Jet thought back to the ultimatum she’d been faced with and shook her head. “I doubt it. But you said you hardly ever saw David? So he didn’t play a part in it?”
“I suppose we’ll never know, right? He took his secrets to the grave. I suppose he could have identified me as a possible candidate, but that seems pretty cold-blooded…”
Jet recalled David’s decision to rob her of her daughter without telling her, and pursed her lips. “He could be that way. Part of the characteristics that make for a good control, right?”
“Maybe. But like I said, we weren’t in any way close, so I don’t know what he’d hope to achieve. Besides, when I got the offer, I was all pumped up on patriotism and duty. You know how it is when you’re nineteen and the world’s shiny and new.”
Her tone was bitter, and Jet supposed she had a right to be, having spent a thousand days in unimaginable servitude to a monster she despised.
“So you went through training, and then what? Was this your first assignment?”
She laughed. “Hardly. I’d been in the field for almost two years when they came to me with this. It was all very impressive and terribly urgent. The director himself called me to his office and made the pitch. I have to admit I was starstruck. I would have agreed to anything.” She hesitated. “I suppose I did.”
“You did what you had to do, Salma. We’ve all been there.”
“Really? Have you had to be a whore to a man who smells like a goat and whose idea of romantic fun is to hurt you and humiliate you as much as possible? Day after day, week after week, and all to get your hands on some data you wind up losing?”
“I’ve got my share of ugly stories.”
Salma studied her. “I suppose we all do. Sorry. This is just…fresh. Plus knowing the bastard’s still out there, walking around, after putting me through this…”
“He doesn’t exist anymore, Salma. He was just an assignment. An unpleasant one, but he can’t hurt you, and this episode is over.” Jet gave her a sidelong glance. “What do you think you’ll do after this?”
“After Tripoli? To be honest, I want to quit. Maybe backpack across South America or Europe for a year, drink too much wine, maybe meet a handsome stranger who can erase the stink of death from me.”
Jet considered her own adventure and was forced to smile. “Doesn’t sound terrible.”
“Right. But I’ve always heard you don’t get to quit. You’re the first I’ve met who has.”
“Which proves there are exceptions. If you really want out, I can put in a word for you.” Jet paused. “I’d say you’ve paid your dues.”
“Would your support make any difference?” Salma asked.
“Truthfully, it’s hard to know with the director. But it can’t hurt.”
Her eyes widened. “Then you know him?”
Jet nodded. “We’ve met a few times.”
Salma fell silent, lost in thought, until eventually they bounced back onto the road.
“Shouldn’t be long now,” Jet said. “Once we’re in the city, I’ll charge the phone and we’ll get you out of here.”
“Sounds like a dream. I’ll believe it when it happens.”
As they drew closer to Tripoli, traffic fleeing the city increased as a long string of decrepit cars, buses, overloaded trucks, and bicycles clogged the road south. A haze of smoke lingered over the distant horizon, and Salma frowned at the line of pedestrians, many carrying bundles of belongings in the heat like war refugees, trudging toward the desert.
“It wasn’t like this when I was here a few days ago,” Jet said, swerving to avoid an impatient van that had cut into her lane to pass slower vehicles. “This doesn’t look good.”
Salma shook her head. “Even by Libyan standards. Did somebody start a war while you were gone?”
“I don’t know.”
Salma raised the binoculars and studied the road ahead, and tapped Jet’s arm. “There’s a truck with a bunch of gunmen in it. Looks like they’re robbing some of the vehicles.” She winced. “One of them just gunned down a woman who tried to run.”
Jet slowed. “This isn’t our fight.” She glanced around and pointed to some abandoned buildings to the right. “Let’s get off the pavement before they spot us.”
Salma had warned Jet that the truck was a target because of its relatively youthful age and its custom suspension. At night it hadn’t been a problem, but now it stood out among the senile vehicles crawling their way south, and any miscreants would be drawn to it, especially once they saw that there were only two women standing between them and the ride of their life.
Salma continued watching the horrific scene ahead as Jet rolled onto the dirt and crawled toward the buildings, avoiding any kind of speed for fear of throwing up a dust cloud that would attract the thieves. When they reached the structures, which appeared to have been part of an abandoned fuel station and restaurant nearer the road, they remained in the truck, engine idling, AK-47s in hand.
“Let me see the glasses,” Jet said, and Salma handed them to her. She scanned the highway until she spied the truck – actually a pair of them, with a half dozen gunmen in each bed, waving assault rifles at everyone they passed and occasionally shooting someone, seemingly at random. They waited twenty minutes until the killers were well past their position, and then resumed driving, favoring the dirt until they’d put a kilometer between themselves and the threat.
“If you had any questions about how it must be going in Tripoli, that answers them,” Jet said.
Salma shook her head as Jet returned the spyglasses to her. “Long as I’ve been here, I’ve never seen anything like that. Even Sebha, at its worst, wasn’t…this.” She swallowed and switched her rifle’s firing selector to safe before setting it by her knee. “I’m almost afraid of what I’m escaping into.”
“Whatever it is, we’ll get through it. My job is to get you to safety, and I came a long way to do it.”
