by Damien Lewis
“Thanks for being so candid yesterday,” he began. “I’ve thought about what you said, and we talked about it among the three of us. We respect the fact you’ve been here longer than us and you know the setup and the different people coming in and out of here, so we need to listen to what you have to say.”
“Listen, mate, all I’m trying to do is make sure you guys are safe,” I told him. “That’s all I’m trying to do. The only control I have is over my guards. I cannot do a thing about the QRF. I do not want to sound like a stuck record—but trust me, you need to go and investigate them for yourself.”
Justin nodded. “I hear what you’re saying.”
“I’m happy for you guys to search my guards. But if you get the QRF to search them, my guards will leave. And if they walk off the job, I’ll never replace them. I’ve gone through eighty guards to get twenty good ones. They’re irreplaceable.”
“I hear what you’re saying,” Justin repeated. “Feel free to decide how and when your guards are searched.”
I thanked him for that. I left the meeting knowing that I couldn’t fault the guy’s professionalism. Like Rosie and Lee before her, this guy was a class act. The trouble was all the RSOs were falling victim to a top-down system that seemed designed somehow to make the security setup here fail disastrously.
I killed the morning doing the usual, then headed to the canteen for some lunch. After trying to survive on the inedible garbage that the Tibesti restaurant was serving up I was ravenous.
“Gandu!” I called out to Asaf.
He broke into an enormous grin. “Benshoot! My friend, you are back!”
“Still losing at cricket I see . . .”
The hulking great form of Paul, the Miami RSO, sat at one of the tables. I grabbed some food and joined him. I noticed his shoulders had started shaking, like he was trying not to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
He let out a chuckle. “Bob had warned us you were a straight talker, but holy shit! We couldn’t believe it when you just went right off and unloaded with both barrels. But hell, it sure was refreshing to hear it straight.”
I laughed. “Yeah, I guess I could have been a bit more diplomatic. Never my strong point. Anyhow, I’ve tried that already and it hasn’t got me anywhere.”
Paul gave me a look. “Buddy, trust me, you said exactly what you thought and you handled it just right.”
We were joined by another American, one who was noticeably more smartly dressed than any of us military types. It turned out this was Silvio Miotto, a guy who I figured had to be the new Deputy Chief of Mission. I greeted him with a handshake and explained that I was taking over from Bob.
Silvio smiled. “Great. Heard all about you. Thanks for all the hard work and good to see you back again.”
Silvio was five feet seven, slim, with black hair graying around the edges, and he was your typical snappily dressed Italian-American. He was superintelligent and I figured he had to be well on track to being a full ambassador, but at the same time he proved to be totally down-to-earth, with a wicked sense of humor.
Asaf had the cricket playing on the TV, and I could tell that Silvio loved the banter that was pinging back and forth between our Bangladeshi waiter and me. Silvio started going on about baseball. He told me he was a die-hard Philadelphia Phillies fan. With a sly grin he explained how baseball was a far superior sport to cricket, a game that didn’t make any sense to anyone outside of the Commonwealth. He told me I needed to start following a real man’s sport, like baseball.
He gestured at the TV screen. “I mean, you don’t take that crap seriously, do you? Cricket is a sport played by poofy English gentlemen.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s why you Americans can’t play it,” I shot back at him, “’cause you’re not qualified to be gentlemen.”
Silvio cracked up. A moment later he was serious. “You live downtown, at the Tibesti, right? How is it there right now?”
“It’s getting a little bit tasty. A bit hairy, if you know what I mean. Not a lot of foreigners left, that’s for sure.”
Silvio shook his head, exasperatedly. “Right now, I don’t know what we’re here for. Ramadan’s started and everything’s grinding to a halt. We won’t be doing anything useful for a month: no one’s available, no meetings will be had, nothing, and it’ll be like this all through Ramadan. You know, even the QRF are refusing to go out now due to Ramadan. They say they’re too tired.”
I did my best to bite my tongue. I didn’t think Silvio wanted me going into one of my rants about the QRF. “Funny that, ’cause my guard force seem okay,” I remarked. “Not a word from them about Ramadan, not a sniff of it, and they’re all Libyan Muslims.”
