“Ten thousand dollars,” he said. “It’s the preferred currency here. Nobody trusts the local dinars. Worse than worthless, although the exchange rate is close to one to one outside Tripoli. I put a few hundred dinars in there, just in case.”
“Thanks. How about a map?”
“There’s only one road to Sebha. No map required. Head south.”
Jet removed her dark blue abaya and donned a beige one from the saddlebags, and Leo handed her an off-road helmet. “You going to do it daytime or night?”
“I don’t like the idea of announcing my approach with a headlight, so I’ll suffer through the heat.”
Leo depressed the starter button and the engine purred to life. “You do know how to ride one, right?”
“I’ll figure it out. Awfully quiet, isn’t it?”
“We modified the muffler. Figured you didn’t want your motor giving you away in the desert.”
“Any idea where I need to start worrying about ambushes and roadblocks?”
He shook his head. “The truckers say that some days, the road’s wide open. Others, there’ll be one or two random stops where they have to pay a ‘toll.’ No rhyme or reason to it. But I’d stay alert from the time you leave the city limits. With the attack, we may be entering a new phase – someone making a major move.”
“Good to know.” She slipped on the helmet, lifted her robe, and wedged the pistol into the waistband of her pants along with the spare mags in her various pockets. She retrieved the knife and flicked it open, examined the blade, and pocketed it before climbing on the motorcycle. “Anything else?”
“You’ve got three liters of gas in the left saddlebag, which you’ll know from the color. Other than that, good luck. My number’s programmed into your sat phone. Speed dial one.”
“Super.” She toed the bike into gear and eased it forward to the roll-up door. Leo raised it by pulling on a chain, and Jet twisted the throttle. The motorcycle lunged forward like an attack dog, and then she was streaking from the warehouse, throwing a cloud of dust behind her on the deserted street.
Chapter 10
La Línea de la Concepción, Spain
A white cargo van crept along the Calle Canarias, its exhaust a low rumble. Traffic was sparse at the early hour, with the dimpled surface of the Alboran Sea to the southwest gilded by the rising sun.
The driver was a heavyset man with a dark complexion and a kinky black beard; the passenger was gaunt, with a goatee and a NY Yankees baseball cap perched sideways atop his head. Music that sounded like a cat being stuffed into a wood chipper howled from the radio over the motor’s steady drone, and the driver tapped sausage-like fingers on the steering wheel to the polyrhythmic beat as he drove.
“What’s that?” the passenger asked, squinting at the road ahead. They were nearing the marina, where a car was half over the curb, its hood crumpled.
“Looks like a drunk hit a tree,” the driver said with a laugh.
“It probably jumped in front of him.”
A siren whooped behind the van, and the driver’s gaze flitted to the side mirror, where the flashing lights of a police car were coloring the rear doors. The driver’s expression darkened and he reached for the volume control to turn down the music. “Trouble.”
The passenger raised a two-way to his lips. “Just stay cool,” he warned. “Our paperwork’s in order.”
“Why are they pulling us over?” a voice demanded from the tinny speaker.
“Don’t know. Maybe bored. Routine check. Nothing to worry about.”
The driver braked and pulled over just ahead of the wreck. The police car stopped behind it, and a pair of uniformed cops got out and approached either side of the van, hands on their holstered pistols. The one on the driver’s side stopped by the window and regarded the driver with a sour expression.
“Driver’s license and registration,” he demanded in Spanish.
“Sure. But what did I do?”
“Papers,” the cop repeated gruffly.
“Okay. Here,” the driver said, pulling his wallet from his rear pocket while the cop watched, and handing him his license. “Registration’s in the glove compartment,” he said to the passenger, who opened the hatch to retrieve it.
“Nice and easy,” the other cop said from the passenger window.
“Right,” the passenger said.
“You have any ID?” the first cop asked the passenger.
“Um, yeah. But why? I’m not driving.”
“Let’s see it.”