“But if it’s complete anarchy…”
“There’s always a way, Salma,” Jet said, steel in her tone. “Always.”
“I believe you,” Salma replied, but her expression betrayed her doubts, and she quickly looked away before Jet could see her eyes begin to well with moisture.
Chapter 35
Tripoli Harbor, Libya
Leo wended his way down a side street that led to the harbor, avoiding the main boulevards because of the escalating violence. Occasional gunfire popped in the distance like fireworks, reminding him that his prudence was justified in spite of the pistol in the waistband of his pants at the small of his back, covered by a long linen shirt, and the H&K in a shoulder bag. The few pedestrians he saw appeared terrified, their faces gaunt and their movements furtive, and several toted assault rifles in plain view.
Another call to headquarters had finally resulted in what sounded like a reasonable plan: Leo only needed to find a boat that could make it to an oil rig in international waters, just past the twelve-mile Libyan territorial boundary, where a helicopter from Tunisia would pick Salma up. It sounded simple, but Leo had lived in Libya long enough to know that nothing was ever straightforward and that it was foolish to take anything for granted. Still, it sounded like headquarters had resolved the extraction hurdle, assuming the target wasn’t already dead and could make it through one of the most dangerous hellscapes on earth.
He reached the end of the street and did a double check of his surroundings. Only one more block to the waterfront, and then the hard work would begin. Since the naval base attack, there had been a steady exodus of boats, and he had no idea what remained, much less whether anyone still there would be willing to risk a trip offshore. Nobody had any idea how the forthcoming blockade would work, but it wasn’t a stretch to believe that any craft that attempted to exit Libyan waters would be sunk, the risk of it carrying the nerve agent too great to chance a less drastic outcome. The smuggling trade had always been more of a game to the locals than anything, but the prospect of death was enough to blunt the
avariciousness of even the most adventurous trafficker.
A lorry clattered by, and Leo darted across the intersection and hurried down the block in search of a less public thoroughfare. Before the power had gone out a few hours earlier, the radio had warned inhabitants to remain indoors until the government was able to contain what the announcer euphemistically referred to as “the unrest.” Leo understood the implicit code in the broadcast – that nobody would be stupid enough to show up for duty if it meant a day of nonstop gun battles with criminals who had nothing to lose, so the citizenry was on its own while the government either retreated to its privileged enclaves protected by high walls and massive firepower, or had winged its way to safety with the wealth of the nation in Cayman Islands accounts.
He spotted another narrow byway between two buildings and made for it. When he reached it, he paused at the sight of a pair of men making their way toward him, their robes billowing, making it easy for them to conceal weapons. His hand moved to his pistol, and his fingers locked on the butt, and his thumb felt for the safety and flicked it off.
The men neared, and Leo could see they were as fearful of him as he was of them. He relaxed when he saw they were older, perhaps in their fifties, their beards streaked with gray; not the profile of the jihadis or militia that plagued the capital. Leo nodded to them as they walked by, and they returned the gesture, their faces tight with apprehension.
He crossed the wide boulevard that ran along the water, which was deserted. At the wharf, Leo’s shoulders sagged when he saw the paucity of boats in the harbor. Where before there had been over a hundred craft that could have been suitable candidates for his trip, now there were only a couple of dozen, many of which were in various states of disrepair from neglect. He scanned the waterfront, wary of threats, but the walkway was empty, and even the navy barracks appeared devoid of life, the personnel carriers gone, the flagpole barren.
Leo made his way to the side of the harbor where most of the smaller craft were moored, and spotted several that might work for his errand. One, a fifteen-meter open fishing boat, appeared serviceable, and Leo waved to the man in the stern, who had the outboard motor tilted out of the water, its engine cover off.
The man waved back, and Leo cupped his hands and called to him, “How’s it going?”
“Good, I guess. Except for the city coming apart. Soon as I get this thing fixed, I’m out of here.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Dies after running for a minute. I think it’s maybe the fuel filter. Or something in the injection.”
“How long you think it’ll take to repair it?”
The man frowned. “If I knew that, I’d be a mechanic, not a fisherman.”
Leo digested that and nodded agreeably. “You interested in making some money?”
The fisherman studied Leo more closely before answering. “Right now I’m more interested in saving my skin. But what did you have in mind?”
“A run out to one of the oil rigs.”
“When?”
Leo mulled over the question. “Maybe tonight. Or tomorrow.”
The fisherman shook his head. “I’m out of here by then, assuming this thing will run. Things are going nowhere but down. I don’t want to stick around to see how it ends.”
“I don’t blame you. But maybe for the right price…?”
The fisherman went back to work on the engine. “Sorry. I’m not your man. Gotta be alive to spend it.”
Leo continued along the waterfront and then spun with pistol in hand when running footsteps sounded from behind him. A man in his early twenties froze, hands in the air at the sight of the gun.
“Don’t shoot!” he exclaimed.
“What do you want?” Leo asked, keeping the pistol trained on him.
“I heard you talking to Jasim. My father may be willing to help you.”
