Tripoli's Target (Justin Hall # 2) (32 page)

A Peugeot appeared in the other direction and the Prince eased on the gas pedal. As the two cars passed each other, Justin noticed the wide eyes and the dropped jaw of the Peugeot driver.

The Prince grinned smugly. “It’s a good ride. Sticks to the road.”

He touched the throttle and shifted gears. Then he slammed on the accelerator. The Veyron’s engine thundered and the supercar slid around another sharp turn, following its trajectory to perfection. Still, it came within inches from a concrete retaining wall of one of the houses. Justin saw pieces of mulch flying around and a cluster of flowers bending very close to their breaking point.

“I think you’re going a bit too fast,” he said finally in a low voice. “Can you please slow down?”

The Prince did not look at Justin and gave no reply. Instead, he kept the same crazy speed, now holding the top center of the steering wheel with only his right hand.

“Why? What’s the problem? You’re afraid we’ll scratch Mr. Romanov’s car?”

Before Justin could react to his blown cover, he noticed the muzzle of a small SIG-Sauer jutting out from underneath the Prince’s robe. Without a word, Justin placed his hands on the dashboard.

“You look surprised.” The Prince stepped on the brakes. “You’re not the only one who does his homework.”

Justin just stared at the Prince. A moment later, he said, “We’re not the same. We don’t kill in cold blood, like you.”

Prince Al-Farhan grinned. “You should have taken my offer and left Tripoli when you still could. But you wanted to set up this trap.” He shook his head. “And your best plan was this pathetic used car.”

A quick glance at the side mirror confirmed Justin’s fear that Carrie and Abdul were also captured, since their Mercedes was not following behind the Veyron. If Justin were to get out of this situation alive, he could not count on any outside help.

“You should have known it’s not very difficult to find the true owners of Veyrons, especially of this limited edition series.” The Prince’s pistol was trained on Justin. “It was even easier to determine which of the owners would actually bargain with a secret agent.”

Justin frowned. He was mad at himself for underestimating the Prince.

“You see, the bait was not the car, Justin. You and your accomplices were the true bait. You thought you were setting up this trap to get to me. Instead, this was my chance to get rid of you.”

Justin’s head sank between his shoulders. But his mind and his senses were very much alert.
If I appear defeated, maybe he’ll let his guard down. All I need is a second.

They were now meandering through a small forest, and soon after they began climbing the next hill. Mansions here were even bigger than the ones they had seen earlier. Their tall walls resembled those of castles.

“Where are we going?” Justin asked in a low voice.

“You’ll see.”

Wherever it is, I need to get out of this car before we get there.

“So, you’re behind the Prime Minister’s assassination?”

“No. I consider myself a powerful man, but even I would not attempt to overthrow single-handedly the head of a state. I have help. A lot of inside help.”

Justin’s eyes caught those of the Prince, who was staring down at him.

“And neither you, nor the CIA will be able to stop me.”

“The CIA?”

“Don’t even try to pretend you’re not working with them. You Canadians never do anything without America’s blessing.”

Justin produced a tiny smile. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”

“I know you’re not fool enough to try to derail my plan with just another man and a woman. If you don’t want to spill out your accomplices, that’s fine. Once we reach our destination, oh, I’m sure you’ll spill more than your guts.”

The Prince added a fierce frown to his threat. Justin responded with a sigh of surrender and a desperate headshake.

The supercar zigzagged through another set of curves. Now, they stood at the top of the hill. In the distance, over the plains separating the rows of twin hills, Justin spotted a black helicopter landing behind one of the large mansions. A second later, he saw a malicious glint in the Prince’s eyes as he also noticed the helicopter.

So, that’s where you’re taking me, eh? I’ve got to make my move. Now!

As they came to a hidden driveway, leading to one of the hillside houses, Justin shouted, “Watch out,” and lowered his head.

The Prince slammed on the brakes and looked to his left, expecting a car driving out of the driveway. Instead, he felt Justin’s strong hands reaching for his pistol. The Prince squeezed the trigger. The SIG-Sauer fired a round and the passenger’s window shattered right above Justin’s head. He thrust his shoulder into the Prince, as they wrestled for the pistol.

