Tripoli's Target (Justin Hall # 2) (24 page)

“Excuse my interruption, Your Highness,” Zakir said in a low voice, “the Frenchman has arrived.”

The Prince nodded. “I’ll meet him in the lounge in ten minutes.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

* * *

Prince bin Al-Farhan sipped his 1998 vintage Dom Pérignon Rosé from a tulip-shaped glass with a gold-plated foot. His thick fingers held the stem gently while he rocked the glass, looking at the slight movements of the golden grape juice. Smacking his lips in complete satisfaction, the Prince offered a smile at his guest, Pierre Bouitillier, the CEO of FranceOil, one of the largest petroleum companies in Europe.

“You, the French, are masters of creating the best wines in the world,” the Prince spoke softly, referring to Bouitillier’s present.

“I’m extremely satisfied it pleases Your Highness,” the Frenchman replied with a wide grin of gratitude and a great bow of servitude.

Bouitillier nursed his own glass, to quench his thirst and to drown his urge to tell the Prince the French were also masters at squeezing another type of liquid from the earth. This time, not in the northeast province of Champagne, the land of the prestige French wine, but far away, in the home of the Prince. The area of Jubail, Saudi Arabia, was a top priority in the FranceOil’s expansion in the Persian Gulf. Bouitillier’s task was to convince the Prince to whisper a good word on behalf of FranceOil to the House of Saud royals.

The Prince nodded and finished his drink with a swift gesture of his hand and a quick gulp. He raised the glass up, as his 10-carat diamond ring brushed against it. Immediately, a sommelier, another present of the Frenchman, appeared and refilled the Prince’s glass. He glanced at the wine but did not drink from it. He placed the glass aside, over a small side table. Then, he leaned back on the white velvet couch, his arms resting on the black pillows around him. The Prince and his guest were in their private meeting on the top deck of the “Arabia”—the Prince’s two hundred and seventy feet sailing yacht—a hundred miles away from everything and everyone.

“I’m a man of the desert. I like to be alone, by myself. Undisturbed.” The Prince rubbed the corners of his gray thin moustache. He arranged a flap of his red-and-white checkered headdress after a gust of wind blew it into his face. Flattening the front of his white robe, he continued, “This is why I like to sail. It’s the closest I can get to solitude when I’m travelling around Europe. I come out here to think, analyze, decide. I come here to make important business decisions.”

I wish you would decide on our business,
Bouitiller thought. A long time ago, he had mastered a great command of his tongue. He was an experienced business negotiator, carrying the weight of many years of fighting with energy tycoons throughout Eastern Europe and the Middle East. Bouitiller had haggled over exploration and refinery contracts with democratic governments and dictators, tribal chiefs and warlords. He believed he knew how to handle the Prince, but he was not going to allow his natural arrogance to get in the way of achieving his goal. The Prince very rarely met potential business partners in his floating office quarters. Bouitillier was not going to waste this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

“I’m flattered and very thankful for your generous invitation, especially to meet here, aboard your majestic yacht,” he said, his gaze taking in the expanse of the luxury vessel.

Bouitillier had heard that the Arabia was once owned by a now bankrupt billionaire, and another time it was the set for one of the James Bond thrillers. That was before Prince Al-Farhan purchased the yacht at an auction, completely renovated it and turned it into one of his offices. The Arabia was very spacious and very fast. The Prince loved it.

“I’m confident I’ll be of good advice as you make your wise business decisions,” the Frenchman said.

The Prince nodded, his headdress wavering in the wind. The morning had started perfect: a gorgeous, cloudless sky, with a cool breeze forming foamy wavelets around the yacht. However, about an hour ago clouds had begun to gather in the east. White crests of tall waves now were crashing against the bow.

“Yes, I will decide, in good time,” the Prince replied dryly. Accustomed to flattery and obedience throughout the entire fifty years of his life, he had come to hate false praise from his business partners. He knew that underneath their veneer of reverence they masked their hegemony-sharpened claws and hid their dollar-injected muscles. Still, he found amusement in this type of vain worship and had come to expect nothing less.

“Tell me, what is the experience of FranceOil in oilfield explorations?” The Prince leaned forward and held his hands together.

