by Mark Dawson
Milton would have preferred the conversation to be more private than this. He was miles from Cairo and Alexandria, but close to the border with a volatile neighbour; the Mukhabarat would certainly be present in Sallum. What he was about to say would have interested them if they ever came to hear of it, but trusting that the man was telling the truth was a risk that Milton considered worth taking.
“I’m not here for a story. I want to get over the border.”
“Why would you want to do something stupid like that?”
“I’ve been asked to write a story about what’s happening there. I need to get across the border without anyone knowing. Is that your taxi?”
The man didn’t answer the question. “It is a dangerous thing you ask,” he said instead.
“I know. I’m willing to pay.”
The man took up the pipe between his nicotine-stained fingers and inhaled again. “How much?”
“What would you charge?”
“One thousand.”
“Egyptian?”
“Dollars.”
“Too much. Five hundred.”
“Then good luck, sir. I will stay here and you will find another driver.”
“Six.”
The man inhaled, turned his head a little and blew a jet of smoke just past Milton’s head. “Eight.”
Milton might be able to find another driver, but every person he spoke to increased the risk that the secret police would hear stories of the Englishman who was asking to be taken across the border into Libya. Milton was confident that there would be no way for the Mukhabarat to tie him back to his previous visits to the country, but risks, however small, had the tendency to accumulate until something really bad happened. There would be the delay, too, and every wasted hour was another for Nadia to spend in the custody of the Albanians.
“Fine,” Milton said. “Eight hundred.”
The man shook his head, as if surprised that his offer had been accepted, replaced the pipe in its clip and stood. He said goodbye to the two remaining men and nodded that Milton should follow him across the road. He did not walk to the taxi. He carried on, following the road around the corner. Milton saw a few simple food stands on the edge of the road, serving falafel and kebabs, a couple of fuel vendors, and another café with tables equipped with shisha pipes.
There were more cars parked opposite the café, and the man took Milton to one of them. It was a Mercedes-Benz S-Class. It was the old model in which chrome figured prominently: chrome-tipped fins, chrome trim to the left and the right of the radiator, a chrome-plated air intake grid and chrome wheel caps. The car had been badly cared for, with dents in the bodywork and a crack down the middle of the windscreen.
“No,” Milton said.
“This is my car. Other drivers available at café.”
“How old is this?”
“1959 model,” the man said with a flicker of what Milton took to be pride.
“It’s older than I am.”
“And very reliable. It has never stopped working.”
“It’s also very conspicuous.”
The man looked blankly at him.
“It is obvious. It will stand out.”
“No,” the man said. “It will not. Lots of old cars in Sallum. Not unusual.”
Milton paused and turned back to look at the café. Their conversation was being observed by the men who were smoking at the tables. Milton couldn’t very easily go back there now.
“Fine.”
“Money.”
“In the car,” Milton insisted.
The man nodded his assent and went around to the other side of the Mercedes. He opened the door and slid inside and then leaned across to open the passenger door. Milton opened it all the way and settled into his seat.
Chapter Twenty-Three
THE DRIVER HAD stopped before the on-ramp for the International Coastal Road, the reasonably new east–west highway that connected the Arab Mashriq and Maghreb countries. The bulk of the funding for the ambitious project had focussed on the Egyptian span between New Damietta and Alexandria, and the stretch that connected Egypt with Libya through the Gateway Salloum had not been quite so lavishly bestowed. The surface was uneven, and damage caused by daily wear and tear had not been repaired.
“You do not want to be seen crossing border?” the man said.
“No.”
“Then you must get in trunk.”
Milton did not demur. He got out, waited until the two trucks that had been following behind them had rumbled past, and then opened the trunk and climbed inside. There was a tyre iron and a dirty blanket in the compact space, and Milton put them to the side. He squinted up into the dying light that silhouetted the driver as he came around and slammed the lid of the trunk closed.
The trunk was of a decent size, but it was never going to be comfortable for Milton. He had to lie on his side with his knees drawn right up against his chest. The red of the brake lights shone through holes in the chassis, winking out as the driver put the car into gear and pulled away. The suspension was hard and unforgiving, especially on roads that were as pitted as this.
Milton listened to the sound of the engine and the hum of the tyres across the asphalt. He was aware of the irony of his predicament. Here he was, trying to smuggle himself into Libya, the country that Samir and Nadia had risked their lives trying to leave. Samir had hidden in the back of a lorry to get into the United Kingdom. At least he had had more space than Milton had had in the back of the Mercedes.
The road was straight and, after a distance that he estimated at two miles, the brake lights flickered on and the car started to slow. Milton had done a little research before catching his flight in Athens but still had only a limited idea of what the border crossing was like. He had seen a selection of pictures on Google Images showing a large stone structure with Arabic script and a series of gated openings watched over by brick- and stone-built booths. The crossing had been closed during the worst of the Libyan uprising, and there were suggestions that it would be closed again if the volatility of the situation across the border did not subside. He suspected that more attention was paid to those seeking to leave Libya than those seeking to enter it, but that was just a guess. He had to hope that he was right, because it would be a simple enough thing to find him in the trunk.
