Tripoli's Target (Justin Hall # 2) (27 page)

“So, our cases on their alleged support for terrorism are always full of holes. Often we need to make great leaps of faith in drawing our conclusions. On top of everything else, even when the evidence points straight at the villain, the Saudis are always protected by this, this aura of exclusivity, because of their close relationships with our political and business masters.”

“What’s the evidence you have on the Prince?” Justin asked.

Matthew opened one of the folders, shuffled through its papers, and handed Justin a stack of about a dozen documents. “These are bank transactions. Companies controlled by associates of the Prince have been wiring thousands of dollars to Islamic charities and foundations throughout North Africa. Some of the recipients allegedly have loose ties to the Islamic Fighting Alliance,” Matthew said, using a pencil to point at the documents.

“Oh, so you
are
in the know about these wire transfers?” Carrie asked.

“Yes, we are, but I’m not going to repeat myself about the protection surrounding the Saudis. I said
allegedly
and
loose ties.
We can fill in the blanks and that’s what we’re doing, albeit quite late. Trust me, I wish I would have done this earlier, before my man was shot down.”

Matthew’s fingers clenched around the pencil and it broke in half. Slivers flew across the table.

“Who are these other people?” Justin gestured with his head toward the photographs.

Matthew pushed aside the pencil halves. A sliver had slipped into the skin of his left palm. He headed to his desk for a Kleenex to wipe away a trickle of blood.

“The gentleman in the tuxedo is Prince’s personal aide, Mr. Zakir Al-Dakhil. Zakir is his right hand, a real son of a bitch. These photos were taken at a wedding reception late last year, so he’s not expected to have changed much.”

Justin stared at the photo. The man staring back was clean shaven, with a dimpled chin and shiny, bleached blonde hair cut to ear length. His nose had a fleshy drooping tip, and the man carried large fat sacks underneath his gray-blue eyes. A couple of thin wrinkles had formed in his broad forehead.

“How old is Zakir?” Justin passed the photo along to Carrie.

“There should be a file on him in there, with all personal details.” Matthew returned to his seat. “Here it is.” He found it after riffling through the papers.

Justin analyzed the document. It listed Zakir’s birthdate as January 10, 1970. His birthplace was Dhahran, Saudi Arabia.

“And this is Prince Husayn bin Al-Farhan.” Matthew dug up another photograph and gave it to Justin. “This was taken last month, in his yacht, off the southern coast of France.”

The man smiling from the photo was dressed in a white robe and a red-and-white checkered
ghutrah,
the headdress worn traditionally by Saudi royals. Justin stared at the man’s expressive face, ambition and power displayed clearly in his black eyes, which also carried a dark glint of malice. He had a straight forehead without the hint of a wrinkle, at least as far as the ghutrah left uncovered, and healthy ruby red cheeks. The Prince had a thick nose, perfect teeth, a gray thin moustache and a protruding chin.

“He’s carrying his fifty years really well.” Justin flipped through a few documents Matthew had pushed toward him. They contained the Prince’s personal information, which read like a long resume.

“Good health is just one of the privileges of a few billion dollars,” Matthew replied.

“What’s this?” Carrie pointed at one of the aerial photos.

She could tell it was a large complex of buildings, made up of three interconnected wings that formed a large Y-shaped structure. It was most likely a house, since Carrie could make out a large swimming pool and what seemed like a huge garage and a stable at a distance from the main building. Her question was about the location of the complex.

“That’s Prince’s sixty-five thousand square feet mansion in the outskirts of Riyadh.” Matthew paused for a brief second and added quickly, “But that’s not our point of attack.”

“Attack?” Justin and Carrie gasped.

Matthew offered a justifying head tilt and a resigning hand gesture.

“Well, maybe ‘attack’ is a strong word. I meant to say a ‘raid.’ Hmmm, a ‘search.’ Hopefully, we can find some irrefutable evidence about his involvement in Nour’s shooting and the plot against Libya’s Prime Minister. But this search can’t take place at his mansion. It’s extremely well-protected.”

“His main office?” Justin asked.

