Tears in Tripoli: A Jake Collins Novel (Jake Collins Novels Book 1)

by Paul A. Rice

  Andi had set up a chair and a small, wooden table near us – using the crew’s amazing array of technical wizardry she was soon having a good chat with her bosses back in the real world. Whilst talking, she turned and gave us a big grin and thumbs-up sign. I took that to mean that the news desk were well-pleased with the results from yesterday’s coverage. I was right.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ she said, coming over to join us on the steps. ‘They’re well happy with us; apparently that live phone-call had the viewer-numbers going through the roof!’ She smiled, and it was a genuinely happy smile, one filled with the satisfaction at having done a good job. It was times like this when I fully understood why people like her, did the job they did.

  Our hanging-about wasn’t to last for too long – just before lunchtime, Gracie informed us that we were all going to move into a villa, which the other crew had located in Tripoli. Just as she was telling us, one of my local phones rang. It was Rory.

  ‘Hi, mate,’ he said. ‘Have you heard yet? We’re moving…’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve just found out, is the place any good for us?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s fine – they’ve got it from some local contact they have. I’m there now and it looks good. I’ll get you a decent room, shall I?’

  ‘That’ll be great,’ I said. ‘Make sure it comes with a maid…’

  Rory laughed, saying: ‘Yeah, well… there is a cook here; I suppose that with a bit of makeup he could make a fairly-decent maid, the beard might have to go though, what’s your preference?’

  I laughed and said that I would see him soon. Rory asked me to pick up his and Rick’s gear before I left, telling me where it was. ‘Oh, and don’t forget that plastic bag next to my case,’ he said. ‘It’s full of DVDs; we might need them if we end-up staying here for a while.

  Roger-that, I’ll see you in a couple of hours, mate,’ I said.

  Tossing the dregs of my tea away, I went to get the guy’s kit, humping it out onto the veranda and stacking it next to mine. Within ten minutes, I was ready to go. A short while later and the rest of the crew had joined me, we did a quick check to make sure that nothing was left behind and then loaded the vehicles. After having paid the owner of the farm, we hit the road.

  The journey back was an easy one and only the ubiquitous checkpoints broke the rhythm of our approach to the city. There were also lots more vehicles on our side of the road, many filled with entire families, their cars adorned with rebel colours, lights blazing and horns blaring.

  Raouf told us that many of them were people returning from Tunisia, where they had fled when the fighting had first started all those months ago. By his reckoning, there were at least one-million people who had fled.

  Rory called again, asking me to put Raouf on the line as he had the local contact by his side and he would give Raouf the directions to our new home. I passed the phone across, listening to the driver as he nodded in understanding, saying: ‘Aiwa, aiwa…’ (Yes, yes).

  Handing me the phone back, our driver said, ‘That is very good, Mr Jake – this house is near my brother’s house, it’s a very nice place and is safe for you, the press. Very safe and the market has some food. I take you there, no problem!’

  ‘Brilliant, thanks, Raouf.’ I said.

  I told Rory that we would see him soon and put the phone back in my pocket. We sat in silence for the rest of the trip, Bill and Andi in the rear, hard at work on their laptops. For me it was nothing more than a tourist trip, sitting and gazing at all the sights of a city whose people had only just taken the first, sweet sip of freedom. I hoped they didn’t gulp on it, choking in the process.

  I knew that there was plenty of history to this place, lots of tribalism and old feuds that may possibly come boiling to the top now that the dictatorship was on its way out. I really hoped that they got things right and that the past stayed where it was. I had been to Bosnia after their dictator had died and I knew full-well what happens when everybody decides to get a nice, fat, slice of the pie…

  We were soon negotiating our way through the side-streets of Tripoli, backing-up, U-turning, and detouring around the endless barricades that had been erected by the rebels in order to stop Gadaffi’s people from avoiding the main routes out of town, and the checkpoints thereon. Eventually we pulled up on a leafy avenue, trees and flower pots placed neatly along both side of the street. The architecture of the buildings was almost reminiscent of somewhere in France, or Spain, perhaps.