The passenger froze. “Which do you want first? My license or the registration?”
“Registration. Keep your hands where we can see them.”
The passenger passed the registration to the driver, who handed it to the cop on his side, and then withdrew his wallet from his back pocket and extracted a Spanish driver’s license. He gave it to the officer, who joined his partner a few meters from the van. They had a brief discussion, and the first cop called in their ID on his radio while the second stood with his arms crossed, staring at the van expectantly.
When they returned to the vehicle, their faces were hard. “Right,” the first said. “Out of the car. Both of you.”
“What have we done, officer?” the driver asked.
“Shut off the engine and step out of the vehicle. We’re checking your documents.”
The driver and passenger exchanged a glance and opened their doors and climbed out. The first cop pointed to a spot by the parked patrol car. “Sit over there.”
“Why are we being detained?” the driver demanded. “Everything’s in order. We weren’t speeding. What is this?”
“Routine check. I’m sure you’ll be on your way shortly.”
The second cop radioed in the crashed car behind them and walked over to examine the wreckage while his partner watched the two from beside the van. The driver’s side door was unlocked and the car was empty. The cop shook his head in weary resignation. “Driver bolted. Might be stolen.”
“Nothing back on it yet?”
“Nope. Must be slow at headquarters.”
A second squad car swung around the corner and parked behind the first. Two more officers stepped from the cruiser just as the first cop’s radio squawked and a female voice spoke in rapid-fire Spanish. The cops listened intently and then looked to the driver and passenger before approaching them.
“The docs checked out. What are you doing on the road at this hour?”
“Driving, obviously,” the driver said. “Making deliveries.”
“What’s in the back of the van?” the second cop asked.
“Dry goods for the boats. We’re on our way–”
The driver’s explanation was interrupted by the rear door of the van bursting open and Tariq opening fire with an FN P90 bullpup submachine gun. The first rounds caught the two closest officers in the torso and sent them sprawling backward as the driver and passenger dove for cover. A stray round caught the driver in the throat, sending a wash of blood onto the asphalt, and a ricochet wounded the passenger in the shoulder as Tariq emptied the fifty-round magazine, cutting down the remaining pair of cops while they scrambled to free their pistols.
The bolt snapped open, the magazine spent, and Tariq leapt from the van and sprinted to where the first cops lay. He unholstered one of their pistols and fired a round point-blank into the nearest man’s head, and then did the same to the second, who was gasping for breath. He then strode to the other fallen cops and executed them the same way before returning to where the driver and passenger were sprawled on the pavement.
The driver was obviously dead, lying in a small lake of blood, but the passenger was still breathing, though his chest was laboring and his face drawn from pain. His eyes widened when Tariq raised the pistol, and he held out his hands defensively and managed a “No!”
The sharp crack of the handgun echoed down the street, and then Tariq was running as fast as he could, making for the marina half a kilometer away. He reached it in minu
tes and raced down to the docks, where an eighteen-meter commercial fishing scow was waiting with its lone diesel engine burbling. Tariq jammed the pistol into his waistband at the small of his back and descended the gangplank to approach the boat. When he reached it, he called to the captain in the wheelhouse.
“Morning. I’m your passenger,” he said.
“Heard shooting just now,” the captain said.
“Did you? Probably a car backfiring. You ready to cast off?”
The captain nodded and called to the two deckhands. “Let’s get underway. Untie and stow the lines.”
Tariq stepped onto the rear deck and watched as the men quickly unfastened the dock lines and tossed them onto the deck before climbing aboard. The captain put the engine in gear and twisted the wheel while he pushed the throttle forward, and the heavy boat eased away from the dock and puttered toward the harbor mouth.
“How long will it take to get to Morocco?” Tariq asked.
“Two, two and a half hours. Should be smooth sailing. Weather’s clear, with hardly any wind, so the crossing between Gibraltar and Ceuta should be an easy one.”