“Well, his main office is in his yacht, this humongous floating fortress that never docks in the same port more than twenty-four hours. It’s named ‘Arabia’ and it’s a two hundred and seventy-feet long beauty. Like his mansion, it’s heavily guarded at all times. And we can’t deploy a large team. Well, basically, this is the team.” He motioned toward the two agents sitting across the table.

Carrie frowned. “Let me get this straight. You want the two of us to raid the Prince’s fortress and get killed while trying?”

Matthew grinned. “Of course not. I said his usual strongholds are unassailable. We’ll try to breach the Prince’s security where he’s most vulnerable, given our limited resources.”

“Pathetic, not limited, was the first term that came to mind,” Carrie blurted.

Matthew frowned. Carrie just shrugged.

“I guess you have some kind of a plan?” Justin asked.

“No. Not yet anyway.” Matthew rubbed his chin.

“What else do you have on the Prince?” Carrie asked.

“This is just the tip of the iceberg.” Matthew placed his right hand over the folders. “I’ve requested the rest of the files from the Secret Service and the CIA. We should get them soon. We know the Prince always travels in his own private jet, a Boeing 707, which is virtually a flying palace. He has been seen taking choppers for shorter rides, but he’s always surrounded by an entourage of aides and protected by a company of bodyguards.”

“So, his palace in the air is better guarded than his palace on the ground,” Carrie quipped.

Matthew ignored her dry wit remark. “If you gain entry to Prince’s private jet and search it, maybe you’ll find some evidence of his involvement in this plot.”

“And how exactly do we do that?” Justin asked.

“I haven’t thought that far. As I said earlier, I wasn’t going to say anything to you if it were not for Nour getting shot. A few minutes ago, we received this piece of intel.” Matthew held up a single sheet of paper.

Justin held out his hand and Matthew gave him the document.

“A CIA source learned the Prince is visiting a hot area in the Gulf Region. Yemen.”

“Yemen?” Carrie’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Isn’t some sheikh, yes, Sheikh Al-Arhabi going there too?”

“Yes, the leader of the Alliance is going to Yemen too,” Matthew said. “This isn’t a coincidence. I dug a bit deeper and found out they’re both visiting Northern Yemen. Not clear exactly on the location, but I bet the ranch the Prince is meeting the Sheikh. And we know what kind of deals they’re cutting in that terrorist haven.”

“Yemen has been an Al-Qaeda base for many years. Iran and Saudi Arabia flex their muscles in this no man’s land.” Justin pondered over the new piece of information. He was staring at the Xeroxed note as if it could reveal the location of the secret meeting.

“Yes, and I’m advising against following Al-Farhan into that hellhole,” Matthew said with a deep sigh. He brought his hands behind his neck and slowly leaned back in his swiveling chair. “Here’s all I’ve got on Al-Farhan so far. Analyze it and let me know your plans, keeping in mind we don’t have much time. I can provide some logistics, but that’s pretty much it. I wish I could do more, but since a Saudi prince is involved, I don’t have much leverage.” He sighed again, this time bitterness and rage spreading across his face like dark tornado clouds.

Justin gathered the paperwork, stacking it in two thick piles. Carrie picked up the one closer to her.

“We’ll use the Washington conference room,” Justin said, referring to the room where he first briefed Matthew less than twenty-four hours ago.

“I’ll send someone to bring you some lunch. But first, I’ll check on Nour.”

Chapter Twenty-two

United States Embassy, Tripoli, Liby
a

May 15, 2:05 p.m. local time

“This has turned into an unbelievable nightmare.” Justin closed the opaque glass door of the George Washington Conference Room, and dropped his stack of briefing notes on the table. “Two days ago, we were only messengers. Now, we’re chasing ghosts of princes and terrorists, while bodies stack up as if hacked down by the Plague.”

“None of this is our fault.” Carrie sat next to Justin and spread her folders in front of her, “but now, we must unravel this plot.”

“Oh Johnson.” Justin threw his head back and stared up at the ceiling, as if Johnson were a goddess up in the skies. “Why do
we
have to clean up this mess?”

“Because you’re a great janitor, my dear,” Carrie imitated Johnson’s high-pitched voice and mimicked her tight facial expression. She puckered her lips and narrowed her eyes, lowering her reading glasses to the tip of her nose. “And I know you can fix any screw-up.”

Justin rolled his eyes and shook her head. “This is not a screw-up; this is a clusterfuck of galactic proportions.”

