Tariq’s group had leveraged this warm regard and advanced him to be a viable candidate to lead the country out of the quagmire in which it found itself, installing Sharia law and operating the nation’s oil industry for the benefit of the citizenry rather than the multinational oil companies that had swooped in within nanoseconds of Qaddafi being toppled. Whereas Tariq was perceived as a dangerous terrorist threat by the West, the internal perception was that he was a visionary who could lead Libya back to greatness by standing up to the imperialist forces that had installed a puppet government to rubber-stamp their agenda, and by ridding the country of the multinational corporations that were exploiting the natural resources while the population languished.
Whether it was true or not was immaterial. What mattered was how his faction could seize control of the city without serious opposition – something only a group that had the lion’s share of the people behind it could hope to do. Tariq’s clan had quietly spread the word among the disenfranchised that he would soon return to Libya to take his rightful position on the throne, and the reception had been enthusiastic; not surprising given the squalor most lived in since the regime change. The prospect of drinkable water and an environment where the lawless couldn’t terrorize everyone was enough for most to support Tariq’s group after years of misery and conditions that were beyond most people’s comprehension.
A rousing cheer went up from the crowd when Tariq’s convoy came into view, and several of the armed fired their weapons into the air in triumph. Some of the gunmen in the approaching truck beds did the same, and grown men had tears of joy streaming down their faces, so overcome were they with emotion.
The trucks rolled to a stop, and four gunmen descended from the two lead vehicles and took up position beside the third. That truck’s doors opened and Tariq stepped out, his travel garments replaced by a pristine white robe so bright in the sunlight he appeared to glow. He basked in the adulation for a solid minute and then held up his hands to quiet the throng. The excited chatter and screams faded to a dull murmur, and he beamed at the gathering before speaking.
“My brothers, it has been a long road to Tripoli, but I am finally here! And it feels better than anything I could have imagined!”
More cheers and shouts, and he paused until the group quieted.
“In the last days I have been all over our country, and it is a shambles – rendered a disaster by those who have usurped our national power and are operating the nation as their own private plantation. I have seen girls barely as tall as my chest reduced to selling their bodies just to eat. I have seen boys doing the same. I have seen lifelong friends murdering each other for control over little more than nothing. I have seen suffering that defies the imagination, and I am here to promise that it is time for it to stop!”
The crowd roared its approval, and Tariq continued to smile at his acolytes until they fell silent.
“Today is the dawn of a new time. An era of boundless prosperity for all, where we can walk down the street without fearing for our lives, where our women can live lives of virtue and honor, where our children are safe and have a chance for a better future. But it will not be easy. No, our country has enemies that have become its masters. That must stop if we are ever to return to our glory days – glory days that took place under my namesake’s rule. I am here to continue his work, to raise us as a whole to greatness, and to banish those who have turned our home into a hell on earth. My message to you is clear. The days of Libya being a prostitute to Western interests are over. We will not live like slaves any longer. Those days are done, and this is now our time to rise up and throw off our chains!”
This time the cheering went on for minutes, and Tariq allowed the gathered to express their support without interruption. He spent another ten minutes speaking of a new era, led by himself, and then looked to Akmal, who ran the Tripoli cell of his group.
“I am tired,” Tariq said. “Overjoyed at seeing our people, but tired nonetheless.”
“We have taken the royal palace. You will be safe there.”
He shook his head. “No. That is one of the things my predecessor did wrong. I am Berber. I belong to the desert, not to edifices raised for obscene glory. I will stay somewhere that reminds me of my humility and good fortune, not of ostentatious displays under the old regime. The people must see that I am one of them, and that my power stems from them. So find me someplace simple that can be defended against all enemies, and that is where I will lay my head.”
Akmal exhaled in frustration. “It will be difficult to safeguard you anywhere but the palace. We’ve made all the arrangements.”
Tariq shook his head. “I fear nothing.”
“Your adversaries will do anything to remove you. And the West…”
Tariq waved the comment away. “The West has no power over us.”
“They have shut down all cell and internet communications and have threatened to cut the city’s power. They are also warning that a blockade is going to be put into place, and we will be completely isolated.”
Tariq lifted a hand as if to block any further objections. “I know all this. But I have a plan. Speaking of which, I want to see the boat that will carry the refugees north before it leaves tonight.” He paused. “We can’t afford another disaster.”
“Of course. We can head there after we find someplace to use as our headquarters, if the palace is out of the question.”
“We can occupy one of the surrounding buildings. Something utilitarian and simple. I don’t want the people to think that I am going to live like a sultan. I am one of them, nothing more. They need to see that, or they will grow resentful.”
“We shall make it so.” Akmal turned to his gunmen and shouted orders in Arabic. The men scrambled to drive back the mob so the convoy could pass, and Tariq gave a final wave and walked back to his truck, his shoulders squared and his head held high.
