up when a smiling young man with a neatly trimmed beard approached him.
“Salaam alaikum. My name is Tarik. Are you looking for a taxi to Cairo?”
“Yes, I am. Why?”
“I have a car, a big Chrysler. I have already driven journalists to the front. My brother would accompany me because it’s a long trip. It’s best to have two drivers.”
Al-Senussi couldn’t believe his luck.
“How soon could we leave?”
“Inshallah, in a day or two. The car has to be serviced.”
“How much are you charging?”
“Not much. It depends. How many of there are you?”
“Two people.”
“Then it would be a thousand dinars. At the border, you have to buy special insurance for Egypt. It’s somewhat expensive.”
“That sounds fine,” said al-Senussi. “Here’s my number. Call me as soon as you’re ready. And give me your number, too.”
That done, he walked back over to Cynthia and explained the arrangements.
“But how do you know this Tarik person can be trusted?” she asked. “Malko said the road would be too dangerous. After everything that’s happened, I’m not sure I want to go.”
Dismayed at the idea of returning to Cairo without Cynthia, al-Senussi improvised quickly. He said, “I hinted at who I was, and I told him that powerful people had their eye on me. He seemed very impressed.”
After all, it was almost true.
“And you’re sure this is okay?” Cynthia asked again.
“We can leave in two days, at the most,” he said.
The young woman abruptly relaxed. Some of her worries had just evaporated.
“Good for you!” she said, almost affectionately.
“Okay, we’re going upstairs now.”
This time, she followed him, even though she knew that Ibrahim would surely want to celebrate this good news with a party on her body.
That was a price she had to pay.
They had barely reached the room when al-Senussi stood her up against the wall, his body pressed to hers. She could feel his thick erection against her belly. She closed her eyes, thinking of Malko.
The old sheikh with the square beard was listening to Malko carefully. He wore a brown galabia and was leaning on cushions in a room that was bare except for a big flat-screen TV. A large map of eastern Libya lay in front of them, showing the various routes out of Benghazi.
Surrounded by the half dozen cousins who composed the Obeidi tribe’s leadership, the sheikh had listened to Malko’s suggestion, nodding.
He now broke the silence.
“Your idea is very appealing,” he said approvingly. “Taking revenge on the men who savagely killed General Younes is our dearest wish. But the plan you have devised is complicated and hard to put into action.”
“Why?” asked Malko.
“The idea of going through Ajdabiya and then taking the highway to Tobruk is a good one. There’s nothing but desert on either side of the road, and no towns along the way. But there’s traffic in both directions, so there’s no way to block the road with construction.”
“Do you have any other ideas?” asked Malko.
“No, I don’t,” the sheikh admitted. “We’ll have to think it over. Also, we need to know everything about their route, itinerary, and timetable. Otherwise this might all blow up in our faces.”
The old Arab sipped his tea. Seeing Malko’s obvious disappointment, he reassured him, “I will consult with the others and see how we can get what we need.”
“We don’t have much time,” Malko reminded him.
The sheikh smiled to himself. “Allah alone is the master of time,” he said.
He stood up, signaling the end of the meeting, and they embraced. Malko left the room in the company of Abd al-Raziq, who had brought him.
As they climbed into his Hyundai, the younger man spoke.
“Sheikh Obeidi is very cautious, but I’m sure he’ll do everything he can to make your plan work. He won’t rest until General Younes is avenged.”
Those were encouraging words, but they weren’t acts. Malko was on pins and needles. He had an excellent plan, but he sensed that a part of it was missing.
He had to find it, at any cost.
In the meantime, the old Toubou was still languishing in the Americans’ basement. They couldn’t keep him there forever. His family would worry about his disappearance and start asking questions.
Of course, they could just shoot him in the head and leave him somewhere out in the desert, as Ted had suggested.
Collateral damage.
But that solution revolted Malko, who wasn’t a killer. Besides, the Toubou might still be useful.
When the Hyundai dropped him off, he still hadn’t solved the problem.
Tarik could hardly contain himself, he was so eager to tell Abu Bukatalla that al-Senussi was hiring him for the trip to Cairo. He slowed down to pass through the narrow gate in the wall surrounding the farm where the militia had set up camp. From the outside, it just looked like an opening in the farm’s enclosure. What you didn’t see were the two guard posts hidden behind it, each equipped with a heavy machine gun to cut down any unwelcome visitors.
The moment he was through the gate, Tarik stopped. Two militiamen came over to inspect his vehicle and ask a few questions. Then one of them climbed in to accompany him to Abu Bukatalla.
The takfiri leader sat behind a desk in a roughly furnished room, with a few guards sitting on the ground.
Tarik was searched again. Even though he was a member of the militia himself, nobody was taking chances. In Libya, people were often turned, by money or other means.
When Abu Bukatalla was satisfied, he came to sit on the worn carpet next to the newcomer.
As Tarik gave him the good news, the Islamist thought he’d died and gone to heaven.
“Allah guided you!” he exulted. “Let’s see which way you can drive them. Bring me a map.”