“Give me the gun.” Justin let out a deep growl.

“Never,” the Prince growled back.

He hit Justin at the side of the head with his right fist, letting go of the steering wheel. The Bugatti veered off the road and into the hedge of the next house. Justin latched on to the Prince’s left hand still holding the pistol, trying to unhook his fingers from the handle. Another round went off. The bullet wheezed inches away from Justin’s face. It hit the windshield, smashing it to pieces. The Prince threw another punch at Justin’s head, before grabbing the steering wheel. At the last possible second, he drove the Veyron away from the walled garden, but not soon enough. The right side of the hood smashed into a sandstone pillar. The impact pushed the Veyron to the wrong side of the road.

“Stop the car before we both die!” Justin shouted.

“Let go of the gun,” the Prince cried out.

He struggled to control the Veyron, before other cars came from the opposite direction. He steered it slowly around the curve, and then Justin’s left fist caught him under the chin. The Prince’s head jerked upwards and he let go of the steering wheel. Feeling that Justin had almost yanked the gun out of his hand, the Prince pulled the trigger again. This time, the round hit the dashboard and ricocheted onto the floor. The Prince lashed at Justin’s head and face, this time using both fists. A series of blows landed on Justin’s left ear. He felt the warm blood seeping out of his torn skin. Enduring the pain, a moment later he was able to pry the gun out of the Prince’s fingers. Jamming it into the Prince’s ribcage, Justin shouted, “Stop the car! Now!”

The Prince grasped the steering wheel. Justin looked up in time to see his side of the Veyron scrape against a black chain link fence. Then, the right front tire climbed over a low brick wall in front of the next house. The Veyron began to tip over. Before Justin could do anything, the car rolled over to its driver’s side. Then, it rested on its roof in the middle of the road.

“Oh,” Justin groaned.

Despite the seatbelt, he was thrown around in the cockpit, his head banging against the dashboard and the roof. He looked around, trying to the shake off the sudden dizziness, and noticed the Prince had already unfastened his seatbelt and was pushing on the mangled door. Justin reached for his seatbelt buckle, when he heard screeching tires. A second later, he felt the approaching vehicle ram into the back of the rolled over Veyron. Everything began to spin around, and that blurry picture was the last thing he saw before blacking out.

Chapter Twenty-six

Somewhere over Tripoli, Libya

May 17, 4:45 p.m. local time

Justin blinked a few times, but his attempts did not clear up the fog in front of his eyes. He tried to lift his right hand to his face but noticed his wrists were fastened together with some kind of metal clasp.
Handcuffs. I’m handcuffed.
The second time he lifted both arms and rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers. Slowly, he regained his clear vision. At the same time, he felt jolts of pain erupting from his elbows and his shoulders. He realized someone had taken off his jacket. He counted a dozen scrapes and cuts on his arms, a few of which had been treated with butterfly bandages. He felt a few bumps on the side of his head and more scratches on his face. The fighting scene in the Bugatti replayed vividly in is mind.
The Prince! Where is the Prince? Where am I?

He began to take in his surroundings. He was sitting in the corner of a small room.
This is a washroom.
His eyes rested on the shower glass door with a silver trim. Then, he stared at the white porcelain sink, its vanity and the large mirror of a semicircle shape.
What is this noise?
His ears felt plugged but still rang with a constant hum. He checked his ears with his hands, just as the entire bathroom shook sideways.
I’m in a plane,
he realized and swallowed hard, breathing in deep and pinching his nose. After a few tries, Justin heard a low popping sound in his ears, soon replaced by the same hum, this time much louder.

OK, the Prince has tied me up. Is this his plane? Is he here?

He found the small rectangular door and got up to his feet. He ignored the stabbing pain shooting up from his left knee and turned the round handle. The door was locked. He tried again, harder this time, shoving the door with his shoulder, wincing as the pain went through his entire body. Realizing he could not break through, Justin began to knock hard on the door, using the edge of his handcuffs.