His plan, preposterous as it might have initially appeared, was viable. Western countries had sworn never to deal with those they defined as terrorists, yet they had shown their hypocrisy time and time again, supporting the most brutal dictatorships in the world. What had determined his course of action was reading a book on Yasser Arafat while in prison, and how he’d gone from being one of the most hated terrorist figures in the Middle East to an elder statesman.
There was no reason Tariq could see that he couldn’t achieve the same end. As long as the nerve agent wasn’t directly traced to him, he had plausible deniability, while wielding the unspoken threat that if he was responsible for it, there was more where it had come from, and he wasn’t afraid to use it. Much as the CIA-created ISIS and al-Qaeda had served as a pretense for the U.S. to wage devastating wars in Syria, Iraq, and Afghanistan, Tariq’s militant group could be separated from his political form and marginalized as a fringe element that he had nothing to do with. Nobody would believe it, but that didn’t matter – he understood from careful study that all government was a game of liar’s poker anyway, and all history was the winner’s account.
He climbed back into the truck, looked at the driver, and growled instructions. “Follow their vehicles. Once we’re rested, we’ll head to the harbor.”
The convoy eventually wound up at a large private home near the French embassy, owned by a supporter of Tariq’s who lived full-time in Algiers. It was a multistory building with eight bedrooms, solid as a fort, and although not ideally defended, adequate for the purpose. Tariq managed a few hours of sleep in one of the bedrooms, exhausted after the trip and a longer-than-planned sojourn in Sebha, where he’d spent a full day negotiating with the various warlords who controlled the area, and proposed an arrangement where they would have positions of influence in his new government versus being hunted down like dogs by his forces. By the time he’d concluded the discussions, it had been late at night, and they’d driven straight through to Tripoli, their progress slowed by several encounters with militia who’d attempted to charge them the toll they extracted from the truck
ers who braved the desert route.
A knock at the door awakened him, and he rubbed sleep from his eyes before sitting up and calling out, “What?”
The door opened and Akmal poked his head in. “There’s a problem at the harbor. They’re working on it, but it’s unlikely the boat will leave tonight.”
Tariq’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of problem?”
“The engine. They need to source a part for the transmission. They swear it won’t take long.”
“What about another boat?”
“All the larger craft are gone. Anyone with money has left the country.”
“How about Zuwara?” Tariq asked.
Akmal shook his head. “Nothing but small wooden fishing boats. They’d never make it with the weather kicking up.”
“And the cargo? It must make it to Italy before the blockade is able to stop it.”
“I know. We’re doing everything we can.”
Tariq nodded. “See to it that it’s enough. This cannot fail. It’s an integral part of my strategy.”
“I won’t let you down.”
Tariq’s eyes bored into him like lasers. “I hope for your sake you don’t.”
Chapter 33
Brussels, Belgium
The massive conference room at NATO headquarters on the Rue de la Fusée was packed with high-ranking officials from all the member nations. The atmosphere was tense, and the discussions that had been ongoing for the last hour were going nowhere – not unusual when contentious issues were under consideration.
The United States representative had made the case for a naval blockade of Libya and had waxed eloquently for fifteen minutes about its need. The U.S. Navy lacked sufficient resources to fully block the waters off Libya, and required international support to do so – support that had been withheld by several of the key members.
The French attaché sat forward and adjusted the microphone before him before speaking.
“That may be, Mr. Ambassador,” he said, addressing his American counterpart. “However, reports from our sources on the ground are that your country’s unilateral actions against Libya are already resulting in a substantial crisis, which will only worsen should there be a blockade. Whole areas of Tripoli are without power, looting is widespread, the local government has gone missing, and the situation is deteriorating. To impose a complete blockade would result in untold hardship, not to mention that the…the optics, I believe you call them, would be disastrous.”
The American ambassador frowned before responding, “We’ve been through all of this, Ambassador Leroux, and we don’t make our demand lightly. But if you don’t want this nerve agent employed against European targets, a naval blockade is essential. Minutes count. Even now there are hundreds of boats making their way from Libya, and any one of them, or most of them, could be carrying payloads like that discovered by our esteemed Italian partners. Do you really want to risk a terrorist attack with a bioweapon in, say, downtown Paris? Or Cannes, or Nice, or Marseilles?” He paused. “I can assure you that the…optics…of that would be far worse than anything you can imagine arising from the blockade. Which we wouldn’t have proposed if it weren’t necessary.”
“What evidence do you have that there is any more of this agent in Libya?” the Frenchman fired back. “Is it not mere speculation that more exists?”
The American ambassador’s lips tightened. “We have to assume that it does.”
The Italian representative smirked. “Assume? How did that work out in Iraq? Frankly, it will be extremely difficult to convince my government to go along with any unproven assumptions given your recent track record. My superiors are against a unilateral blockade, and we have legitimate concerns about putting NATO’s resources to work in a manner that will be perceived as tantamount to genocide by many in the developing world.”