  I rang Rory again. ‘Darling, I’m home – come-out, come-out, wherever you are!’ I said, in my best, axe-murderer’s voice.

  ‘I’ll be right there, you mad bastard!’ he said, laughing like a loon.

  Two houses up from where we had stopped, I saw a metal gate swinging inwards. Rory popped out onto the street and gave us an over-exaggerated, welcoming sweep of his arms.

  ‘Okay, it looks like we’re here,’ I said. ‘Let’s go, Raouf.’

  Raouf engaged first gear, we cruised up the road and turned onto the huge driveway of the villa, Rory swinging the gate shut behind us. So began our little stay in one of the nicest places I’ve ever been, not many people in this place got to stay in an immaculate villa, situated on a picturesque, Libyan side-street. Especially since the place had only just started to succumb to the forces of liberation.

  ***

  Rory had been correct – the villa was really nice, it felt like something out of the movies with its marble stairs and ceramic tiles everywhere. The rooms were huge, open-plan affairs that were filled with high-quality furniture. My bedroom was massive and came equipped with a walk-in shower. The bed was an oversized double. The room also had a balcony that overlooked a garden filled with plants and flowers. There was a swimming pool too, filled to the brim with crystal-clear water. I found that to be bizarre, most of Libya had been suffering from water-shortages for weeks and yet here I was, looking down from my balcony at a pool that contained thousands of litres of the stuff. The villa’s owner obviously had a lot of money, and a lot of connections. But, hey, who was I to complain? All-in-all it was a great place and more than good enough for a tramp like me.

  That afternoon was spent in sorting out the house and also in getting the crew’s communications working. It wasn’t long before their satellite dishes were under full-power and we all had the benefit of being able to access our email properly. What a bonus! We met the house staff – two, old guys that just couldn’t do enough for us, and who, along with the even older chef, made us more than welcome.

  Gracie briefed the crew on what they were going to be doing, and when they were going to doing it. We security guys made sure we did our own rota, always ensuring that at least one of us went along on every outing. We also made a plan to ensure we had one of us, plus a driver and a vehicle, on permanent stand-by back in the villa in case of a situation arsing with the crew who were out.

  We also carried-out a comprehensive check of the villa and its surroundings. Like I’d thought before – whoever owned the place must have had some cash, the villa was like a fortress and it would have taken a major effort for anyone to break-in. Sure, if twenty armed-guys turned up at the gate then we’d most-likely have had a small problem on our hands, but the assessment was that it was an unlikely scenario. That and the fact that there were three armed guards at the gate, laid most our immediate fears to rest. From a security point of view, we were about as happy as we could be.

  In a short time the whole place was running like clockwork. The first media task wasn’t until after dark, and so, with several hours to spare, the whole lot of us hit the pool. It was crystal-clear, it was cold, and we had a whole heap of fun in it. As I’ve mentioned previously: there were the odd times in this job when I marvelled at the fact I was even getting paid. Yes, we were fortunate, very fortunate indeed.

  However, as is often said: fortune only shines upon the brave. Unbeknownst to us, we were all going to find out just how brave a person needed to be. That lovely villa would also turn out to be a place I
would never forget, and for all the wrong reasons.

  11

  Death and Love

  Over the next two days we operated as most media crews do in such places. We trawled the city in search of stories; we visited areas of historical and political interests, and spent a lot of time doing pieces in hospitals, schools and market places. We also spent many on hour in doing what is known as ‘vox-popping’ – I was to learn from Andi that the term derived from a Latin phrase meaning ‘voice of the people’. And that’s exactly what we did, taking the camera to wander around the streets and speak to anyone and everyone who wanted to say something to us. There were a lot of them – Andi and Bill met some really interesting people, gathering some great pieces in the process. Bill had also organised several meetings with high-profile Libyans, some whom would most likely be in-line for a position in the, soon to be announced, interim, Libyan government.