“That’s good. I get seasick.”
“You can go below if it’ll help.”
Tariq shook his head. “No. I’ll stay up here. The fresh air will do me good.”
“Whatever you want.” The captain glanced over his shoulder at his men and then back to Tariq. “You have the other half?”
Tariq pulled a wad of euros from his front pocket and handed it to the captain, who tossed it on the console beside the compass. “We’ll be cruising at about twelve knots with the wind at our backs.”
“Are there any patrol boats to worry about?”
He shook his head. “No. I guaranteed you safe passage. Nobody will stop us. They know the boat.”
Tariq nodded. The captain had a nice sideline to fishing that included ferrying hashish and heroin from Morocco to Spain, as well as refugees who could afford his high fee. Business had been so good that it had been years since he’d actually tried to catch any fish, but he still maintained pretenses by keeping his nets in ready shape and going out multiple times per week with no destination or cargo in mind. The deckhands were cousins who shared in the spoils, and between them they made a handsome living in one of the oldest businesses on earth, even after paying off the coast guard and customs inspectors in both ports.
“Good to hear,” Tariq said, and turned to gaze skyward, where four pelicans had taken up position a dozen yards off the stern. The birds hovered in the light breeze as though kites being towed by the boat, riding the updrafts with stoic calm. Tariq’s lips tugged into a tight smile, and he sighed contentedly. “Nice day for a boat ride, I’ll give you that.”
“We’ve got coffee or tea down below, if you want some. And rum if you favor something stronger.”
“No. I’m good. Thanks,” Tariq said, and walked to the rear deck. He sat against a pile of heavy line, the sun on his face, the salt air and pungent aroma of diesel a kind of ambrosia after years locked in a cell. The pistol jabbed the base of his spine, and he shifted to get comfortable, there being more than enough time to decide whether to kill the captain and his cousins when they were close to their destination or allow them to live as reward for carrying out their task.
Chapter 11
Al Aziziyah, Libya
The sun was a fireball in the azure sky when Jet rode through Al Aziziyah, whose dubious claim to fame was as the hottest place on earth. She was keenly aware of eyes tracking her as she coasted along the highway that was also the main boulevard through the town. Her odometer told her that the entire stretch was no more than a kilometer of buildings that looked like they were in the final stages of collapse, many with windows blown out and bullet holes pocking the façades from battles waged as the Qaddafi regime had folded and the insurgency had gained traction.
Jet’s overall impression was beige. Beige buildings, beige sand, beige soil in the agricultural plots that she’d ridden through from Tripoli, the road coated with beige dust, beige rubble lining the highway from where structures had collapsed during fighting that had never truly come to an end.
Men with assault rifles sat in front of shops, sipping tea at rickety tables, their guns leaning beside them, weapons of war as essential a part of their wardrobes as their sandals. The cars that lined the road made the rolling wrecks of Tripoli look like luxury vehicles, and she instinctively gave the throttle a wrench to speed her past the town center. The only undamaged buildings in sight were the minarets of the local mosques.
Once through the town, she followed the road signs to the continuation of the highway south, the name Sabha, the local spelling of Sebha, figuring prominently above graffiti and bullet holes in the metal slabs. As the sad string of dwellings that comprised the outlying portion of Al Aziziyah flew past, she inhaled a draft of arid swelter off the desert, which spread before her as far as she could see in an endless reach of beige sand dunes, some as large as hills. She squinted as she picked up speed, her lips dry and the vibration from the motorcycle’s handlebars throbbing up her arms, the motor as steady as a metronome beneath her.
An hour out, she pulled off the road and checked her fuel against the distance she’d covered. She topped off the tank with one of the bottles of reddish gasoline and pitched it aside, and after a breakfast of desiccated granola bar washed down with a liter of coffee-temperature water, climbed on the bike and resumed her ride, scanning the road ahead for any sign of danger.