A map was spread before them, and Abu Bukatalla pointed to it.
“You mustn’t take the northern road, the one that goes through Derna,” he explained. “There’s a lot of traffic and checkpoints, and it’s hard to get off it. You have to persuade your passengers to take the road that runs directly from Ajdabiya to Tobruk, through the desert. We can disappear easily there, once the job is done. Do you know if the Americans are going to accompany them?”
“No,” Tarik admitted.
Abu Bukatalla waved that away.
“If they come, we’ll kill them too, inshallah.”
He took another look at the map. The road from Ajdabiya to Al’Adam and Tobruk was a straight shot 247 miles long, with only two towns along the way: Bir Tanjar and Bir Hakeim. The latter had been the site of one of the most ferocious battles of World War II, between the Afrika Korps and the French. Aside from that, there was nothing but flat, stony desert, with few roads on either side. An ideal place for an ambush.
The Islamist put his finger on the point along the route where a paved road from the north met the Ajdabiya-Tobruk highway.
“We could come down this road and wait for them along the way,” he said. “We would then have more than a hundred
and fifty miles to make our move.”
He turned back to Tarik.
“Everything now depends on you, brother. You have to persuade them to go that way.”
Tarik nodded.
“I’ll do my best. I will need a big car—the Chrysler.”
“That’s no problem,” said Abu Bukatalla. “Take the Chrysler. Your brother will accompany you. Plan to leave early in the morning, so as to be on the highway around nine o’clock.”
Abu Bukatalla stood up and embraced him. Thanks to Tarik, he was going to accomplish what earlier had seemed impossible.
Cynthia was beaming.
“We’re leaving the day after tomorrow at seven!” she announced.
Malko had run into the couple in the hotel lobby. The young woman looked radiant.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll arrange an escort for you, at least while you’re in Abu Bukatalla’s zone of operations. Who is driving you?”
“A man here at the hotel offered to take us. He works with journalists, and he has a big car. He said the trip would take about fifteen hours, including crossing the Egyptian border. We’ll save time by taking the direct Ajdabiya-Tobruk road; it’s faster, apparently. Besides, it’s out in the real desert. I like the desert.”
There was no point in arguing.
Malko felt depressed. He hadn’t been able to kill Abu Bukatalla, and Ibrahim al-Senussi’s dreams of royalty were up in smoke.
There was nothing left for him to do in Benghazi.
“Can I come with you as far as Cairo?” he asked.
Before al-Senussi could open his mouth, Cynthia said, “Of course!”
“I’ll alert my American friends,” said Malko. “I’ll be here at six thirty, day after tomorrow.”
Driving to the CIA base, he had a bitter taste in his mouth.
Though smiling when he greeted him, Ted frowned when he heard Malko’s plans.
“I’d be careful,” he said. “There aren’t many people on the Ajdabiya-Tobruk road. If you have car trouble, it could be a hassle. We’ll give you a couple of Cherokees and accompany you as far as we can. But are you really sure you want to leave?”
“There’s nothing left for me to do here,” said Malko.
“Suit yourself. What do we do with the guy in the basement?”
Malko had completely forgotten about the old Toubou. He knew that Ted considered him as good as dead, but Malko hated to see him killed. After all, he was just a small-time trafficker who hadn’t done them any harm. Suddenly he had an idea.
“Lend him to me in a little while.”
“What for?”
“I want to ask him something, show him someone. It’s a long shot.”
“No problem.”
Malko had parked the Ford on the Urubah Road median just before the turnoff to the Ouzou Hotel.
The weary Toubou was seated beside him, in handcuffs. Ted and a Marine were in the back.
As they watched, a big blue car slowed to take the turnoff.
“Here we go!” Malko told the Toubou. “Take a good look at that car and the people in it.”
It was the Chrysler that would take al-Senussi to Cairo; the Libyan had made an appointment to inspect it beforehand.
The driver of the Chrysler chatted with the rebels at the checkpoint under their “national” umbrella, and one of them raised the barrier to let him drive up to the hotel. The car stopped at the entrance and a man stepped out.
The Toubou turned toward the backseat and said a few words in Arabic.
“He says he knows that man,” Ted translated. “He belongs to Abu Bukatalla’s militia.”
Malko suddenly recognized him, too. He was the man the old Toubou had handed money to in front of the Venezia Café.
The link was established. Malko had just gotten the proof of what he’d suspected, that Abu Bukatalla was setting a trap for Ibrahim al-Senussi.
“Let’s go,” he said. “We’re going home.”
Al-Senussi was relaxing in his room with Cynthia. The Ouzou didn’t have a pool or anywhere nice to hang out, and there was nothing to do in town. Just then, the phone rang. It was the front desk. The man called Tarik was asking for him.
“I’ll be right down,” said the Libyan.
He’d asked the driver to show him the car that would take them to Cairo, to make sure it wasn’t a piece of junk.
A smiling Tarik awaited him at the front desk.
“The car is outside,” he said.
