by Mark Dawson
“Are you busy?” Milton asked.
“No, sir. Not at all. Not many people are visiting Tripoli at the moment.”
“No, I don’t suppose they are.”
“What’s your business here?”
“I’m meeting a supplier.”
“Well, good for you. Libya needs business very badly.”
Aref reached a door at the end of a corridor, took out a key and unlocked it. He stepped aside so that Milton could go through. It was the same room that he had stayed in before. Milton didn’t know if it was a coincidence or whether the man’s records were so precise as to allow him to put him in the same room, but he didn’t complain. It was as pleasant as he remembered it. The room was beautifully furnished and spacious, with a modern shower room to the side. There were a number of beautiful touches, including an old Bakelite telephone, which could have graced a museum, sat atop the bureau.
“Is this acceptable, sir?”
“Perfect,” Milton said.
“You will remember the swimming pool, perhaps. It is open all day, very nice after a long day of travel.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t pack for a swim.”
“There is a new pair of shorts in the wardrobe. You are welcome to take them. Breakfast is served from six in the dining room. If you need anything at all, please call down to reception and it will be arranged for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Have a pleasant evening.”
The man bowed once and then backed out of the room, shutting the heavy wooden door behind him.
Milton looked around the room. Was it possible that it was bugged? Maybe. The Corinthia most certainly would have been, but this was a little less well known. It didn’t matter. Milton was unlikely to speak to anyone, and he could not envisage a conversation where he might compromise himself.
He undressed, opened the cupboard and pulled on the shorts and an extravagantly comfortable dressing gown. He took his key and followed the signs to the pool. It was in another of the courtyards, surrounded by pillars and potted plants, too small to be suitable for swimming but deep enough that he could lower himself into the cold water all the way up to his neck. Milton closed his eyes and submerged his head, the water cold enough to make his skin tingle.
Chapter Twenty-Five
MILTON SLEPT VERY WELL. The room was well appointed and the bed was comfortable. He was bone tired from the previous day’s travelling and he had fallen asleep as soon as his head had touched the pillow. He awoke refreshed, showered and shaved, and dressed in clothes that had been laundered for him overnight. He had grown used to the smell of his own sweat, and it was a pleasant change to smell the fresh cleanliness of his shirt. He brewed a cup of instant coffee and drank it as he watched the dawn break over the skyline, the cries of the muezzins audible through the open window.
He ate a light breakfast in the dining room. The chef had prepared sfinz. It was an egg dough that had been leavened with baking powder instead of yeast. An egg was cracked into it while it fried for a savoury breakfast, and Milton remembered that it was delicious. There were no other guests at that early hour and he had already been told that the hotel was quiet. Libya was the subject of a travel advisory from the Foreign Office, and most Western companies who had a presence here had already moved their staff out. The El Khan would have been too expensive for most of the locals. Milton wondered whether he might even be the only guest.
Milton left the hotel, squinting up into the bright early sunshine and then surveying the street. There was nothing that caused him any concern, although he knew that he would be making his anonymity more difficult to maintain if he went through with the rendezvous that he had arranged. But there was nothing to be done to avoid that. The meeting was essential if he was to make any progress.
Milton made his way to Caffe Casa, a well-known local coffee shop that was located just off Martyrs’ Square. He had emailed his contact before he had left London and arranged to meet him here. Milton approached, paused to tie a lace that did not need to be tied, and checked it over. The establishment was nestled within the walls of the city’s Ottoman fort, rubbing up against the gold shops and copper engravers of the old town. The patio was pleasant, the tables shaded by large parasols. The souk was nearby, and the clamour of the stallholders as they called for business filled the air. Milton watched the tables and saw the man he had come to visit. He was sitting with his back to the wall of the café, looking down the street in the opposite direction. He hadn’t seen Milton yet.