What would they do if they did find him? Arrest him? Interrogate him? Deport him? Nothing good could come of it.
He found that he was clenching his fists a little tighter as the car rolled forward.
And then, with no further delay, the engine revved and the car picked up speed.
#
MILTON WAITED until the car slowed to a halt and the engine spluttered into silence.
The lid of the trunk opened and Milton looked up into a darkened sky. The driver was above him, one hand resting on the lid.
“We are here.”
Milton levered himself into an upright position, his muscles cramped and aching. They had come to rest in a truck stop. Milton saw three other trucks and, beyond them, the dark shapes of a mountainous landscape, with a series of tall peaks shouldering up against each other to the north. The road continued to the west, where, perhaps a mile away, the lights of a small town could be seen through the gloom. There was a single-storey building behind him and a set of gasoline pumps arranged alongside it.
Milton stepped down from the trunk. A truck pulled out of the stop and rumbled away toward the mountains, and Milton watched it for a moment until the road dipped into a depression and it disappeared.
The only signage was in Arabic, and Milton couldn’t read it.
“Where are we?”
“That is Bardiyah,” the man said, pointing over at the lights. “This is as far as I take you.”
“Fine. Thank you.”
The man held out his hand for the rest of his money. Milton took out his dollars and counted out the balance. He took another fifty and held it up. “Don’t mention this to anyone,” he said. “Understa
nd?”
“Sure.”
The man reached across and took the extra fifty. He added it to the other notes, folded them in half, and stuffed them into his pocket. He gave Milton a nod, slammed the lid of the trunk, turned his back and walked around to the front of the car. The engine started and Milton watched for a moment as the car drove away, turning onto the main road and heading to the east, back to the border.
Milton was thirsty and hungry and decided that it was worth the risk of investigating the building. He walked across the lot, looking left and right but seeing no one. A sign pointed around to an entrance that was, judging by the foul smell that emanated from it, the toilets. Milton could hear the sound of running water, and before he could move out of the way, a man emerged from the doorway, wiping his hands against his shirt. Milton guessed that it was the driver of one of the trucks. The man gave him a cursory glance before walking by and heading to the main entrance to the building. A bell rang as he opened the door and went inside.
Milton paused, as if he was considering using the bathroom, and then followed.
Milton glanced through the glass door and saw a row of empty shelves and large gallon water bottles stacked up in a pyramid. Beyond that was an open area with tables and a food service counter beneath an illuminated display that held the menu. The driver had gone through to the café area and was ordering something from the proprietor.
Milton opened the door. The bell rang as he went inside. The store was as badly stocked as it had appeared. The clerk was watching TV and, after looking away from the screen to glance at Milton, he turned his attention back to his football match. Milton collected a bottle of water and a sandwich wrapped in cellophane, paid for the items at the counter and went back outside. He sat down with his back to the wall, took a drink and ate half of the sandwich, and then got up. He estimated that it was a mile to Bardiyah. He took another swig of water, poured a little over his head and scrubbed it into his skin and his scalp, and then started to walk.
Chapter Twenty-Four
MILTON SPENT the night in the Al Burdi Hotel, the only one he could find in Bardiyah. He woke just before dawn. He showered and dressed and then took out a coat hanger from the cupboard. He took a moment to straighten it and then hid it inside the sleeve of his jacket.
The lobby was deserted as Milton passed through it. He went outside into the early morning gloom. Milton went around to the parking lot, his attention focussed on the handful of cars that were parked there. He wanted something unobtrusive, old enough not to draw attention to itself yet still reliable, and he knew that he had found it when he saw the old SEAT Ibiza.
He checked that the lot was unobserved and that it was not covered by CCTV and, satisfied that the way ahead was clear, he made his way to the car. It had an old vertical manual lock, with a button at the top of the door panel just inside the window. He took the coat hanger from his sleeve and peeled back a small portion of the rubber weather-stripping that was fitted to the bottom of the window. He slid the curved end of the hanger between the rubber and the glass, lowering it into the gap with no resistance. He moved the hanger in the gap until it was two inches below the bottom of the window. He felt the locking pin, hooked the hanger around it, and pulled. He felt the locking pin shift and heard the click as the door unlocked.
Milton opened the door and slid inside. He used a coin to prise off the plastic panel on the steering column, and, after finding the wiring harness connector, he stripped the battery wires, wrapped the ends together, and sparked the starter wire. The engine turned over and, as Milton fed in the revs, it caught.
He put the car into drive and pulled out.
He reached across to the glovebox, opened it and emptied it out. There was a copy of the car’s handbook and service history, a packet of stale potato chips and an old satnav unit. Milton swept the detritus onto the floor and plugged the satnav into the cigarette lighter. He switched it on and waited for it to acquire a satellite signal. It took a moment, but then it flickered to life and the symbol of a car was placed on the map. Milton scrolled out. The place names were in Arabic. He found the settings, changed the language to English, and switched back to the map. He found Bardiyah. It was small, right up on the northern coast of the country and around twenty kilometres from the crossing at Sallum. He tapped through to the destination entry interface, typed in Tripoli, and waited for a route to be calculated.