Carrie grinned.

“What did Johnson tell you on the phone?” Justin asked.

“She’s unhappy with the way our mission has turned out, especially the highway shootout. I tried to explain it was self-defense and if we hadn’t responded she would have had to ask for two Canadian flags to wrap our coffins. Still, she scolded us, well, me, since you weren’t there, saying something along the lines of us not showing ‘sufficient restraint.’”

“Typical of Johnson. The cleanup process is dirty and they don’t like it. But when we reach the goal, then, the mission is described in superlatives.”

“Yeah. She said she’ll talk to Matthew about letting you collect your belongings from the hotel and move freely in the city. Although, she warned us against it. How did she put it? Oh yeah, ‘the US Embassy is
definitely
the safest place for you at this moment.’ That’s what she said. She wants us to file a report, close the case, and get the hell out of Libya by tomorrow morning.”

“Perhaps she’s worried about more Libyans dying if we roam the streets of Tripoli.”

Carrie shrugged. “Could be. Or worried about having to give longer explanations and more apologies to our ministers.”

“What do you think she’ll make of this turn of events?”

“What, us going after the Prince? I can’t see Johnson backing you on this now. She will order us to stand down. That’s if we tell her about it, after we decide whether we’re going ahead with this plan.”

“What plan? We don’t have one.” Justin spread his palms, as if Carrie was expecting the plan to be resting on his hands. “And so much for Matthew talking about ‘we’ and ‘ours’ when it is only you and I actually doing something.”

“We’ll come up with a plan. If Al-Farhan is involved in this assassination plot, I’m sure he’s left behind plenty of traces. We only need to find one.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Al-Farhan is rich, filthy rich. Rich people like him don’t expect to be caught. They believe they
can’t
be caught. So, they’re careless. If there’s any evidence, we’ll find it.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. I mean, at the moment, we have nothing. How do we get close to the Prince? How do we get inside his private jet or his yacht?”

“We’ll figure it out.” Carrie reached for a notebook in her papers. Then, she pointed at the stacks of documents in front of them. “Shall we?”

“Before we do that, I’ve got to tell you something.”

“What is it?”

“Last night, before meeting with Abdul, I ran into an old enemy. Tarek.”

“His name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He was a prison guard here in Tripoli… four years ago.”

“Oh, so he’s out for revenge.”

“Was… I cut his throat.”

Carrie blinked then stared at Justin’s face. There was no emotion in his voice, no glow in his eyes. He was lost somewhere in space.

“Well, it was self-defense,” Carrie said.

“Yes, the first time too.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I shot Tarek when Abdul and I escaped from prison. I thought he died at that time, but apparently I was wrong. Last night, I thought I killed him, but Abdul tells me they can’t find the body.”

“So? There can be plenty of explanations for that.”

“Carrie?”

“Yes, Justin?”

“Am I… Am I losing my mind?”

“No! Of course, not.”

“Am I seeing enemies even when there’s no one there? Ghosts from the past?”

Carrie reached for Justin’s hand. “We all have ghosts from our pasts, and time after time, they come to pay us a visit. But if you’re saying you saw Tarek and finished him, I believe you. Perhaps someone took him to a hospital. Or just got rid of the body.”

“Abdul said they couldn’t find it.”

“Have him check again. This is Libya and things tend to get a bit cloudy, especially when dealing with the mukhabarat.”

Justin swallowed hard and sighed.

“I’ll ask him, but only after we’ve figured out this other, bigger mess in our hands. And we need Abdul’s help. We need all the help we can get, and he’s proven himself a trusted ally.”

“What?” Carrie curved her voice for a dramatic effect. “You’re saying the T-word? What happened to ‘We’re in North Africa; we can’t
trust
anyone,’ eh?”

“That was before Johnson stabbed us in the back. And I trusted Abdul even before that. He was tortured when we were captured but gave up nothing.”

“He’s still mukhabarat!”

“Yes, but he has strong incentives to foil this plot, like we do.”

“Do we?”

“Carrie, if that’s sarcasm, you need to work on your tone.”

“No, Justin, it’s not sarcasm. I’m getting tired of this cat-and-mouse game.”

“You can’t be serious.”