Milton turned and retraced his steps, walking for a hundred yards before he stopped and entered one of the gold emporia. The owner, a fat man dressed in a poorly fitting suit, looked up and then back down at his newspaper again. Milton made a show of looking at the trays of rings and necklaces in the window, but his attention was through the glass and on the street outside. The regime might well have collapsed since the last time he was here, but Milton was not so naïve as to think that the Libyan Mukhabarat would have been dismantled at the same time as Gaddafi and his cronies had fallen.
“You want anything?” the shopkeeper asked with barely concealed contempt.
“No, thank you,” Milton replied. “Just looking.”
“Then you can just look outside shop.”
Milton took the hint and stepped back into the heat again. He walked back to the café, taking a more circuitous route through the Souk al-Turk, further losing himself among the throng. He emerged directly opposite the tables and saw that his contact was still waiting there. Milton picked a path between the tables and sat down in the vacant chair.
The man looked up from his newspaper. “Mr. Smith,” he said.
“Hello, Omar.”
The man was wearing dark glasses that hid his eyes; the light was bright, and Milton could see his own reflection in the lenses. He was smartly dressed, wearing a pale linen suit and a duck-egg-blue shirt with two buttons undone. His double cuffs were fastened by silver links, and he wore a silver necklace around his neck. He was self-assured and comfortable.
“It’s been a few years.”
“It has,” Milton agreed.
“It is good to see you again.”
Milton doubted that he meant that, but he was happy to play along with the charade. “Good to see you, too.”
The waiters at Caffe Casa were notoriously surly. The man who approached their table was no different, almost sneering down at them. “You want coffee?”
“Yes,” Milton said. “A double espresso.”
The waiter noted it down. “To eat?”
“The brioche is good,” Omar said. “They serve it with honey and crushed nuts. Very tasty.”
“I’ll have that,” Milton said.
The waiter scribbled that in his notebook, too, and then left without another word.
“Time flies,” Omar said, “but some things never change. My apologies for his manner. I think they are selling their rudeness as part of the ‘experience’ of coming here. I find it all rather foolish, myself, but their coffee is good, so I keep coming back.”
Milton examined the man more closely as they waited for their food and drink. His name was Omar Ben Halim, and he had been an important player in the Jamahiriya, Libya’s external intelligence and operational entity. The Libyans had only had a modern intelligence service since the overthrow of the monarchy in 1969, and the regime had modelled the body on the KGB and the Stasi. It had quickly become infamous for its clandestine support of the PLO, the Italian Red Brigades, ETA in Spain, US Black Power groups, and Muslim separatists in the Philippines and Indonesia. But it was their funding of the Provisional IRA that had aroused the attention of MI6, and, after searching for a suitable turncoat, the agency had settled upon Omar. He had been a colonel in the military until he had been appointed as a commander of the sub-directorate responsible for direct contact with terrorist organisations. What was much less well known about him was that he was a thief. He had been pilfering money from the regime for years and,
when MI6 threatened to publicise his crimes, he had been left with little choice but to work for them. Regular cash payments lent the enforced relationship a veneer of civility, and the combination of carrot and stick had ensured his cooperation for thirty years.
The old clock tower was nearby, and it chimed loudly as the waiter returned with a tray bearing Milton’s coffee and brioche. He placed the cup and the plate on the table, handed Milton the bill and waited for him to settle it. Omar took out a ten-dollar bill and gave it to the man, dismissing him with a flick of his wrist.
The cup was dirty and chipped. Milton put it to his lips and tried the coffee. It was bitter and not particularly pleasant.
“Good?” Omar asked.
“It’s fine.”
“And the cake?”
Milton took a bite of the brioche. It was dry, most likely quite old, but he pretended to enjoy it. “Not bad at all.”
Omar chuckled. “There is no need to pretend, Mr. Smith. I know that standards have slipped. Tripoli is a different place since the last time you came here. The fall of the regime was supposed to be a new start for my country, but it has not been like that. The colonel had many faults, but he knew how to bind his people together. Now, without him, there is chaos. The militia squabble over who is in command. There is a government here, one in Tobruk and another in Switzerland. The fear of Gaddafi kept things under control. Now, without him, my fear is for the country itself.”