Silvio snorted. “You know what, I’ve got zero confidence in this QRF. I mean what kind of QRF guys refuse to go out on missions? That’s what they’re paid to do. They’re paid to ride shotgun and tell the RSOs where it’s safe to go, ’cause they’re supposed to know the ground here. Instead, they’re refusing to go out ’cause it’s Ramadan.”
“Sounds like a load of horseshit to me.”
Silvio laughed. “You got it!” He paused. “You know, we need some real proper security around here. Either that, or we need to pull out—like the British did. You know they pulled out completely, right?”
“I do. A couple of my mates were on the security team when they got hit.” I glanced at him. “Still, you’ve got the Annex. Bit of extra backup there maybe.”
Silvio didn’t miss a beat. “It’s still a total waste of time us being here during Ramadan, when nothing happens, and especially if we’re not safe ’cause we don’t have any proper security.”
I was getting the sense that Silvio and I were of the same mind.
“You know, I sure am glad I’m fasting,” Silvio added, as he poked at the fish that was on the serving platter. I’d noticed that he hadn’t been eating much. “Seriously, I’m fasting with the locals out of respect. And what do I get in return?” He poked at the fish. “Fish, fish, and more fish, and then some fish again.”
I grinned. Silvio was a seriously funny guy. “Rather you than me—fasting. Best I can go is a couple of hours without snacking on something.”
He pushed the fish platter my way. “Well, you know, have some more fish—heads and all!” Silvio glanced over at the kitchen. “Next person I see cooking fish I will sack! I am sick of seeing fish! And why always with the goddamn heads on!”
It was so funny he had me cracked up. As for Asaf, he was all doubled over from the effort of trying to stop laughing.
Asaf sidled up to me once Silvio was gone. “That one—he is very funny man. But is he Muslim? He is fasting?”
“Nah, he’s just doing it as an excuse to avoid the fish. You blame him?”
Beneath the humor there was a serious subtext here. Silvio was clearly a high achiever, and he was bored out of his brain being stuck here for the entire month of Ramadan. During Ramadan Muslims are supposed to fast from dawn to dusk. It’s supposed to enable them to experience the suffering of those less fortunate than themselves who may not have enough to eat. In Libya the entire country shuts down during daytime and absolutely nothing seems to get done.
But over and above his frustration I could tell that Silvio was seriously worried. He’d worked at U.S. missions all over the world and he would know how security should be done, and he could see that wasn’t how it was being done here. Silvio was “the principal”—the main man whom all were charged with protecting. It was somehow shocking to have my concerns echoed by the top guy at the Embassy, but at least I didn’t feel quite so much like a broken record anymore.
There was just the one bright light on the horizon now that I was back. With the British Embassy having been shut down, we’d managed to get our hands on the majority of their gym equipment and weight-training gear. I busied myself installing it in the makeshift gym that my guards and I had established, in the outhouse adjacent to the side gate. I started a regular wei
ght-training session for my guards, and I let the RSOs know they were free to train there if they wanted.
One thing I noticed about our makeshift gym was how easy a stepping-stone it would make, if ever anyone wanted to get into the Embassy from outside. There was some road maintenance taking place on the far side of the wall, and they’d left a pile of construction materials there. That would provide the leg up onto the wall, from where you could leap the razor wire security fence and land on the gym’s roof. From there it was a drop into the thick cover of an orchard that lay to the front of the TOC.
I killed the daylight hours with my guard duties and sessions in the makeshift gym, but the nights were long and dismal at the Tibesti—and with each passing hour the place just seemed to keep emptying. I was a few days in when I sat down to yet another morose breakfast and there was only one other person in the restaurant—a German businessman. Everyone else was gone.
I did my day’s stint at the Mission, after which Massoud ran me back to the Tibesti for another evening’s fun and games. We were halfway to the hotel when he gave me the news.
“So, Morgan, they have found an IED in the basement of the Tibesti.”