Al-Senussi followed him. A big blue Chrysler was parked in front of the hotel steps, with another man at the wheel. Tarik introduced him:
“This is my brother; he’s coming with us. The car is in his name.”
Al-Senussi inspected the Chrysler, which seemed to be in good shape, though he was startled to see that it had seventy thousand miles on the odometer.
“It’s been very well maintained,” said Tarik, “and we have two spare tires. The AC works.”
That was the least you could expect.
Satisfied, al-Senussi confirmed their departure.
“Be here at seven o’clock sharp. There will be three of us. A friend is coming along.”
Tarik nodded, unperturbed, and drove away.
As he had the last time, Abd al-Raziq drove Malko to the tribe’s headquarters. Malko had to wait for a while, because the sheikh was in a meeting. Then, over the ritual tea, the old man asked:
“Do you have any news?”
“Yes,” said Malko. “I now know when al-Senussi is leaving, I know his itinerary, and I have the proof that Abu Bukatalla will try to kill him.”
The sheikh of the Obeidi listened to his explanation carefully. He then launched into a long speech in Arabic, translating Malko’s information for his neighbors, which took quite some time. After a lively discussion, the old sheikh spoke to him again, in English.
“This changes everything,” he said. “We had been thinking of how to proceed but lacked some elements. It now seems possible. Here’s what we’re going to do.”
Listening closely, Malko liked what he heard.
“Your plan is perfect,” he said.
“It can fail, of course, and in that case our friend will lose his life, but this is our only option.”
“I’ll lose mine as well,” Malko pointed out. “I’m riding with them.”
The sheikh remained impassive.
“You’re a brave man,” he said. “We have just enough time to get everything ready. Inshallah, we may meet again. Otherwise …”
Malko stretched out his hand.
“No matter, so long as the plan works.”
If it did, he would have squared the circle.
Malko was neither hungry nor sleepy. In a few hours he would know if his double-or-nothing gamble was going to pan out.
If it didn’t, he would be dead, something he’d always anticipated, though without desiring it. At least nobody could criticize him for not trying.
The old Toubou was again locked up in the base’s garage. Malko made Ted promise to release him the next day, after threatening him enough to keep him from talking.
Anyway, he didn’t know that much.
It had been daylight for a long time, and the Ouzou’s breakfast room was crowded when Malko joined Ibrahim and Cynthia there. The young woman was wearing tight jeans, boots, and a fitted green blouse. She was made up as if she were going to a party.
Malko had an execrable cup of coffee with them.
Al-Senussi was nervous.
“What’s keeping him?” he grumbled.
He’d no sooner said that when Tarik appeared, smiling and polite. The driver declined their offer of a cup of coffee.
“The car is ready,” he announced. “I had your bags loaded. We can leave whenever you like.”
They were already on their feet.
The blue Chrysler was parked in front of the hotel steps, along with two unmarked white Cherokees—the CIA escort.
Tarik didn’t seem to pay them any attention,
and Malko explained:
“They will escort us as far as the Ajdabiya turnoff.”
A few minutes later the little convoy took off under the indifferent gaze of an elegant, almost aristocratically thin cat sprawled on the hotel steps.
They started on the Urubah Road toward the Brega–Ra’s Lanuf highway. There was a lot of traffic, and they couldn’t drive very fast. Beyond the last checkpoint, the highway ran straight and they sped up, passing the Qaddafi army’s wrecked armored column—including the self-propelled howitzer that had earlier sheltered Malko and Cynthia.
Malko sat in front beside the driver. Cynthia and Ibrahim were in the rear, and the second driver was behind them.
Nobody talked. Ibrahim held Cynthia’s hand.
Behind his dark glasses, Malko was studying the landscape, though he knew they weren’t in the danger zone yet. Many heavily armed pickups were on the highway, heading in both directions.
An hour and a half later, the houses became denser as the highway entered Ajdabiya.
Tarik slowed down. Though there wasn’t any sign, he took the correct turnoff for the highway east, which passed by a busy gas station. Beyond it, there was nothing for the next 250 miles.
Just then, Malko heard honking behind them. An arm waved from the lead Cherokee.
The Americans were saying good-bye.
The two SUVs made a U-turn, and Malko watched in the rearview mirror as they disappeared. Now they were alone. Ibrahim and Cynthia thought they were driving home, unaware that they might be heading to their deaths. Malko had a Beretta 92 in his briefcase, a gift from Ted.
It wasn’t much.
Tarik accelerated on a road that stretched straight ahead without a turn for hundreds of miles. They encountered few vehicles. Desert to the left, desert to the right, and some hazy uplands in the distance: the Mintaqat Umm Qihuwari range. Like most of Libya, the area was completely empty and inhospitable.
The highway looked as if it were buckling under the sun.
Malko mentally calculated the distance as they covered it. After an hour he noticed a track leading off into the desert on their left. It was probably the Saurinu road. He tensed. If there was going to be trouble, it would be around here.
The Madmen of Benghazi Page 19