“What happened to you?”
“The Jamahiriya was disbanded. The militias claimed credit for it, but the truth is that the staff had long since stopped working for it. Some went abroad. Others left the city and returned to their homes.”
“And you?”
Omar reached up and removed his glasses. Milton looked into his olive-coloured eyes; they were flecked with steel. “I stay, Mr. Smith. The Jamahiriya might have gone, but the Mukhabarat still exists. The militias fear it still, as they should. They remember the rooms where they were taken when the colonel wanted to find out the things he needed to know. They remember the things that were done to them to enforce their cooperation. It is a collective memory. And the Mukhabarat’s time is coming again. ISIS presents a serious threat. An existential threat. You can find them if you drive for two hours out of Tripoli. And so the militias have allowed the Mukhabarat to reassemble. It has tightened its grip on security across much of the country. It is already back to much of its capacity under the colonel. It is the future of my country’s stability. I love Libya, Mr. Smith. And so I work with it now.”
The news was welcome. Milton had not known what he would find, but he knew that he would need Omar’s help. Without him, he would struggle to find the man he needed to find. That he was still plugged into the security service was a bonus that had not been guaranteed.
“You have come a long way to speak to an old man,” Omar said. “How can I help you?”
“I need to find someone.”
“Then I would say that person is most unfortunate.” Milton knew what he meant: Omar thought that Milton was still involved with Group Fifteen and that the man he was looking for had had his card marked.
Milton saw no point in disabusing him; a little fear could be useful for him, too. “His name is Ali. Do you know him?”
“The smuggler?” Omar said.
“Yes.”
He stroked his chin, and Milton could tell that he knew plenty about Ali and that he was assessing why Milton wanted to know about him and how much it would be prudent to reveal. “What do you need to know?”
“Where I can find him. That would be a good start.”
“You know these people are dangerous, Mr. Smith? The smugglers are making millions from the migrants. It has made them extremely rich. They will not take kindly to someone—a Westerner—putting his nose in their business.”
“I realise that,” Milton said. “I’ll take my chances. I just need you to help me find him.”
“Why?”
“The smugglers are selling girls to pimps in Europe. I want to find the pimps. Ali can tell me what I need to know.”
“Or he might shoot you and toss you into the ocean.” Omar shook his head with wry amusement. “You are sure?”
“I am.”
“Very well. Let me make some enquiries.”
“There’s something else, too.”
Omar spread his hands hospitably. “Name it.”
“A weapon.”
The suggestion did not faze him. “That can be arranged. What would you like?”
“A small pistol. Something I can conceal.”
“That won’t be a problem. I should have something for you tomorrow morning. Shall we meet here for breakfast?”
Milton stood. “Of course.”
Omar stood, too, reached down for his dark glasses and put them on. “Be careful, Mr. Smith. Tripoli is not a safe place for foreigners.”
“I can look after myself.”
Omar put out his hand and Milton shook it. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
He left. Milton watched him cross the patio and disappear into the crowd before leaving the table himself. He glanced ahead and saw three people who were showing tell-tale signs of interest in him: a man with a bicycle, leaning against the wall of a store; a woman in a red blouse and brown skirt with a small dog on a lead; a man in a purple shirt, smoking a cigarette in the doorway of a bakery. Milton watched them as he set off. The man near the bakery finished his cigarette, tossed it aside and went in through the doorway; Milton dismissed him. The other two watched as Milton walked away from the café and then, with appalling tradecraft, started to follow.
The Mukhabarat might still have been alive, but its new staff were not what Milton remembered.