Jet rode through the town of Garyan, which looked like it had been even more devastated by fighting than Al Aziziyah, and didn’t stop even though there was a lone gas station with a line of cars sitting in front of it. She hadn’t burned enough fuel that it would be worth the risk to draw attention to herself, and opted instead to speed through as fast as possible, leaving the inhospitable berg behind as she headed into the unknown.
She passed only a few trucks headed north, their stacks belching black exhaust like steel dragons, most empty on the return trip from carrying goods to the desert. Several of the drivers sounded their horns or waved as she rode by, which Jet interpreted as friendly, the camaraderie of the road especially strong when at any moment the next traveler might be the one to save your life if you were stranded.
The heat rose as the sun climbed overhead, with the wind that had been at least moderately refreshing in the morning now the relentless blast of a furnace. She stopped again, drained another bottle of water, and removed her pants and shirt, taking care to fold and stow them in the saddlebags before continuing, willing to risk her lower legs being sunburned where the robe failed to cover them versus broiling alive. She debated for several moments and then wrapped her belt around her waist and slipped the pistol into it, unwilling to surrender the weapon to a saddlebag, where she’d be unable to reach it in a hurry.
The terrain changed from endless miles of desert to beige hills, the sides carved into canyons by the wind and long-forgotten flooding. Jet banked the motorcycle along the curves, slowing as they grew tighter, wary of ambush – on the long, straight road it would be easy to see a raiding party from far away, but here gunmen could lie in wait without being spotted until it was too late. She didn’t think it was likely that anyone would be out in the blistering heat, but she didn’t want to discover the hard way that she’d underestimated the desperation of a local force and ride smack into them. She downshifted and forced herself to be prudent, fighting her instinct to speed along as fast as she dared.
When she finally reached Qaryat, it turned out to be a scattering of mud-brick homes, a few roadside stalls, and a gutted building with a pair of men sitting beside an ancient Datsun pickup with a large plastic container in the bed. A sign announced gas for sale, and Jet coasted to a stop at the truck and bargained for them to fill her tank, which they did with a hose after considerable dickering, the exchange seeming to amuse them no end. Jet figured they didn’t see many women on motorcycles riding through the wasteland,
so she could appreciate their good humor, but if anything, the heat was more oppressive standing in the shade with no breeze than on the bike, and she was back in the saddle and racing away moments after handing them a fistful of dinars and restarting the engine.
After Qaryat she was truly in the desert, with nothing but sand to the horizons. The road ahead was distorted by shimmering heat waves that looked to her tearing eyes like ghostly dancing snakes. She blinked away the mirage and concentrated on maintaining her focus, aware that in the heat her dehydrated mind would be prone to wander.
As she approached the desert town of Ash Shwayrif, she spotted a truck stopped in the middle of the highway ahead, with what looked like ants swarming around it. She braked to a near stop and the chatter of an assault rifle reached her – the weapon was unlikely to hit her at the range, but it sent a reliable signal that the boring part of her trip had come to an abrupt end. Jet wheeled onto the sand to her right and gunned the throttle, sending a spray into the air behind her as she put Leo’s claims about the bike to the test. After fifty meters she spotted a trail through the dunes that ran perpendicular to electric towers carrying power from north to south, and she pointed the handlebars at the strip as she fought to maintain stability on the uncertain terrain.
She reached the trail and the motorcycle stabilized as she found herself on a dirt road that had been forged by the power company to access the towers. The engine roared as she picked up speed, and she was soon flying along the flat surface, a beige cloud behind her the only evidence of her passage. Jet continued to accelerate until she was clocking a hundred and twenty kilometers per hour. She leaned forward over the handlebars to reduce wind drag, her breathing raw inside the helmet. The track was almost completely straight, and she continued at the insane speed until it doglegged toward the road almost ten kilometers from where she’d left it, Ash Shwayrif at least six kilometers back, and hopefully the militia that had blocked the road well behind.
Sahara Page 6