  In one hospital, we were shown several child-casualties, all of whom had received severe head-trauma from bullets wounds.

  ‘The snipers, they are shooting at children,’ the nurse angrily announced. Looking at the X-rays on the wall above the bed, I had to disagree, but only mentally. The kids had taken a bullet to their heads all right, but right in the top of their skulls, all of them. For my money, they had been victims of falling bullets, hurtling down to earth as a result of celebratory fire. I didn’t say anything at the time, but gave Bill my opinion once we had left

  We also visited a notorious prison, it was empty now as all those inside had been set-free by the rebels. The prison was notorious because, many years before, about twelve-hundred inmates had been taken into the courtyard and shot dead. Apparently, the authorities had ‘forgotten’ to tell the dead men’s relatives about the demise of their loved ones and the families had continued to send mail and parcels to them for years afterwards.

  I sat in the warm, sunny courtyard of the place, Andi and the crew shooting pieces to be used later on in the evening. It was eerie, of that there was no doubt. Doors flung open, cells as they had been on the day the inmates were liberated. The odd person came by, mostly men, and I guess they were relatives of the dead. It was a morose sight to see them, wandering around as if lost, peering into open cells, walking down echoing corridors with their heads turning this way and that. It was almost as if some of them expected to see their long-lost relatives, suddenly appearing from one of the cells…

  ‘Oh, there you are, at last! Where have you been, are you Okay?’

  It was a tough one because the massacre had been in 1996, I think, and that was a long time ago, but I supposed that a person would never get over the loss of a loved one, especially if they were taken under such awful circumstances. We soon left that place and I was glad as it definitely had a depressing feel to it. Just around the corner, we were going to find something even more so.

  Meeting a local from the area of the prison, we were to discover that he had found a pile of dead bodies, and that to his knowledge no-one knew who they were or had made any attempt at moving them. In a Muslim country that is more than unusual. The professional members of the media are usually very cautious about such things as mysterious piles of corpses – many a time the cadavers have been strategically placed in order to garner some form of reaction from the west, which will then help one side or the other to gain support. So, it was with some caution that we jumped in the vehicles and followed the guy.

  Sure enough, down the outside of one of the prison’s outer perimeter-walls, lying in the middle of a track, was a fairly-large group of dead bodies. Gino was on them like a tramp on chips. Covering his face with a red-and-white bandana, tied around the back of his head like a cattle-rustler, the cameraman crouched there and took shots of the dead.

  ‘What do you think, JC?’ Bill asked. ‘Have they been killed here, or dumped here?’

  I didn’t know exactly, so I walked over and took a look, spending some time in searching for trip-wires or anything else that may have been left as a boob-trap. I also had a good scout out to about fifty metres away from the corpses. Seeing nothing obvious, I wandered around and checked the bodies. All of them were male, they were all in civilian clothing and they were all bound at the wrists. Other than that it was impossible to tell as they were far too bloated, several days in the hot, Libyan sun had made sure that nature was taking its course, and quickly. The other thing was that they didn’t seem to smell, either. That was weird, I didn’t know why, there just didn’t seem to be any odour.

  Perhaps I was just too familiar with it, but I doubt that.

  There were fifteen bodies and all of them were almost unrecognisable as humans, looking instead like some over-inflated balloons. It’s always the same and the sight doesn’t really do anything for, or to, me. Just the single thought was all I had.

  ‘And so, this is how it ends for all of us, in one way or another we all just end-up leaking our juices into the ground – that’s it, no everlasting glory, no trumpeted fanfare. We’re just dead, forever.’

  Turning to Bill, I said, ‘I’m not positive, but it looks like they’ve been dumped here, there’s hardly any blood around them and I can’t see any bullet marks on the ground, either.’

  Bill nodded and took some notes.

  I pointed to the area around us, saying: ‘Nor are there any empty shell-cases in the immediate area, you don’t massacre people from three hundred metres away, you do it up close and personal, you know?’

