The John Milton Series Boxset 3

by Mark Dawson

  The secret police followed him throughout the day. The tails were replaced by new operatives every now and again, but they were so green that it was a simple enough thing for Milton to spot the handoffs. After an hour, it was obvious that he was being followed by four agents—three men and a woman—and he put them out of his mind. He had no problem with them following him.

  Milton found himself drawn to one particular restaurant on Riad El Solh, opposite the Saint Famille school. It was called Abdul Rahman Hallab & Sons 1881, was reputed as the best in the city, and had even spawned franchises throughout the rest of the region. It was something of a landmark, famed for its knefe and baklava and a host of other oriental sweets. The restaurant was housed within a grand building with an imposing doorway and wide windows that let in a plentiful amount of light.

  Milton slowed as he walked by the front door. He recalled it well, and the memory took him back to another time that might as well have been a thousand years ago. Hallab was where Milton and Number Five had arranged to meet their target. The man was something of a playboy with a well-known predisposition for European women. Number Five, Lydia Chisholm, was an icy-cold beauty who had been recruited to Group Fifteen after a glittering career in the Special Reconnaissance Unit. Milton hadn’t known it at the time, but Chisholm had been involved in the betrayal of Beatrix Rose. That had been the signing of her own death warrant; the agent would eventually be tracked down and murdered for her crimes by Beatrix, Milton’s predecessor as Number One of Group Fifteen.

  Back then, Chisholm had been the senior agent, and she was responsible for the operation. It had been a classic honey trap, with Chisholm and Milton posing as the representatives of an oil exploration company looking to secure a licence for drilling in the El Sharara area. Their target was a man called Abdullah el-Mizdawi, the brother-in-law of the former dictator and the chairman of the National Oil Company, the entity responsible for the oil business in the country. El-Mizdawi’s previous employment was with the intelligence service, and it was this that had brought him to the attention of MI6 and, more particularly, Group Fifteen. A Maltese shopkeeper had provided evidence suggesting that el-Mizdawi had bought the clothes that were later found in the remains of the suitcase bomb that had brought down Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie. Gaddafi had made it clear that his brother-in-law was not about to be extradited for trial, so the prime minister had approved his liquidation. A file had been generated and passed to Control, who had selected Chisholm and Milton.

  They had used polonium, a highly radioactive isotope that was one hundred billion times more dangerous than hydrogen cyanide. A microgram—the same amount as a speck of dust—was enough to be a lethal dose. A small amount had been withdrawn from a Cumbrian nuclear reactor, and Group Fifteen had put it to good use in a number of operations around the world. The polonium, while lethal when ingested, was nevertheless very easy to transport. Milton had been responsible for that, bringing it into Libya in the barrel of a modified fountain pen. Chisholm had emptied the container into the sweet tea that al-Mizdawi had ordered. He had come on to her, as they had expected. She had made her excuses and left.

  Polonium was an effective and elegant poison. It was an alpha-emitter, and, rather than the gamma-emitters that decayed over years, it decayed in weeks and months. Alpha radiation was absorbed by human tissue, so it would have been impossible for the hospital to detect it using a Geiger counter even if they had known to look. It took three weeks for al-Mizdawi to die, the isotope slowly yet relentlessly attacking the blood cells followed by the liver, kidneys, spleen, bone marrow, gastrointestinal tract and the central nervous system. Milton and Chisholm had been back in London for a week when intelligence from Tripoli Station reported that al-Mizdawi had been admitted to hospital with suspected cancer. Two weeks later, he was dead.

  Milton paused on the street, squinting through the bright sunlight at the restaurant. The memory of what they had done there brought back a flood of other memories that Milton had tried hard to suppress. Al-Mizdawi was just one of his victims. He had killed many, many more, and, he knew, he would kill again.

  Milton decided that he did not want to be followed back to his hotel, so he went into the restaurant and made as if he was ready to eat. The waiter showed him to a table, and Milton sat down and pretended to look through the menu. One of the tails came into the restaurant, waiting at the maître d’s lectern to be seated. Milton waited until the waiter had returned to take his drink order and, then, after he left, got up and made his way to the rear where signs advertised the restrooms.

  There were three doors at the end of a short corridor: the men’s room, the ladies’ room, and a fire exit. Milton pushed the lever to open the door to the exit and went outside, stepping out into an alley where the bins were kept. He walked quickly along the alley to a junction. Left led back to the main street, where he would be picked up again. Right offered a route back to the souk through narrow lanes and alleys, a route where it would be much more difficult to find and track him. He turned right, jogging for the first few hundred metres until he had put several turns between himself and the restaurant, slowing only when he was sure that he was alone.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  MILTON WOKE EARLY the next day, showered and went down to the dining room for breakfast. He enjoyed his sfinz and a pot of very strong, syrup-like black tea and wondered what was happening in London. He had agreed with Hicks that he should not contact him unless it was absolutely necessary, and there had been no text messages, emails or any other communication. He knew that Hicks was more than capable of babysitting Sarah for the time he was away, and reminded himself that he would need to give some thought to the best way to make the girl safe as soon as he was able to return.

