Tripoli's Target (Justin Hall # 2) (15 page)

Justin leaned back in his chair. “I thought Qaddafi had a change of heart because Al-Qaida issued a fatwa on his head. Islamic militants wanted to overthrow his regime and replace it with a Sharia law state, like Saudi Arabia. That’s the true reason he decided to draw nearer to the Western world.”

Matthew sighed. “Let’s get back to the intel, shall we?” he said.

“Sure. We were talking to people inside the Alliance and that allowed us to dig deeper into this plot. Our contacts with top-level militants produced this intel.”

Matthew gave his half-bald head a good scratch.

“And this information is reliable?” he asked finally.

“Absolutely. It came into my possession directly from one of the sheikhs of the Alliance. Needless to say, I can’t give you his name, but the intel is true. These conversations really took place. These schemes are really unfolding as we speak.”

Matthew heaved a deep, resigning sigh.

“I need those recordings, so our experts can pick them apart and match the terrorists’ voices to our database samples. Then, they’ll have to determine the authenticity of the transcripts as well. It’s not that we don’t trust your Service, but, if an assassination attempt is in the works, we need to analyze every piece of information ourselves.”

Justin nodded. “Do you want me to download the files to this laptop?”

Matthew replied “Please do.”

Jordan offered a slight nod as well.

“What intel do
you
have on the explosions?” Justin asked, while typing on the laptop’s keyboard.

Nour shifted in his chair and Justin knew it was the security chief’s turn.

“Terrorists launched a coordinated strike, targeting four hotels in the heart of Tripoli,” Nour said. “They hit the JW Marriot, Continental, Grand Hotel, and Radisson. These are all places frequented mostly by foreigners. Businessmen, contractors, tourists, mainly Westerners, which makes them legitimate targets for Islamic militants. The toll, as expected, is catastrophic. Eighty-five dead, more than a hundred and fifty wounded. We’ve confirmed twenty-five victims are Americans. An additional ten are reported as missing. The target of the fifth car bomb was the Gold Market, in the Old Town.”

A fifth car bomb? Johnson said nothing about a fifth car. How come we don’t know about it?

“The Old Town is also a preferred destination for Tripoli visitors,” Nour said. “Fortunately, the police neutralized the suicide bomber of that truck before he could detonate the explosives. He was a young man who obviously didn’t know how to set them off.”

Was? I guess he’s not anymore.
“Did you talk to him?”

Nour shook his head.

“Libyans interrogated him already. He gave them some general information about an Alliance plan to kill the President, the Alliance’s war against the infidels, and other general threats. Then, he committed ‘suicide,’ as most prisoners do in Libya’s jails. Libyans kept this story out of the press, but they shared some information with us. We dismissed that man’s claims as irrelevant, until we received your intel.”

That’s why Johnson and our Cairo office didn’t learn about the fifth man. Still, I hate when Americans are one step ahead in the game.

“Anything else from the local investigation?” Justin asked.

“No, nothing else.”

“Have you examined the evidence? The car truck? The bomb? Interrogated any eyewitnesses?”

“This is not our investigation, Justin,” Matthew said. “The Internal Security Service is running the show. We have some contacts within the Agency, and we’re collecting pieces of information here and there, and completing this puzzle, one piece at a time.”

“In light of recent events, you may want to reconsider,” Justin said. “You don’t want another Benghazi.”

Matthew frowned. An angry mob had stormed the US Consulate in Benghazi, east of Tripoli, and had murdered the US Ambassador to Libya and three other Americans. Order and stability in Libya was still fragile.

“You’re not telling us how to do our job, are you?” Nour asked.

“Oh, no, of course not,” Justin replied, “after all it’s your President’s life under threat. Terrorists have made their move and it’s up to you to leave no stone unturned in protecting her. I’m not the one who’ll have to explain to her family and to the nation the President was blown to chunks, as a crucial piece of evidence was overlooked because of a technicality.” Justin finished by folding his arms across his chest.