Bouitillier smiled and contained a frown that began to form on his sloped, moist forehead. He had given detailed reports of FranceOil exploration activities to one of the Prince’s aides a week ago, and he was sure Prince Al-Farhan had received the information. The Prince was a shrewd businessman, known for his familiarity with business operations of his partners, potential partners, and, above all, his business rivals.
He’s testing me, to see if I can live up to my reputation.
Bouitillier kept his smile ironed on his face and reached for a company’s portfolio, inside one of the folders on the glass table standing between him and the Prince. He glanced at it, as if double-checking some information, although most details of the company’s explorations were stored in his memory.

“FranceOil has considerable experience in managing the downstream oil industry, from Algeria to Uzbekistan, since 1969. Over the last five years, we’ve made substantial investments in the North Sea, in the Gyda oilfield, as well as in the Gulf of Mexico. Our experience with oil explorations in the Persian Gulf region is in its development stage. We’re present in the area with several upstream deals in the Tasour Field in Yemen and the Burgan Field in Kuwait.”

“What’s FranceOil’s stake in Libya’s oil fields, particularly in the Sirte Basin?”

Bouitillier peered into the Prince’s eyes concealed behind oval-shaped sunglasses. The Frenchman opened his mouth but waved his left hand in front of his face, as if to dismiss the thought.

“Libya remains on our radar screens, but for the time being, the country represents a difficult market. The new government is still hostile toward foreign investment in that area. Along with Libya’s National Oil Corporation, they have made the entry of new firms in the exploration market practically impossible.”

“Still, would you invest in Libya if the political environment was, let’s say… more favorable?”

Bouitillier hesitated, pondering his options. In truth, he did not have any. He knew the Prince did not like to hear “no” as an answer. On the other hand, Bouitillier was aware that the relationship between Prince Al-Farhan and the Prime Minister of Libya was not stellar, to say the least. The Frenchman could not see how the Prince would shift the balance of interests of Libya’s government officials and top oil executives to give FranceOil a fair chance.

“Of course, Your Highness. Our Board of Directors will give serious consideration to all offers for exploration or development of new blocks in the Sirte Basin and elsewhere in Libya.”

The Prince nodded. “A round of new leases for the Murzuq and Ghadames basins is in the works. The new chairman of NOC and the new Minister of Oil will be reviewing FranceOil’s bids with special attention, once they have been submitted to my aides.”

Bouitillier noticed the Prince used “once” and not “if” when describing the FranceOil bids for explorations in Libya. The Frenchman nodded, and his broad smile stretched from ear to ear. His eyes could already see the enthusiasm of the Board of Directors and their eagerness to sign his bonus as per his performance contract. Sealing a deal for exploration rights in the highly coveted Ghadames fields in Libya was equivalent to a refinery building contract in Saudi Arabia.

One of the Prince’s three BlackBerry phones lined up on the table began to vibrate. He threw a curious glance at the phone, his eyes the only part of his body that moved. His right hand jutted up, almost instinctively, as if he were brandishing a sword ready to storm into battle. Zakir, the Prince’s personal aide, appeared in an instant, and bowed down with profound respect.

“I have some urgent business matters to attend to,” the Prince said, pointing at the phone vibrating on the table. “Zakir, escort Mr. Bouitillier ashore at once.”

“Thank you so… so much for this honor…” the Frenchman began to express his final gratitude, as Zakir gave him a gentle but firm pat on the shoulders. Mr. Bouitillier gathered his folders and his briefcase and left the deck. Only then, did the Prince punch the answer key on his phone.

“Tell me my problem is gone.”

“Well, it is, kind of…” Colonel Farid Haydar replied in a low voice.

“Wrong answer, Colonel,” the Prince cut him off. “How did you screw this up?”

“It’s… the two of them are… the Americans are now involved in our affairs.”

“Of course, they are. What were you expecting? We tell them there’s a plot against their President and you think they’re going to do nothing?”

Colonel Haydar let out a deep breath, but no words.

“Are they gone?” the Prince asked.

“Negative, Your…”

“What happened?”

“The men I sent to do the job… they failed.”