  Bill did know, snapping his notebook shut, he said, ‘Thanks a lot, Jake. Right, let’s get go, guys – there’s nothing here for us.’

  We cleared the area and were soon on our way back to the villa in the Toyota, the crew sitting in quiet reflection behind me.

  I think it was that, but it may well have been brought on by them simply carrying out the mental design of their next live piece, which they were to shoot later that afternoon. Journos are a pretty tough bunch and I didn’t think the sight of some bloated bodies would have knocked them off-kilter, in the slightest. It didn’t, and nor did we ever find out the true story behind those dead men we left behind, slowly cooking in the hot sun. Such was life, or death, in Libya.

  ***

  Over the next few days the routine remained the same, mixing-and-matching the crews so that everyone managed to get out into the city during both daylight and darkness. It was a good time and the days flew by. Rory and I designed a fitness routine and we made the most of our spare time in running around the little circuit. It wasn’t much as there were no weights or anything, but with a bit of initiative we made sure that our bodies were giving the best deal we could provide. Plus, there was the pool and we made the most of it as a training facility; it’s surprising how tiring a good pool session can be.

  For those of us who weren’t working at night, the evenings were spent in playing cards, watching CDs, or, best of all – sitting on the roof-top patio, chugging alcohol-free beer and eating olives.

  To me, drinking alcohol-free beer has always seemed a bit like taking a shower whilst wearing a waterproof jacket. I never quite saw the point. I drink beer to get pissed, not for the taste. However, during that trip, I soon discovered that it was actually quite good and as long as it was ice-cold, then the stuff wasn’t too bad.

  One particular night, Andi and I were up on the roof alone, the others having decided to hit the sack just a few minutes previously.

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Don’t move.’

  With that, she slipped away to go downstairs.

  I had no intention of moving – currently I was lying on my sun lounger and looking up at the sky, searching for satellites with my binos. They can be seen with the naked eye and it’s amazing. Once you’ve found one, you can follow it right across the night sky – a tiny, pinprick of bright light that hurtles across your vision until you lose sight of it behind the clouds, or perhaps in-amongst a hazy atmosphere. There was no hazy atmosphere on that night, it was crystal clear, and with the aid
off my binos I saw several of the little ‘sputniks’.

  I was soon re-joined by Andi. Plonking herself down on the seat next to me, she opened the small sports-bag that she had fetched with her and started rummaging about inside it.

  ‘Here we go,’ she said, passing me a glass tumbler.

  I took the glass, looking at her in surprise.

  ‘I’ve kept this for a special moment,’ she said, ‘and I pretty-much feel that tonight is that moment – oh, just look at that sky, Jake!’ She grinned and looked up, moonlight shining onto her features, mouth slightly open, teeth gleaming in the pale light.

  Once again I saw how gorgeous she was.

  ‘Watch yourself, Collins!’ I thought. The little voice of reason desperately trying to be heard over the other, less sensible, voices currently piping-up inside my empty head.

  ‘Yeah, it’s awesome, huh?’ I replied, holding out my glass. ‘What’ve we got here – not more alcohol-free stuff, is it?’

  ‘No, my darling,’ she said, holding up a litre bottle of Jack Daniels. ‘It’s the real-deal and, well… since no-one else could be bothered to stay up, I guess that it would be rude not to, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I’ve heard that whiskey goes off if it’s not consumed within forty-eight hours of purchase, anyway’ I said, keeping the glass steady as she sloshed in a generous dollop.

  Andi giggled. ‘Oh, shit – we’d best hurry then, I’ve had this for nearly a week now,’ she said, splashing in another treble.

  ‘Would you like Coke or lemonade?’

  ‘The black stuff will do fine for me, please,’ I said, in disbelief.

  ‘Some ice?’ she asked, sliding out a small ice-bucket.

  ‘Jesus, Andi!’ I exclaimed. The woman was a walking bar-room.