A few seconds later, he heard the rattling of keys. The door opened slowly and Justin was greeted by the muzzle of a mini Uzi. He looked up at the gunman and frowned, recognizing the face. He was one of the two young men following him in the streets of Cairo four days ago, when he was going to the Castle, to meet with Carrie.
Where is she? Where is Abdul?

With a quick flick of the gun, the gunman gestured to Justin to step out. He walked the four steps separating the airplane’s bathroom from a set of glass doors, covered by orange drapes.

“Welcome back, Justin,” he heard the voice of the Prince, as he entered what resembled a small lounge.

Prince Al-Farhan was lying in a white, L-shaped sofa. He was dressed in a golden robe, with a white headdress. A small cut was visible above his left eyebrow. Another man Justin had not seen before was sitting next to the Prince. He was probably in his forties, with a two days growth of stubble, black shoulder-length hair, and was dressed in a navy blue suit. The Prince’s aide, Zakir, who Justin recognized from pictures he had seen, had taken a seat across a glass top table, separating him from the other two men. He was typing on a laptop balanced on his knees. Two gunmen, in dark suits and matching pants, armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns, stood behind the Prince. Another dark suit was sitting by the other glass door leading to the rest of the private jet. A fourth guard rested against the door from which Justin came into the lounge.

“Sit down.” The Prince pointed at an empty seat on a couch next to Zakir.

Justin followed his order. The man from Cairo came in and stood guard behind him.

“We thought you wouldn’t join us until we completed our descent, but you keep surprising us, doesn’t he, General?”

The stubbled man nodded then showed his white teeth in a big, wicked grin. “He always does,” he replied in Arabic.

“So, you’re his dog, doing his dirty job?” Justin asked in Arabic as well, arching his right eyebrow.

The general was taken aback by the insult in his mother tongue. Before he could respond, the gunman behind Justin slammed the metallic stock of his mini Uzi at the back of Justin’s head.

“The general is a dear friend,” the Prince said, once Justin had regained his composure from the blow. He picked up a wine glass from the table and took a small sip of the red wine. “You will show him respect.”

Justin nodded slowly. “Sure, just help me understand this: The general here and you are going to kill Libya’s Prime Minister today. You’re giving him money, and he’s organizing the military.”

The Prince nodded. “Yes, you’re right. You can say I’m the brain and he’s the muscle.”

“I was thinking more in terms of beauty and the beast, but I only see two beasts here.”

The gunman behind him reacted to Justin’s words, but Justin was quick to move out of the way and avoid the blow. The mini Uzi stock missed his head by a couple of inches.

“Enough already,” the Prince shouted when the gunman tried again to hit Justin. “Your sarcasm, Mr. Hall, is not going to save the Prime Minister. Your CIA friends are not going to save him either.”

“You sit and watch. Nothing will happen to the Prime Minister. Your plan has already failed. We know there’s no assassination attempt against the American President. You were using her as a decoy, but your true target is the Prime Minister of Libya.”

“You’re right, Mr. Hall. Why bother with a puppet that will disappear from public life in four to eight years? If Libya’s history teaches us anything, is that this Prime Minister will stay in power for a long, long time, like the previously toppled Colonel Qaddafi.”

“But why do
you
want to kill him?”

The Prince sat back on the sofa. “We have a saying, Mr. Hall, which goes like this: It is better to die in revenge than to live on in shame. The Prime Minister has dishonored the House of Saud, my own family. Now, it’s time for him to pay for his shameful acts.”

“I see,” Justin said.
I’m sure the fact that Libya has the ninth largest oil reserve in the world and pumps more than three million barrels of oil per day has nothing to do with your plans. But, OK, you have confirmed what I needed to know. Now, give me the details.
“The motorcade. You’re attacking the Prime Minister’s motorcade?”

The Prince responded with a surprised look. “You think so? That’s how you would do it?”

The Prince’s voice was flat, giving no hints about the attack. Justin decided to change tactics.

“Look, I’ve failed to stop you.” He showed his cuffed hands. Then, he gestured toward the guards. “And I’m not going anywhere. At least, do me the courtesy of telling me.”