Leo’s eyebrows rose. “May? What do you mean by help? I need a boat.”
“He has one.”
“Which one?”
The man slowly lowered his hands and pointed at a Zodiac inflatable Leo estimated to be at least twelve meters long. “It’s fast and stable.”
“What business did you say your father’s in?”
The man smirked. “Not fishing. Can you put the gun away?”
Leo looked at the weapon and replaced it at the small of his back. “There.”
“How much are you offering?”
“You said your father owns the boat? Maybe I can discuss it with him.”
The young man’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded. “I can take you to meet him.”
“How far is it?”
“Not very. My name’s Ahmed.”
“Lead the way, Ahmed.”
They walked three blocks and arrived at a home in the old city across the street from a mosque. Ahmed held the door for Leo, who waited for him to lock it behind him. They walked up a flight of stone steps, and Ahmed invited him to sit at an antique Italianate table with four chairs. Leo did, and a minute later the young man returned with an older version of himself, their facial similarities and height confirming they were father and son. The older man sat across from Leo and scowled at him for a long moment before speaking.
“My son tells me you’re looking for a boat.”
Leo leaned forward. “Something seaworthy to transport a friend to one of the oil rigs.”
“Why would anyone want to do such a thing?”
“What matters is she wants to.”
“How many passengers?”
“Just one.”
“Refugee?”
Leo shrugged. “Does it matter?”
The father studied Leo. “It will be expensive. And I only deal in gold.”
That was typical of many of the merchants in Tripoli since the collapse. The local dinar was useful for daily transactions, but for storing wealth, gold was the preferred method, with the dollar and euro a distant second. Libyans had a healthy distrust of accepting debt notes and using them as currency, and the old ways had persevered.
“How much?” Leo asked.
“When do you want to leave?”
“Tonight or tomorrow.”
The father’s eyebrows rose. “You’re not sure? I wouldn’t wait if I were you. There are some big changes afoot.”
“So I see.”
The father considered Leo. “Ten ounces.”
Leo debated bargaining with the man, but the expression on his face indicated that he understood that it was a seller’s market, and wasn’t going to engage in the usual dickering over price.
“Done.” Leo felt in his back pocket and removed a single gold Krugerrand and set it on the table. “You’ll get the rest when we’re at the boat. How do I contact you?”
“There’s no cell service, so you’ll have to call the landline. My name is Mahdi.” He rose and retrieved a pen and piece of notepaper from a nearby bookshelf and scribbled a number. “Call me three hours before you want to depart.”
Leo took it. “Do you have a problem running at night?”
Mahdi grinned. “I do most of my best work in the dark.”
Leo stood. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Only out to the oil rig. No farther, and no exceptions, understand?”
Leo nodded. “Perfectly.”
Chapter 36
South of Tripoli, Libya
The truck bounced along the rugged terrain, its custom suspension dampening though not eliminating the jarring from the ride. Salma scanned the road to their left with the binoculars and then passed them to Jet, who took them one-handed, steering with the other.
“Looks like we’ve attracted some attention,” Salma said. “A truck. Loaded with ugly. Up ahead.”
“The dust must have given us away.” Jet looked around. “See anywhere we can hide?”
“There’s a bombed-out building to our right about a half kilometer. But if they’ve already seen us…”
“We don’t know if they’re using radios or not. If we’
re going to have to get into it, I’d rather contain it to one truck and one place.”
“Good point. Thank God we’ve got plenty of ammo.”
“Be better if we didn’t have to use it.”
Jet slowed so the dust cloud behind them was minimized, and headed for the ruins Salma had identified. As they neared, Jet could see that all that remained of the building were partial walls – the rest had been hit by explosives, judging by the damage and scorch marks.
She skidded to a stop behind the structure and grabbed her AK and saddlebag, which held five magazines taken from Mounir’s men. Salma did the same, and then they sprinted for the rubble after a glance over their shoulders at the approaching dust from the enemy truck.
Jet hissed a warning to Salma. “Looks like they’re on a mission. This time we’ll hit them with everything we have before they get a chance to get too close. If we’re lucky, we can take most of them out on their way in.” She chambered a round in the AK and looked to Salma. “You ready to do this?”
Salma rested her rifle on a crumbled stretch of wall and sighted on the truck. “Say the word.”
“Don’t burn through ammunition unnecessarily,” Jet warned. “Single fire. We’re likely far better shots than they are, so distance will work to our advantage.”
Jet waited until the truck was a hundred meters away. “Three…two…one…fire!”
Both women began shooting at the truck, which made an easy target since it was pointed directly at them. Rounds struck the windshield in starbursts of glass, and then steam exploded from the radiator where a bullet had punched a hole. They continued firing as the driver swerved to the side, obviously shocked by the unexpected attack, and the truck lost its center and seemed to tip in slow motion before landing on its side and throwing the gunmen in the bed clear.
Most landed hard, and Jet concentrated her fire on picking off the ones who were moving while Salma continued focusing her shots on the cab. Jet’s magazine ran dry before Salma’s, and she fished a fresh one from the saddlebag while Salma continued to pummel anything around the truck with jacketed rounds.
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