Milton rolled up to a crossroads on the western edge of the town and stopped at the red light. There was a loud bang, and Milton turned to look out of the window. An old car was waiting for a green light and its engine had backfired. Milton shook his head with wry amusement. There was no point in pretending otherwise: this was not a friendly place, and it made him nervous.
Milton turned back to the satnav. The route had been calculated: 1400 kilometres, with a driving time of nearly seventeen hours. The directions suggested following route five to the southwest to cut off the peninsula that included Benghazi and Derna, and then following the coast to the northwest until he reached the capital. The route suggested that he pass through Sirte, but Milton knew that town was held by ISIS. He could easily divert around it, though, turning south at As Sultan and picking up the route again at Abugrein. It might add another hour or two to his journey, but it was a compromise that he would be happy to make.
#
THE JOURNEY took all day. He stopped three times: once to relieve himself and twice to fill the car with fuel. He wound down the window and the wind blew in, pleasant ventilation against the searing heat.
He turned to the southwest at Tobruk and then rejoined the coast road again when he reached New Brega. The scenery was stunning. The road followed the line of the coast, often separated from the water by ramshackle-looking barriers. Other times, the barriers were absent and sharp left-hand turns offered a plunge into the Mediterranean for the unwary. He continued to the northwest, the road passing through Bin Jawad, and turned to the south just outside of As Sultan, skirting Sirte and the trouble that had consumed the town since the passing of its most famous son and the ascension of ISIS as the terrorist movement rose up to fill the void.
Milton had an adaptor for his phone in his bag and he plugged it into the lighter and played through all of his Spotify playlists: The Smiths, Morrissey, The Stone Roses, the Mondays, and then a two-hour playlist that was full of alternative music from the eighties.
He reached Misrata, and then Khoms, Msallata and Tajoura.
By the time the outskirts of Tripoli came into view, it was eight in the evening and Milton was struggling to keep his eyes open. He passed through the south-eastern suburbs, driving carefully as the traffic increased in volume. He remembered the buildings constructed in a Western style, the mosques with their domes and minarets, the pedestrians that thronged the pavements. Milton stopped at a red light and watched them as they hurried in front of his car. For a people who had lived through a violent revolution that had still to play all the way out, it was difficult to see any sign that anything had changed. The shops and food shacks on the side of the road were doing brisk evening trade, the streets were busy, and there was an electric buzz in the air.
The light changed and Milton drove by the Corinthia Hotel. It was a four-hundred-foot-high building in the centre of town, with views across the city. It was the hotel preferred by European visitors and diplomats, and offered ease of access to the souk and the cafés. The hotel had been attacked by gunmen a year earlier, and there was a very obvious security presence outside it now. The approach was blocked with concrete berms to prevent suicide bombers from driving up to the building, and armed guards had been positioned outside the main doors. Milton wasn’t interested in the hotel. Checking in there would be the best way to announce his arrival to the Mukhabarat.
He had another idea. Milton had stayed in a small hotel the last time he had visited the city, and he preferred the discretion that he knew he would find there. He remembered the location in the medina, near to the Arch of
Marcus Aurelius, abandoned the car in a side street and walked the remaining distance.
The hotel was called El Khan and was owned and run by a local couple, Aref and Maya. It had been newly renovated when Milton had last visited, a series of houses within the medina that had been turned into guest accommodation. It was lit up by dozens of small lanterns in the gardens that surrounded it, and Milton heard the musical tinkling of a fountain somewhere within the shroud of vegetation that screened it from the street. The great wooden door with its brass studs was open, and Milton pushed it back and walked inside. He immediately recalled the place: the coolness of the air, the Berber textiles on the wall, the black and white photographs of a time before Gaddafi and the depredations of what had followed his fall. There was a bell on the desk and Milton pressed it. A man appeared from a small antechamber in which an office had been accommodated. He was small and slender, with freckled brown skin and a neat moustache. Milton remembered him: it was Aref, the owner.
“Mr. Smith, it is a pleasure to see you again. How was your journey?”
“It was fine,” Milton said.
“When were you here before?”
“Several years ago,” Milton said.
“Yes, that’s right—before the revolution. Libya has changed, and not always for the better. But we like to think we are the same. How many nights would you like to stay with us?”
“Three, please. I’ll pay now.”
“Three hundred dinars.”
“Are dollars okay?”
“Of course. It will be two hundred.”
Milton took out the money and handed it over.
“Thank you, sir. You will be in the Samsara suite. Please—come with me.”
Aref led the way to the central courtyard, where chairs with comfortable cushions were arranged around a charcoal brazier that burned frankincense. Milton saw the marble fountain that he had heard from outside, hibiscus blossoms floating in the water. Milton recalled the layout, and the four buildings—each with its own courtyard—that comprised the establishment. They made their way into the rear of the building.
