Tripoli's Target (Justin Hall # 2) (14 page)

He looked beyond the police truck. A small convenience store was a hundred yards away, at the end of the backstreet. Someone from the embassy was supposed to be waiting there for Justin.

Turning around will raise more suspicion than if I just keep going. One last obstacle.

Justin slowed down but kept moving toward the truck.

* * *

“Now,” Nassir said, leaning on the door handle.

Before he could move, he felt a sharp pain stabbing through his ribcage. He opened his mouth to scream, but Tarek’s low voice stopped him.

“That’s for being full of shit.”

Tarek twisted the knife he had snatched from Nassir’s side. The sharp, serrated blade slashed through Nassir’s lungs, and a muffled cry escaped his bleeding mouth.

“And this is for disrespecting the colonel.”

Nassir left hand twitched, in a lame attempt to grab Tarek’s arm. Tarek blocked the effort with ease and held it there for three more seconds, the time it took for Nassir to stop breathing.

He pulled the knife and opened the truck’s door.

* * *

Justin stopped as one of the police officers, the one in the driver’s seat, stepped out of the truck. The other remained in the front passenger’s seat, his head slightly turned to the right, as if staring out the window.

“Good evening, officer,” Justin said in English, while looking to the left at the apartment complex and then at the officer approaching him. He was holding something in his right hand, something that seemed to continue up his sleeve.
Is that a baton?

“What are you doing here?” the officer’s voice came out rough and accusatory.

“I was out for a walk. Is that a crime?” Justin took a step back, his mind calculating his options. The second officer was still inside the truck.
Maybe I can outrun him. No need to start a fight.

“Show me your ID,” the officer demanded, closing in on him.

“Sure.”

Justin’s left hand went for a front pocket, but his eyes never left the officer’s frowning face.
Where have I seen this man?
A flash of headlights from a turning car lit up the area and Justin recognized the man.
He was one of the prison guards.

Before Justin could act on his realization, the officer stretched his right arm. A long blade glinted briefly under the diming light. Justin had a split second to throw his head back. The tip of the blade sliced through the air, an inch away from his throat.

“Remember me?” the officer asked, stepping forward, while Justin fell back.

“Yeah, Tarek. You’re the one I left for dead.”

“Mistake. Should have finished your job.”

“I won’t waste this second chance.”

Tarek lifted the blade again. This time Justin had a defense plan. As Tarek thrust his arm forward, going for Justin’s chest, Justin took a step back. He deflected Tarek’s attack with his right forearm and grabbed Tarek’s wrist with both hands. His fingers sank into the attacker’s hand and he twisted the man’s wrist, his body moving away from the knife. Tarek began to scream, but Justin stifled him with a forceful punch to the throat. Choking, Tarek stopped fighting.

“How did you find me?” Justin asked.

“Eat my—”

Justin interrupted Tarek with a sidekick to his left knee, disabling his foot. Tarek began to fall. Justin shoved Tarek’s hand, which was still holding his knife, toward the man’s neck. Tarek’s head came down hard on the sharp blade. Blood flowed freely from a large gash as Tarek’s body writhed on the ground. Justin’s eyes rested on the attacker until he drew in his last breath.

“See, Tarek. I corrected my error.”

* * *

Justin approached the convenience store at a slow pace. He was double-checking every corner and every shadow. The knife attack less than two minutes earlier had pitched him into an extreme level of alertness.

A young man in a black suit was standing just inside the store’s entrance.

“Mr. Schmitt?” the black suit asked Justin.

Justin nodded, glancing at the store’s clerk, a middle-aged man who continued to watch the news on a small TV by the newspaper rack. Undoubtedly, he was on the embassy’s payroll, one of their many eyes inside the Libyan society.

“How are you feeling?”

“What?” Justin said.

“I asked how are you feeling?” the black suit repeated his question, this time pointing at Justin’s heaving chest.

“I’m fine, just a bit rushed.”

“Ready to go?”

“Yes, ready to go.”