“You told me that already. Give me details,” the Prince hissed the last word.

“They… my men tried to eliminate the targets while they were driving away from the police lab. There was gunfire and some vehicles were damaged in the shooting. We can easily blame this on the Alliance as another terrorist attack.”

“I asked you to handle this discreetly and I wanted them gone. They know about the bomb and they’re becoming very dangerous.”

“My apologies, Your Majesty, I assumed they were going to do a clean job. They told me their plan was…”

“Whatever it was, it failed. Are these lowlifes you hired dead?”

“Yes, they are.”

“And you’re sure there’s no way they can be connected to you, and then to me? I don’t want any headaches.”

“Yes, there’s no connection, as far as I know.”

“That’s not good enough, ‘as far as you know,’ Colonel.” The Prince imitated Farid’s voice with a nasal accent. “Make sure all ties between you and them are severed. Erase all traces.”

“Yes, I have my men investigating the shooting.”

“Where are the targets now?”

“Holed up in the US Embassy, but I can still get to them.”

“Are you that stupid?” the Prince’s voice echoed on the empty deck. “One attempt on their lives may be explained, but not two. And absolutely not on American soil.”

“I understand,” Farid said. “My apologies.”

“This is what you’ll do, and listen carefully, so that you’ll not screw this up too. Arrange for a deportation order and put the agents on the first plane out of Tripoli. I don’t want them nosing around in my business and discovering the truth. They already know too much. The Americans have received their warning, and the agents have served their purpose in full.”

“It will be done as you wish.”

“I hope so, for your own sake. Call me once they’re in the air.”

The Prince tossed the BlackBerry over board. Before the phone plunged into the dark blue waters, the Prince snapped his fingers. Two aides materialized from thin air and stood behind the Prince’s couch, out of sight, but within earshot.

“The colonel’s services are no longer needed,” the Prince spoke slowly as if the aides were taking notes. He did not want them to miss a word or misunderstand his order. “Make sure his body is never found. And send the Americans a gentle reminder that their President’s life is only a sniper’s bullet away.”

US Embassy, Tripoli, Libya

May 15, 11:55 a.m. local time

“The colonel’s furious. He’s mad and I’m in deep shit.” Abdul folded his cellphone. He collapsed on the leather couch and dipped his head in his shaky hands.

“Abdul, look at me,” Justin said from across the room. He was pacing by the window of a small office on the second floor of the US Embassy. Matthew had reluctantly whisked them off in an armored vehicle from the highway shootout after the arrival of local police.
It’s is only because you’re investigating for us,
Matthew had repeated more than once.
Otherwise, I would have not lifted even the smallest finger.
Within the safety of the diplomatic residence, they were awaiting their looming fate.

The Libyan stared at Justin with his bloodshot eyes.

“Did he fire you?” Justin asked.

Abdul shook his head. “No, but this will never leave my record. I’m done, finished. I’ll never make captain, let alone higher ranks. I’ll be lucky if I don’t get transferred to direct traffic.”

“We’ll do our best, so that nothing happens to you, and that your career remains unaffected.”

Abdul replied with a barely noticeable nod, and a fake smile.

“Did he say anything about us?” Carrie asked.

She was sitting behind a desk, toying with a black stapler and a few sheets of blank paper. She had already stitched a couple of smiley faces.

“No, but I’m sure your investigation is over.”

Carrie sighed. “We were just getting started and then…” She stopped in mid-sentence as the office door swung open.

Matthew marched in. He was carrying a folder in his hands and a somber mood on his face. “Could you excuse us for a few minutes?” he asked Abdul.

The Libyan dragged his feet out of the room.

“Colonel Haydar has faxed me your deportation orders, based on disturbance of public order and threatening civilian lives. Neat trick.” Matthew waved a printout from the folder.

“That’s bullshit.” Carrie stood up and spread her arms, as if she were going to snatch the deportation orders from Matthew’s hands and tear them to shreds. “Both Abdul and Nour and many other witnesses can testify our reaction was in self-defense.”

Matthew shook his head. “That may be the case, but the facts remain that you fired weapons, illegally obtained, I assume, and killed two civilians.”