“All right, Justin, I hear what you’re saying,” Matthew said. “And, since you’re insisting on an investigation, you’ll have it. Your boss offered us the CIS’s full cooperation, and I understand you’re here to provide us with more than a simple briefing. You claim to know all the ins and outs of this case, so I’m requesting your assistance in leading this joint investigation.”

Justin’s face remained calm. He had made no such claims, but he was expecting to be a major player in this operation ever since Johnson had dispatched him to Tripoli. He knew his task consisted of more than simply delivering a message.

Nour frowned and his displeasure did not go unnoticed by Matthew.

“Nour, you’ll work together with Justin, representing our interests in gathering this information. This will be an unofficial investigation; however, the embassy will provide all necessary support. I expect the CIS will put its contingent of operatives in the country at the disposal of this investigation.”

“Johnson will have to authorize that and the CIS’s role in this operation,” Justin said.

“Of course. In principle, she has already given her seal of approval, but I’ll let you and her figure out the details.”

Justin drew in a deep breath. “Since we’ll be working closely, do you mind sharing your intel on the current situation of terrorism in Libya and in the region?”

He could not ask directly if the US was aware of the Mossad’s agents conducting assassination missions against senior terrorist leaders in Sudan. Therefore, he tried to frame his question as broadly as possible, without raising any suspicions.

Matthew gestured with his left hand toward Nour.

“Libya is relatively stable. After the civil war ended, acts of terrorism have been rare. The recent improvement of Libya’s relationship with the West has brought in investments, money, higher standards of living. A few people are upset by these developments and some Qaddafi’s supporters are trying to spread fear among the people. Then there are people settling old scores and creating new feuds. Libya is awash in weapons and many young men are using them to resolve their arguments.”

Justin nodded.

“There are some weak factions of former rebel groups that fought Qaddafi who seem to be reconsidering their objectives,” Nour said. “Now, they’re targeting Westerners and foreign interests in Libya, and filling up the terrorists’ ranks. The Islamic Fighting Alliance recently began a wave of attacks throughout North Africa. First Algeria, then Morocco, and Tunisia. They’re penetrating every country in the region, vowing to burn the entire continent, until the last of the ‘white colonialists’ are thrown into the ocean.”

“How strong is the Alliance and who finances it?” Justin asked.

“We believe they have a couple of hundred men, armed and ready at all times. There are many other supporters, mainly outside Libya. They have strong links to militants in Algeria and, to a lesser extent, in Egypt. Money pours in from wealthy Saudis, in the form of ‘private donations’ or through different types of ‘charitable foundations.’ Other financing comes from smuggling weapons or immigrants across the borders of Libya and Egypt.”

“What kind of support is the US providing to these countries to fight the Alliance and terrorism in general?”

“Technical and training assistance.”

Justin was not expecting such a dull and short reply from Nour. Earlier that year the US had targeted objectives described as “terrorist training camps” and “weapons facilities” in Sudan. They also launched air strikes against Islamic militant “strongholds” in eastern Syria, and “selective targets” in various locations in southern Somalia, against Islamic rebel factions.

“Anything else you want to know?” Nour asked.

“No, it’s enough for now.”

In fact, Justin wanted to ask whether the security chief had any intelligence about other foreign countries involved in military operations in the region. He decided not to trigger the Americans’ intuition about the real motive of his question.

“I’ve finished downloading everything on your laptop,” Justin said. “There are a few pictures of some of the Alliance’s known suspects, which will help you in identifying them, as well as a couple of amateur videos of the bombings in the city. As you can see from the clips, there were many witnesses who can provide us with information about these bombings.”

“Tomorrow you’ll get a chance to hit the streets of Tripoli, looking for these
witnesses
,” Matthew said. “If that’s everything, we thank you for your assistance.”

Justin nodded, as he stood up.

They shook hands.

“Do you need a ride to your hotel?” Matthew asked.

“No, thanks, I’ll get a cab.”

“Whatever you need, let me know.”

“Thanks. At the moment, I can’t think of anything.”

“Stay safe.”