  He had an idea on that score, but his direction would be guided by the resolution that he was able to fashion with the Albanians. He suspected that the resolution would be violent and that it would mean that they no longer posed a threat to Sarah, or to Nadia, but that was in the future.

  He had to find them first.

  He finished his second round of tea, stood and thanked the waitress, and made his way to the reception.

  #

  OMAR WAS WAITING for him at the same table at Caffe Casa. Milton pulled out the spare seat and sat down.

  “Good morning, Mr. Smith.”

  “Good morning.”

  “How are you finding your stay?”

  “Weather’s nice,” Milton said. “But I’m sure you know my itinerary by now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your agents,” Milton said, shaking his head. “Where did you get them?”

  Omar tried to feign ignorance, but he knew it was pointless and he allowed himself to chuckle. “Are they that obvious?”

  Milton turned and pointed to the woman at the other table and, beyond her, the man with the bicycle who was waiting at the mouth of the souk. “They’re amateurs, Omar. It took me five minutes to lose them yesterday. It never used to be this bad.”

  The spook leaned back in his chair and shrugged expansively. “Good men and women are difficult to find these days. The revolution has meant that funding has become precarious. And a career in intelligence does not bear the same cachet as it did under the colonel.” He paused to pour out two small glasses of green tea. “But I hope you don’t mind. It’s not often we have the opportunity to entertain a British spy.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “I think I’ll keep that to myself.”

  “I wondered if you would choose the Corinthia?”

  “Didn’t seem the most private of places the last time I was there.”

  “You would have been their only guest.”

  “Business not so good?”

  “I hear it will be closing soon unless things change. The proprietors cannot go on funding it indefinitely. A shame.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You are right, of course. It is a frien
dly place for us. All the rooms are bugged. We were involved before the hotel was even constructed. The rooms were designed to our specifications.” He grinned. “Now then, don’t tell me that MI6 does not have similar arrangements. I was at the Savoy when I last visited your country. I’m sure everything I said was recorded.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Milton said. “But I’m glad I chose somewhere else.” He took a sip of the green tea, thick and sweet, and put the glass back down onto the table. “What do you have for me?”

  “Information. The smuggler you are looking for is called Ali Tessema. He is Ethiopian. Everyone knows Ali, but no one will talk about him. He has never been photographed. Police rely upon a picture put together by the people he has trafficked. Here.” He took a piece of paper from his bag and slid it across the table. “This is him.”

  Milton looked at the paper. It was a crude photo fit. The man had a wide face with light brown skin, eyes that were spaced more than the average distance apart, a bulbous nose and full lips. There was an obvious cruelty to him, evident even in the facsimile.

  “He looks friendly,” Milton said.

  “Ali is a most unpleasant man, Mr. Smith. He operates in a dangerous world, and only the most ruthless would last as long as he has.”

  “What do you know?”

  “His name is well known, not just south of the Sahara but also in the Horn of Africa. There was a case, not long ago, where a migrant boat with two hundred and fifty passengers on it capsized and sank. They all drowned.”

  Milton nodded. Samir had told him about the two boats that had set sail when he made the crossing, and how the other one had not made it to Lampedusa.

  “Ali is the kingpin, Mr. Smith. The Italian police have wiretaps with Ali talking to an associate in Khartoum. They discuss the sinking as if it is a minor business problem. He is a very wanted man.”

  “So where can I find him?”

  “That won’t be easy. He is an invisible man. The Italians have mandated direct action in Libya. Two months ago, they sent a special forces team here, to Tripoli, and shot dead one of Ali’s rivals and eight of his bodyguards. They denied it was them, of course, but the same men returned three weeks ago. They thought that they had located Ali, but, when they stormed the property, he was not there. He is a ghost.”

  “But you know where he is?”

  “Some ideas, yes. He has a series of operating bases within the Sahara.” Omar took out a map and laid it over the photograph. “He has a base here.” He pointed to a spot on the map. “This is Kufra. It is in the middle of the desert. It has always been a home to smugglers. It is along the trans-Saharan slave route from the Horn of Africa. It is still that way today. They ship everything through Kufra: fuel, weapons, food. And people. Ali transports Eritreans across the Sudanese border and then brings them north to the coast. It has never been safe, but, since the revolution, ISIS has taken the land around it. There is so much chaos now, it is easy for men like Ali to flourish.”

  “What about Tripoli?”

  “His headquarters are in Abu Salim. It is a dangerous area, particularly for a Westerner.”

  “Where in Abu Salim?”

  “Mr. Smith, I am serious: you will have to be very careful. They do not like people looking into their business. And he is very rarely here. He does not stay in the same place.”

  “I need more than this, Omar.”

  “I realise that. And I have a contact within his organisation. We placed a man within the uprising before Gaddafi fell. He is a homosexual—they would kill him if they found out, so he has remained loyal to us.”

  “Very nice.”