“Your government is the one that alerted us to the threat in the first place. Yet now you’re reluctant to stop more of the agent from reaching your shores?” The American ambassador shook his head. “What would it take for you to cooperate and dedicate the required resources?”
“More than empty speculations,” the French representative snapped. “We’re already contending with a huge immigration problem caused by American adventures in Iraq and Syria. We don’t need our interests in Africa to be jeopardized. My government would never go along with anything that could worsen an already precarious situation.”
“Gentlemen, this isn’t about appearances. We know that terrorists have this bioweapon. They’ve already used it in Tripoli, which is what is actually responsible for the current chaos, not our asking Algeria and Tunisia to close the borders. It was calculated to do maximum damage and to send a message. The fishing boat was an accident. Had it not been, we would right now be discussing how to react to thousands dead somewhere in Europe, with the threat of more to follow. Ask yourselves what the reaction would be to that. Or imagine that the responsible parties decided to target the airport here in Brussels at a time when we’re all on our way home. Or a meeting of the EU. Forget sporting events or mass transit – imagine if you were targeted, or your families.” He paused. “How concerned with the optics would your governments be if their headquarters were at risk?”
“As a practical matter, it would take at least two days to get our ships into position,” the Italian said. “We couldn’t just pull everything from our coast. It would have to be thought through. And the logistics of trying to seal off over a quarter of the northern coastline of Africa are incalculable.”
“Our people say that it would be virtually impossible to stop all traffic,” the Frenchman added.
The American nodded once. “Fair enough. So what’s your proposal? Just wait until you have the mother of all bioweapon attacks on European soil? I’m actually tempted to acquiesce and wish you well when it happens. It’s not like I haven’t tried to get your governments to see reason.” He looked around the room. “This will be remembered when the time comes for my government to cooperate with yours on some important matter. But if you don’t care about stopping a crisis in the making by taking prudent precautions, I won’t force you. You can explain to your citizens after the fact about how you knew and understood the threat, but were willing to allow the catastrophe to occur rather than taking action.”
He pushed back from the table and began gathering his things as his assistants fidgeted and studied their shoes. The Italian sighed and looked to his French colleague.
“The matter isn’t settled,” he said. “Allow me a few hours to convey your thoughts to my people.”
“I shall need to speak with my superiors as well,” the Frenchman added. “Please give us the time to form a consensus. Acting rashly will serve none of us well.”
The American ambassador’s face could have been carved from basalt. “A reasonable request. Shall we reconvene in…three hours?”
The room cleared, and the U.S. ambassador walked with his subordinates toward the main exit.
“What do you think?” he asked his chief aide.
“The French will get on board. They have no choice. They’re just being difficult because they can.”
The ambassador snorted and allowed himself a trace of a smile. “They always are, until Germany decides it wants Paris as a suburb, or Russia points missiles at them. Then all of a sudden we can’t answer the phone fast enough. You think this will be it, or will we have to suffer through another round of this nonsense?”
“Hard to read the Italians. My gut says with the populist movement in play there, they don’t go along. It’s just a hunch.”
“I hope you’re wrong. They’ve got the most ships available in the region.” He hesitated. “I shouldn’t say this, but that smug prick always seems like he’s lying through his teeth, even when he’s agreeing with us.”
“They’re just taking orders, like we all are.”
“As I recall, that wasn’t much of a defense at Nuremburg.”
The young aide’s brow furrowed a
t the reference. “Pardon?”
The ambassador waved a hand as he pushed through the door. “Never mind.”
Chapter 34
South of Tripoli, Libya
The truck rumbled along the road as it neared Tripoli, its oversized tires accommodating the miserable condition of the asphalt with ease. Jet yawned; the three hours of sleep she’d gotten before dawn were inadequate, but the best she was going to see until they reached the port city. Salma had dozed on the trip north, but Jet hadn’t trusted her to drive while she slept given her weakened condition and the ordeal she’d endured escaping her husband, as well as at the hands of the slavers.
She was now awake, their latest run on the sand to evade a militia blockade having jarred her from her sleep, and she wiped the sweat from her face with the back of her arm as a sea of endless beige blurred by.
Jet studied the fuel gauge, which read just below a quarter tank, and nodded to herself. They had enough to make it, but just barely. She hadn’t dared stop for fuel – if Mounir had the kinds of contacts Salma claimed, he could well have communicated with his kindred to the north and arranged for an unpleasant welcoming committee. But the truck sipped gas when kept to a reasonable speed, and her concern lessened as they reduced the remaining distance they needed to travel.
“How did you wind up with the Mossad?” Jet asked, curious about the parts of Salma’s past that hadn’t been in the dossier.
“I suppose the usual. I was doing my stint with the IDF, and they approached me. You know the drill. Probably much the same way they recruited you.”
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