“What? So why the hell’re we going back there then?”
“No, no—it was there last night.”
“You mean, I slept there last night with an IED in the basement? Why didn’t you warn me?”
“But I only found this out today. But it’s okay, it’s gone now.”
“What kind of IED?”
“Sixty kilograms. A sixty-kilo IED.”
“But fuck me, that’s massive. That’s a two-man lift. How the hell did they manage to smuggle that past security and into the basement of the hotel?”
Massoud shrugged. “Morgan, this I do not know.”
“Massoud, if that’s sixty kilos of plastic explosives and they’d detonated it in the basement, that would have brought the entire hotel down with me lying in my bed. That’s hotel gone and me with it.”
“Yes, my friend, I know. I am glad they did not detonate it.”
We reached the hotel and it was utterly deserted. Even the lone German businessman was gone. Trouble was, I had nowhere else to stay right now. I figured no one was going to bother blowing up an empty hotel, so I could probably last just the one more night. But I told Massoud I needed out of there by tomorrow, and I asked him to try to find me some kind of alternative.
I didn’t bother with supper. I was in my room watching an endless stream of TV news reports when my phone rang. It was Stuart, my buddy doing security in Tripoli.
“Where are you, mate?” he asked. “Tell me you’re not in the Tibesti.”
I told him that I was.
“Mate, haven’t you heard? You need to get the hell out of there. There was a massive IED—”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve got nowhere else to go. I’ll move tomorrow. Best I can do—”
“No, it’s not,” Stuart cut in, angrily. “You’re getting complacent, and complacency gets you killed.”
“I’m trying, but it’s not that easy.”
“It is easy. You get out now and you sleep on the bloody beach if you have to. You get me?”
Stuart was fuming. He wasn’t angry at me, so much as angry for me. He was scared that I was getting lackadaisical, and that I was going to get myself blown up. The truth was, it was hard to stay on top of good routines and proper security when everything at the U.S.Mission seemed so disconnected. Security was in free fall in Benghazi, yet there had been zero changes at the Mission. It was like living in a parallel universe, and I suppose I’d been affected by it.
Stuart’s call was the kick in the ass that I needed. I packed my stuff, sanitized my room, and got myself good to go. I called Robert and briefed him: I didn’t know where I was going, but no more Tibesti. I called Massoud and told him that whatever it took, I needed out. And that’s how Massoud found me my beachside villa: I was going to hide in plain sight in a little slice of paradise.
The villa was Massoud’s genius. During Ramadan, Libyans tend to sleep all day and party all night. Most reasonably well-off Benghazians had decamped to the beach complexes that line the city’s shoreline. Libya being a North African country, its coastline forms part of the southern shores of the Mediterranean. Less than two hundred miles across that semitropical sea lie the sun-washed Greek Islands and the Italian Riviera, and the beaches here in Benghazi were stretches of dreamy, palm-fronded white sand running into aquamarine waters.
The villa Massoud found me came complete with bedroom, lounge, bathroom, and kitchen, and you walked off the front doorstep onto gleaming white sand. There were similar villas all around full of families celebrating Ramadan: the entire resort was one big party town. Then there was me—the Blue Mountain security manager, and the U.S. Embassy guard force guy, right in their midst.
On one level I had zero security here whatsoever: no walls, no alarms, no fences, no guards. All someone had to do was move in along the beach and come through my flimsy front door, and they’d have me. But on the other hand, who from the Shariah Brigade or Al Qaeda would ever think of looking for someone like me here? There certainly weren’t any black-flag gun trucks cruising around the neighborhood, as there had been at our previous villa.
I liked Massoud’s way of doing things. He was happy to think well outside the box, and for sure this beachside villa beat the cursed Tibesti. To left and right were the kind of easygoing, liberal Libyans who were our natural allies. There were so many kids around, it made me think of my family back home—of Lewis and Laura. In another time and place I could have seen the three of us here on holiday.
But not now.