  “Please. Are you suggesting that British intelligence wouldn’t do such a thing? Come, now—I know you are not that naïve.”

  Milton shrugged. “Tell me about the contact.”

  “He has stayed with the militia and provides intelligence to the Mukhabarat. I spoke with this man—he provided me with the information that I have given you. He says that you will not be able to talk to Ali. He would kill you if he knew that you had come here. Even if Ali did agree to meet, it is obvious that he would not willingly discuss his arrangements in Italy with you.”

  “He doesn’t have to be willing,” Milton said. “I can be persuasive.”

  “No, not this time. But there is another way. My contact says that they are filling another boat now. It is due to sail tomorrow. He has agreed to speak with you. He says there are girls on the boat who have been selected for the kind of businesses that you mentioned to me yesterday. It is the pimps you really want, yes?”

  Milton nodded.

  “So if he can tell you where the boat is due to land, then you could fly out and meet it. The crossing takes two days. You would have plenty of time. My contact tells me that the pimps will be there for an exchange when they land. You could be there to meet them.”

  Milton considered the suggestion. “When does the boat leave?”

  “Tomorrow morning, before dawn.”

  “I need to speak to your man now, then.”

  Omar took off his sunglasses and rested them on the table. “He has been reliable so far, but you should think carefully before involving yourself with him. Ali is dangerous. If he was to find out, he would have no hesitation in killing you.”

  Milton put on his own glasses. “Arrange a meet.”

  “I have already made the arrangements. He will meet you before evening prayers. He will be outside the Abu Shaala mosque.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Abu Salim.”

  “And the gun?”

  “I’ll have it for you tomorrow. We will meet here again.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  MILTON LOOKED AROUND WARILY.

  Abu Salim was everything that Omar had warned him it would be. The district was five miles to the south of the coast and dominated by Abu Salim prison. Milton remembered the facility from his last visit to the city. It had become notorious following the massacre of over a thousand prisoners over two days in 1996. They said that the vultures had fed there for days, swooping down and picking at the entrails of the men who had been left in the courtyard to rot. The prison yard itself had now been turned into a vast car market, where locals picked through the hundreds of barely functioning wrecks in the vain hope of finding a bargain. The streets that led away from the prison were beaten down and poor. Precarious apartment blocks stood in need of repair, burned-out cars had been pushed up against the walls, piles of debris spilled out from collapsed buildings, and trash was blown around on the breeze. The locals, too, bore the signs of neglect: there were long queues at the stores that had food, queues of angry cars bullied their way onto gas station forecourts, and pedestrians walked along the side of the road with their eyes downcast, hammered by the sun and the weight of their problems.

  The mosque was large, with a particularly tall minaret that Milton was able to see as soon as his taxi entered the district. As they drew closer, he was able to make out more detail: the tall spire with the onion-shaped crown, the gallery from which the muezzin would deliver the call to prayer, the roof-like canopy, the decorative cornices and arches. The mosque itself was surmounted by a large dome, and its walls were topped with decorative crenulations that put Milton in mind of battlements.

  The taxi driver pulled up outside the entrance. The area was busy with worshippers who were heeding the call to the Maghrib prayer.

  Milton paid the man and asked him to wait. He got out, shut the door and had begun to look around when he heard the sound of the engine and turned back to see the taxi pulling away. There was no point in going after it; it was already too far away and he would just draw attention to himself. He felt vulnerable, though. This was not a friendly neighbourhood, particularly for a Westerner, and he wasn’t armed.

  The mosque had been built on generous grounds and was surrounded by lawns that were suffering a little in the heat. There was a path that led between two trees to the entrance, and Milton started down it, fall
ing in behind a group of four men who were conversing amiably as they made their way to prayer.

  Milton stopped at the entrance, looking left and right for any sign of the man whom he had come here to meet. He didn’t see anyone, and, fearful of being spotted as an outsider, he was about to leave when he saw a man step out of the mosque. He was of short stature and slender, and, despite a swagger that looked a little too affected, Milton could see that he was nervous. Milton turned and glanced over at him, then walked away from the entrance until he was in the shade of a tree.

  The man followed.

  “Mr. Smith?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am Mustafa.”

  “Where do you want to talk?”

  “You must come with me.”

  He walked on. Milton let him put a little distance between them both and then followed. Mustafa led the way to a car that had been parked in the alleyway behind the mosque.

  “Where are we going?” Milton asked.

  “We cannot talk here. It’s not safe. Ali has eyes everywhere. It is better if we are on the move.”

  Milton got inside. Mustafa went around to the driver’s side, got into the car, started the engine and pulled away.

  “Ali is paranoid. But one does not become as successful as he is without caution.”

  Mustafa drove them away from Abu Salim and onto the modern highway that led to the airport. He glanced up to the rear-view again and again, his fingers drumming against the wheel.

  “Relax,” Milton said. “We’re not being followed.”

  “Ali is everywhere. How can you be so sure?”

  Milton looked in the mirror. “The road is empty. And I’m good at spotting a tail. We don’t have one.”