Milton didn’t mind. He wasn’t surprised that Omar would have him followed. It was to be expected in a state like this, with a secret service that was so deeply entrenched in the culture that not even the disruption of a coup could shake it loose. Milton had nothing to hide, at least not yet, and, as he ambled into the souk, he made no effort to lose his tails as they drifted into step behind him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
MILTON SPENT THE REST of the day wandering the streets of the city. He visited the Arch of Marcus Aurelius, Martyrs’ Square and the fish market, and returned to the café where he had met Omar so that he could spend time at the Al-Majidya mosque. He followed the beach road and looked at the murals that had been painted to celebrate the revolution, more vivid and thoughtful works than the hundreds of graffiti’d images of Gaddafi as a rat that had appeared on almost every street corner.
The secret police followed him throughout the day. The tails were replaced by new operatives every now and again, but they were so green that it was a simple enough thing for Milton to spot the handoffs. After an hour, it was obvious that he was being followed by four agents—three men and a woman—and he put them out of his mind. He had no problem with them following him.
Milton found himself drawn to one particular restaurant on Riad El Solh, opposite the Saint Famille school. It was called Abdul Rahman Hallab & Sons 1881, was reputed as the best in the city, and had even spawned franchises throughout the rest of the region. It was something of a landmark, famed for its knefe and baklava and a host of other oriental sweets. The restaurant was housed within a grand building with an imposing doorway and wide windows that let in a plentiful amount of light.
Milton slowed as he walked by the front door. He recalled it well, and the memory took him back to another time that might as well have been a thousand years ago. Hallab was where Milton and Number Five had arranged to meet their target. The man was something of a playboy with a well-known predisposition for European women. Number Five, Lydia Chisholm, was an icy-cold beauty who had been recruited to Group Fifteen after a glittering career in the Special Reconnaissance Unit. Milton hadn’t known it at the time, but Chisholm had been involved in the betrayal of Beatrix Rose. That had been the signing of her own
death warrant; the agent would eventually be tracked down and murdered for her crimes by Beatrix, Milton’s predecessor as Number One of Group Fifteen.
Back then, Chisholm had been the senior agent, and she was responsible for the operation. It had been a classic honey trap, with Chisholm and Milton posing as the representatives of an oil exploration company looking to secure a licence for drilling in the El Sharara area. Their target was a man called Abdullah el-Mizdawi, the brother-in-law of the former dictator and the chairman of the National Oil Company, the entity responsible for the oil business in the country. El-Mizdawi’s previous employment was with the intelligence service, and it was this that had brought him to the attention of MI6 and, more particularly, Group Fifteen. A Maltese shopkeeper had provided evidence suggesting that el-Mizdawi had bought the clothes that were later found in the remains of the suitcase bomb that had brought down Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie. Gaddafi had made it clear that his brother-in-law was not about to be extradited for trial, so the prime minister had approved his liquidation. A file had been generated and passed to Control, who had selected Chisholm and Milton.
They had used polonium, a highly radioactive isotope that was one hundred billion times more dangerous than hydrogen cyanide. A microgram—the same amount as a speck of dust—was enough to be a lethal dose. A small amount had been withdrawn from a Cumbrian nuclear reactor, and Group Fifteen had put it to good use in a number of operations around the world. The polonium, while lethal when ingested, was nevertheless very easy to transport. Milton had been responsible for that, bringing it into Libya in the barrel of a modified fountain pen. Chisholm had emptied the container into the sweet tea that al-Mizdawi had ordered. He had come on to her, as they had expected. She had made her excuses and left.
Polonium was an effective and elegant poison. It was an alpha-emitter, and, rather than the gamma-emitters that decayed over years, it decayed in weeks and months. Alpha radiation was absorbed by human tissue, so it would have been impossible for the hospital to detect it using a Geiger counter even if they had known to look. It took three weeks for al-Mizdawi to die, the isotope slowly yet relentlessly attacking the blood cells followed by the liver, kidneys, spleen, bone marrow, gastrointestinal tract and the central nervous system. Milton and Chisholm had been back in London for a week when intelligence from Tripoli Station reported that al-Mizdawi had been admitted to hospital with suspected cancer. Two weeks later, he was dead.