“You too.”

Justin shook Jordan’s slender hand and braced himself for Nour’s bone-crushing grip. Fortunately, this time Nour spared Justin the knuckle-crunching experience.

“Where do you want to meet tomorrow?” Nour asked.

“If you can pick me up at my hotel, Corinthia, at 8:15 a.m. That would be great.”

“Sure, I’ll see you there.”

“Perfect.”

Chapter Twelve

Tripoli, Libya

May 14, 8:45 p.m. local time

Justin left through one of the embassy’s back doors. He walked for a few minutes, then found a taxi at a large intersection. In simple English, he instructed the driver to take him to the Martyrs’ Square and sat in the back seat. The thirty-something driver voiced a small objection, claiming the famous landmark of the capital deserved a daytime visit. Justin simply repeated his order. A few minutes later, he stepped into the cool evening, among cars zooming through the streets and pedestrians milling around the sidewalks surrounding the Martyrs’ Square.

He took in the sights of the buildings around him, mostly three-story, colonial-style architecture—a legacy of the Italian occupation before World War II—with gray and green the dominating color schemes. He stared at the Red Castle, the Roman fortress dating from 200 A.D. Its well-preserved towering walls glistened under the yellow glow of street lamps.

“Taxi, do you need a taxi, sir?” the strong voice of a cab driver startled him.

Justin shook his head and turned on his heels. His feet took him toward his hideout, at least for tonight. The Four Seasons Hotel was twelve blocks west, a distance Justin decided to cover on foot. He passed by more colonial-style buildings, including a beautiful Catholic church and many mosques. As he reached an almost empty and dim parking lot, two blocks away from his hotel, he noticed the familiar shape of a Nissan Maxima sedan. He squinted while gazing at the vehicle, and slowed down his steps. The Nissan was definitely a police car; its body painted white with black wings, the opposite color scheme of taxis, which were black with white wings. He never understood the reasons for such a confusing similarity between vehicles fulfilling completely different tasks. Taxis drove you to your desired destination, a resort hotel or the airport. Police cars dragged you to places you had no intention of going, a detention center or a prison camp.

Justin sidestepped around the Nissan. He could make out a man sitting behind the steering wheel. He recognized the silhouette of the driver, the pointed tip of the goatee beard and the trademark aviator shades he always wore, even in the darkest of the nights. Justin scanned the parking lot and the sidewalk. The only people he saw were across the street, heading in the opposite direction. Once he was convinced no one was surveilling him, he knocked twice on the driver’s window, the agreed upon signal.

The glass rolled down. Justin glared at the barrel of a small pistol, a Glock 19 glistening in the soft streetlight.

“Welcome to Libya,” the man said grimly.

A second later, he broke into a quiet laughter.

“You really know how to welcome a friend, Abdul, you son of a…” Justin walked around to the passenger’s side.

“Well, what do you expect?” Abdul handed Justin the pistol, once he was inside the car. “You slip in the country under an assumed identity. You give me a pretty tall order with little advance notice. I’m sorry, pal, I can’t exactly roll out the red carpet for you.”

Justin weighed the 9mm Glock in his hands, turned it over, inspected its trigger, and pulled back the slide with his left hand. The slide sprang forward. The weapon was cocked and ready for action.

“Glad to see you, Abdul. I would have liked our meeting to be under different circumstances, but I don’t get to decide much these days.”

“Oh, neither do I, so don’t worry about it. Now, seriously, welcome back to my home.”

“Thanks. You have everything I need?”

“Of course. The gun is clean. US army issue, smuggled from Iraq. Police recruits in Baghdad have this bad habit of forgetting to register and then ‘losing’ things. A box of pistols here, a load of RPGs there, the occasional truck stolen and never recovered. The silencer is in the glove compartment.”

Justin fetched the black, tall suppressor, slightly longer than the Glock’s length, about seven inches. He screwed the suppressor at the end of the gun’s threaded barrel.

“Thanks, man.”

“Yeah, no problem. Four extra mags are behind that book there.”