Now, after the abortive attempt to blow up the Tibesti several things had crystallized for me. One: Whoever the IED team was that was working the city, they had the capacity to build sixty-kilo IEDs. Monsters. Word was that the IED had been a viable device—it was just that the trigger guys hadn’t detonated it. The kind of bomb makers who build sixty-kilo IEDs are real professionals. Two: The target was clear. It was the kind of foreigners who frequented the Tibesti. Three: The message was clear—Westerners, get the hell out of Libya. Well, instead of leaving I’d got me a beachside villa in among the Ramadan party crowd.
That first morning I went for a long run on the beach, then looped back through the peace of the villa complex, which was all partied out. I decided I’d make this an early morning ritual. I spotted a sign for a gym, so hopefully I could start using that as well, plus there was a shop and a restaurant. So far, Massoud’s choice of alternative accommodation was coming up trumps. The only drawback seemed to be that with all the music, fireworks, and high spirits of the neighbors’ partying, I was going to have to sleep with earplugs!
I’d barely made my move to Paradise Villa when Justin, Paul, and Pete had to leave, their time being done. We’d bonded well, considering that we’d worked together only a matter of days and in light of my appalling skills at diplomacy. The evening before he flew out Justin took me aside for a last private word.
“I’ve made some inquiries about the QRF, using all the sources I can tap,” he told me. “Everyone is in total agreement with you and your assessment. I’ve recommended to State that the QRF are replaced with immediate effect.” He shrugged. “What effect that will have I really can’t say though.”
“Great. And thanks.” I was genuinely grateful for the effort he’d made and I wanted him to know that. “That’s real progress from where we were before.”
“I will hand over that recommendation to my replacement RSO,” he continued. “It will say that the QRF are not fit for purpose and need to be removed. Hopefully, you’ll get some movement on this pretty soon now.”
I thanked Justin again for all his efforts. At last the truth about the QRF had been documented to the State Department. I didn’t see how they could ignore it anymore, so maybe we were about to see some changes around here. If only we could get a proper QRF in, then we’d stand a reasonable chan
ce of holding this place and safeguarding Silvio and his staff in the event of an attack. Twelve U.S. Marines. That’s all we needed. That’s all we were seeking.
Surely, that wasn’t too much to ask of Washington?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
During my time at the Mission we’d been through Lee the lone RSO, then take-no-shit Rosie and her team, and now Justin and his guys. As soon as one group learned the ropes they were gone and all seemed forgotten. I was convinced these short rotations contributed massively to the painfully slow pace of change. What the Embassy needed was some real permanence, but it wasn’t about to get it: the new team was scheduled to be yet another month rotation.
I was fully expecting matters to be the same again—that we’d have to relearn all the lessons from scratch—but I was going to be pleasantly surprised. The lead RSO was a guy called Jeff Palmers. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, he had a completely shaved head, and in appearance and attitude he reminded me of a cool, laid-back surfer dude. He wasn’t ex-military, but he’d worked as an RSO in Yemen and just about every other hellhole you could imagine, and Jeff really knew his shit.
He also had a very dry and wicked sense of humor. “So, I hear you’re a big fan of the QRF?” Those were practically his opening words to me. “I hear you’ve taught them everything they know?”
I smiled. “Yeah, I’m their greatest fan. The Seventeenth February Mutant Ninja Turtles Militia—coming to a shopping mall near you soon.”
“Seriously, though, I’ve been made aware you do not trust them?” Jeff probed.
“That’s right. It’s best you make up your own mind and use your own judgment. But like I’ve been saying to all the RSOs before you—we need shot of the militia boys, and in their place we need a proper bunch of kick-ass Marines. A dozen would be about right.”
Jeff nodded. “One thing’s for sure, we need more security guys around here. Nothing else will do it.”
From the get-go I liked the cut of this guy’s jib.
Jeff introduced me to his team—David Ubben and Scott Wickland. Dave was a six-feet-four monster of a guy, with broad shoulders and a swimmer’s physique. He spoke in a relaxed and slow southern drawl and I could tell right away that he was a quiet type. He struck me as being the intelligent guy who thought carefully before he spoke—unlike me, who tends to speak before thinking.