“It wouldn’t be the first time,” said Tombstone.
“In 1989, the Libyan secret services put a bomb in a rigged suitcase aboard a UTA flight from Libreville to N’Djamena and Paris. It blew up over the Ténéré region, killing everyone on board. The Libyans had heard that a notorious opponent of Colonel Qaddafi would be on the flight. Luckily for him, he missed the plane. But the other passengers died. For nothing.”
A hush descended on the CIA station chief’s office. It was wearing a black armband.
“But it must be easy to kill somebody in a city like Cairo,” said Malko.
“That’s right, but the targeted assassination of a Libyan in Cairo would have embarrassed the Muslim Brotherhood. They’re running in the parliamentary elections in a few weeks and are keeping a low profile.”
“Shooting down a passenger plane isn’t exactly low profile,” Malko pointed out.
“It could be blamed on the Gaza extremists. They’ve already attacked Israelis in Eilat from Egyptian soil,” said Tombstone.
“But that still leaves a big question: why kill Ibrahim al-Senussi?”
The CIA station chief looked as pleased as a teacher who was finally being asked an intelligent question.
“That’s the big question,” he said. “I assume my colleague in Vienna didn’t mention Operation Sunrise to you, did he?”
“No, he didn’t,” said Malko, once again reminded of the American mania for giving poetic names to their operations.
“Well then, let me fill you in.”
As he warmed to his subject, Tombstone sounded even more like a professor than a CIA operative.
“First we have to back up a little,” he said. “In 2003, when Colonel Qaddafi yielded to our friendly persuasion and quit trying to get nuclear weapons, we became friends again. He was still a nut job, of course, but he was our nut job. The friendly persuasion consisted of threatening to bomb Libya back to the Stone Age if he kept trying to go nuclear.
“Besides, we had a common enemy: the Islamists and al-Qaeda. Qaddafi started helping us—a lot. And we helped him too, pointing out people who might hurt him and giving him surveillance equipment. Everything was going along swimmingly until the revolt erupted in Benghazi in February 2011. At first, we weren’t too worried. Qaddafi’s army could easily wipe out the demonstrators, who were untrained and poorly armed. But then France went to the barricades in the name of human rights and dragged Great Britain and the others into the anti-Qaddafi crusade. Pretty soon, their jets were flying over Libya.
“Well, you know the rest: Qaddafi could defeat his opponents, but he couldn’t take on NATO. And we soon realized that among Qaddafi’s opponents, the only organized ones were the Islamists. The rest were what Lenin would call ‘useful idiots.’
“So the Agency got to work and soon discovered a disturbing secret: the role of Qatar. Officially, Qatar had sided with the rebels, giving them money and weapons. But we discovered that the emir Sheikh Hamad had secretly decided to take over the Libyan revolution.”
“Qatar’s a long way from Libya,” Malko objected. “And Qatar has its own oil, so it doesn’t need any.”
“That’s right, but there’s a link between the two countries: the Salabi family, who are dyed-in-the-wool Islamists opposed to Qaddafi. Three brothers.
“Qaddafi threw Ali Salabi in prison in the 1980s. When he got out, he was exiled and took refuge in Qatar. There he was welcomed with open arms by a Brotherhood theologian, Yusuf al-Qaradawi, who preaches on Al Jazeera that it’s apostasy for a Muslim to support a secular constitution in Libya.”
“Very reassuring,” remarked Malko.
“You said it! Ali Salabi persuaded the emir of Qatar to support the anti-Qaddafi rebels, starting with his brother Ismail Salabi, who founded the February 17 Brigade with the help of money and weapons from Qatar.
“After that, all of Libya’s radical Islamists got on board. Abdelhakim Belhadj, who’d been a jihadist in Afghanistan and close to Osama bin Laden; Abdelhakim al-Hasadi, trained by the Taliban; Abu Sufian bin Qumu, a jihadist released from Guantanamo in 2007; and finally our takfiri friend Abu Bukatalla.”
“None of this sounds very encouraging,” said Malko.
“That’s why the Agency decided to step in. We wanted to create a party that wasn’t Islamist or anti-Western. The trouble is, the Libyans who like us aren’t a military force. So we thought of looking at the leadership.
“Mustafa Abdel-Jalil, the current head of the National Transitional Council, isn’t exactly kosher. He was Qaddafi’s justice minister and twice called for the death penalty against the Bulgarian nurses that Qaddafi accused of giving Libyan children AIDS back in 1998. If he became the head of a new Libya, people would be up in arms.
“So our British cousins put forth the name Ibrahim al-Senussi. He has some real pluses: he’s the grandson of King Idris, whom Qaddafi overthrew, the rebels have adopted his grandfather’s flag, and he’s pro-Western. In short, al-Senussi is Operation Sunrise.”
“He sounds ideal,” said Malko.
Tombstone grimaced.
“Not quite. In the beginning, al-Senussi didn’t want to do it. His MI6 handler had to really twist his arm to convince him. And he couldn’t tell him that the CIA was behind the operation, because it would scare him off. Al-Senussi isn’t crazy, and he first wanted to see if he had support in Libya before making his decision. That’s why he came to Cairo.”