The black suit whispered something unintelligible into a microphone stitched inside his left sleeve, and a black Cadillac sedan glided out of the night’s darkness. Its windows were tinted black, its headlights were turned off, and the car coasted without making a sound. Seconds later, it was parked on the sidewalk, two steps away from the convenience store’s entrance.

“Come with me,” the black suit said, “They’re expecting you.”

Aided by the night’s blackness, the two men slid inside the Cadillac, Justin in the back seat, his escort in the front. The driver, a heavyset man with a large head and a small ear piece, gave him a quick glance, as if to confirm Justin’s identity to the photograph he had seen earlier that evening. He nodded to the black suit and stepped on the gas pedal.

“We’re going through the service door, right?” Justin asked.

“Correct,” the driver replied. “Mr. Garnett is waiting for you.”

Chapter Eleven

United States Embassy, Tripoli, Libya

May 14, 8:00 p.m. local time

Matthew Garnett was not the only person awaiting Justin’s arrival in the George Washington Conference Room on the third floor of the embassy’s east wing. A woman with a strawberry blonde ponytail and big emerald eyes—in her late thirties or early forties, Justin could not be certain—was sitting to Mr. Garnett’s left, around an oval-shaped mahogany table. A small laptop lay closed on the table in front of her. A dark-skinned man, who reminded Justin of the late Ali, but shorter and stubbier, sat across from them. He was busy fumbling with a gold-plated pen and a yellow notebook.

“Welcome, Justin,” Matthew said in a casual tone, as everyone stood up. “Let me introduce you to my team. This is Jordan Mahoney, the embassy’s political chief.” He gestured toward the woman and Justin shook her extended hand. “And this is Noureddine Milad, chief of security. He goes by Nour.” The man’s handshake resembled a clamp, as he firmly squeezed Justin’s fingers.

“How was your trip?” Matthew asked after they returned to their chairs, with Justin sitting to Nour’s left.

“It was good. Uneventful.”

“Custom officials treated you all right?”

“Yeah, I guess. I’m here, all in one piece.”

Matthew grinned. “How are things in Cairo?”

“Less flashy than Tripoli for sure.”

“I heard you had a brushfire last night too.”

Justin nodded.
Obviously, Matthew has reliable sources in Cairo’s mukhabarat. Do they have anyone in the mukhabarat in Tripoli?
“There’s always a brushfire I need to snuff out.”

“This one was really close though.”

“Yes, it was.”

Matthew laughed out loud. Then, he spread out his palms over the table.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s get to the point of this briefing. Ms. Johnson informed us that your team came in possession of highly sensitive information about the visit of my President.”

“This conversation is not being recorded, right?” Justin asked while twirling his right index finger in the air, as if to point at security cameras hidden in the gray ceiling.

“No, of course not,” Matthew replied, “you requested that there be no evidence of this meeting ever taking place, and we share that view.”

“I’ll need a laptop to show you the evidence.”

Matthew nodded toward Jordan and she slid her laptop across to Justin. He raised the cover and pressed the power button. The machine quickly woke up, the screen ablaze with a bright, blue sky over Yosemite National Park.

“Is there a password for the Internet connection?” Justin asked.

“Yes, but you’re already logged in,” Jordan replied.

With a few quick keystrokes, Justin was on the Internet. He typed in a secure server address in the browser’s search toolbar. Half a second later, a window prompted him for an access code. Justin entered it and accessed a temporary database. Carrie had scanned most documents retrieved from the Sheikh’s briefcase and they were already uploaded to the secret servers.

“I’ll need a printer for some of the documents and the pictures,” Justin said.

“Simply hit print and they’ll come out at that machine.” Jordan pointed at the end of the room, where a printer was set up on a small office desk.

Justin tapped a few keys and dozens of pages began spilling out of the printer’s mouth. He went and gathered them and set the stack of papers, as well as a stapler, next to the laptop.

“Before we review this information, give me a quick debrief of what you already know about the Islamic Fighting Alliance, so I avoid any repetition,” he said.

“Sure,” Matthew said. “On any given day, we receive tens of threats against the life of the President and her family. This number, of course, multiplies when it comes to an announced, scheduled visit, like this one, to a hot area like North Africa. So, we’re aware of the threats and we have measures in place, to ensure the highest around-the-clock protection. By the time she lands in Tripoli, dozens of agents, in addition to local security personnel, will guarantee her safety throughout the forty-eight hours she’ll be here.”

Justin nodded. “Were you aware of specific death threats from the Islamic Fighting Alliance?”

“Yes, we know about the Alliance, how they operate, who funds them and the extent of their network of sleeping cells. They have been waging jihad against America and our interests in North Africa for many years.”

“True, however, the recent bombings are unprecedented, even by the Alliance’s standards,” Justin said.

Matthew shrugged. “Unprecedented yes, but not unexpected. Violence always spikes prior to the President visiting a rogue country. Last month, the Vice President visited Jordan and three suicide attacks rocked Amman, as late as the day of his arrival. These are simply pathetic attempts to force dignitaries to cancel their visit. As you know fully well, that’s not the habit of our chiefs. And, we’re not in the mood to start cowering at this time.”

“We thought these car bombings were random acts of violence, until we received this information.” Justin passed around two documents. “The first one is a detailed schedule of the President’s visit to Tripoli. Times, places, locations, size of escort, length of time to reach and duration of stay at a specific place, the works.”

Matthew nodded thoughtfully, while scanning the report. After he finished, he removed his black horn-rimmed glasses and tossed them over the report. Then, he combed what was left of his thin, gray hair, as the receding hairline had taken away more than half.

“All right,” he said, with a sigh, “it seems we have a mole, most likely somewhere in White House’s admin. There are many temps and press secretaries and interns who can get their hands into an early draft of the President’s schedule. I can tell you some of these details have already changed. So, this draft is probably two, three weeks old. I’ll inform DC right away and they can start smoking out the mole. What else do you have there?”

With a flick of his wrist, Justin flipped the other document to his right, first to Nour, and then to Matthew.

“Here’s a short extract of English transcripts of intercepted communications between members of the Alliance. They’re discussing the assassination plan, the means, the guns, the location, the participants. We have the complete Arabic recording, which we’ll make available to your team very soon.”

“This is serious,” Jordan said. “How did you obtain this information?”

“Unlike you Americans, we keep the option of negotiating with terrorists on the table,” Justin replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

Jordan’s face turned a reddish hue. Nour and Mathew simply stared at Justin.

“I meant no offence,” Justin offered, more as an explanation, rather than an apology. His voice was steady, as he was used to making no excuse for his over-the-top bluntness. “I mean, look where we’re meeting. Tripoli, Libya. Twenty years ago, your President, Reagan, called the leader of this country at that time, Colonel Qaddafi, ‘the mad dog of the Middle East.’ Libya supported terrorists of all flags for over thirty years. But the US built hotels and explored for oil in the same country that once was your archenemy.”

“Libya agreed to hand over those responsible for the Lockerbie airplane bombing and renounced its programs of developing weapons of mass destructions,” Jordan said in a clear, solemn tone, as if addressing a crowd of supporters in a political rally. “It has always been the policy of the United States to lend a helping hand to its old friends, to welcome them in the international community, and to guide them in the long and difficult road toward democracy and progress. This is a time of change in the relationship between America and Libya. Especially now that Qaddafi is history and Libya is on a path to becoming a democratic country, our politicians are working hard to usher in a new era of cooperation.”

Justin shrugged. “In defense and oil contracts, I assume,” he mumbled.

Matthew dismissed Justin’s words with a hand gesture. Justin interpreted it as a signal to continue, but Matthew was not finished. “We shouldn’t forget that Libya is where it is today because
we, Americans,
showed him our wrath with Baghdad bombings in 2003. Qaddafi feared he was going to meet the same fate as Saddam, with a noose around his neck. So, he stopped supporting terrorists and rebel groups and stopped being a constant threat to global security. Then, he turned on his people when they began demanding change, and we, Americans, helped in getting rid of him. We’re here to support the new democratic regime and to make sure Libya doesn’t turn into a rogue nation or a safe haven for Islamic terrorists.”