“So where does Cynthia Mulligan fit in this picture?”
“Nowhere. She’s just R and R.”
“But this doesn’t tell me who tried to kill him,” insisted Malko. “Don’t you think the National Transitional Council would take umbrage at al-Senussi’s ambitions? Many countries recognize the council as the new Libya. Officially, the NTC governs the country.”
The American gave him a patient look.
“The NTC pretends to govern, but it doesn’t have any real power in the interior. Several of its members have already quit. Besides, the Libyan resistance is extremely divided. It’s made up of about forty militias who all distrust each other.”
“But they managed to take over the country.”
“Yeah, thanks to NATO. And I’m sure you’ve noticed that post-Qaddafi Libya is now a free-form cluster fuck.
“Look at what happened in Tripoli. The city is taken from Qaddafi’s people by militias from all over, helped by local rebels. So our friend Abdelhakim Belhadj proclaims himself governor of the city—a fact the NTC learns by watching the news on Al Jazeera. When they ask Belhadj to step aside for a civilian from the council, he tells them to get lost. I told you who Belhadj is, didn’t I?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
“Reading his résumé, even Amnesty International would gag,” said Tombstone. “He was the Emir of Gick before heading to Afghanistan, where he meets and pledges fealty to Osama bin Laden. Later, he’s arrested in Malaysia; the Agency interrogates him in Thailand, then turns him over to the Libyans, who put him in jail for six years. Can you guess who got him out?”
“No idea,” said Malko.
“The current president of the NTC, Mustafa Abdel-Jalil. At the time, he was Qaddafi’s minister of justice, and very religious. He considered Belhadj a good Muslim, so he persuaded the Guide to free him. You see how he’s paying him back.”
“So the NTC could have tried to eliminate al-Senussi.”
“No, they don’t have the means. But if we don’t find out who tried to kill our candidate, we could have an anti-Western Islamic caliphate in Libya very soon. It would be an ideal hub for AQIM, Hamas, Tunisia, and of course Egypt’s Muslim Brotherhood.
“The Arab Spring would turn into a Salafist winter. Libya’s already an Islamist country under low-grade sharia law. True, they don’t cut off a thief’s hand, just a finger. But women are completely locked away, alcohol’s forbidden, only religious marriage is allowed, people pray five times a day, and everybody’s happy.”
Seemingly exhausted by his apocalyptic vis
ion, Tombstone poured himself a glass of water.
“You still haven’t told me whom you suspect of trying to kill Ibrahim al-Senussi,” said Malko.
“Well, we have a hunch, but no real proof.”
“Why do you say ‘we’?”
“I told you that Operation Sunrise had been initiated by the Cousins, right? Naturally they put a wiretap on al-Senussi. He was very reluctant to come to Cairo, would have preferred to do his pulse taking from London, up until the moment he was contacted by a Libyan emissary, one Shokri Mazen. Mazen suggested that Ibrahim meet Abu Bukatalla’s representatives in Cairo, claiming that Abu Bukatalla was prepared to support him as a constitutional monarch.”
“Wait—is this the same Bukatalla you were talking about earlier?”
“That’s right: a takfiri at the head of a hard-core Islamist militia.”
“That seems a very odd person to be supporting a future king.”
“This Mazen claimed the Islamists had always had a good relationship with the Senussi tribe.”
“And al-Senussi took his advice?”
“Yep, and promptly booked a flight to Cairo with the beautiful Cynthia Mulligan. But in the meantime the Cousins discovered that Mazen was spending all his time in the Qatari embassy in London, even though al-Senussi’s project ran completely counter to Qatar’s plans.”
“So Mazen was playing a double game,” concluded Malko, “luring al-Senussi to Cairo to shoot his plane down.”
“Officially, we can’t even speak of this. But very few people knew which flight our candidate for the throne was taking. Shokri Mazen was one of them.”
Frankly shocked, Malko asked, “Are you telling me that Ibrahim al-Senussi was drawn here so he could be killed along with the passengers of BA Flight 132—on orders from Qatar?”
“You might very well think that,” said Tombstone with a small smile. “I couldn’t possibly comment.”
“From what you’ve said, this Abu Bukatalla has connections with fundamentalist Islamists in Cairo,” continued Malko. “He could have given them a surface-to-air missile.”
“Anything’s possible,” said the American vaguely.
“I understand that the Agency is on good terms with the Mukhabarat. Why not ask them for a hand?”
“We already have. The Mukhabarat is very well informed, but they don’t want to go after the Islamists two months before the elections. Still, I’m on excellent terms with General Mowafi, who replaced Omar Suleiman as head of the service because of his closeness to Mubarak.
“He put Nasser Ihab at your disposal, the agent who picked you up at the airport. It’s for your safety but it’s also to watch what we’re doing. You can be sure that Nasser files a report every evening at Mukhabarat headquarters.”
In Malko’s mind, the pieces were starting to fall into place. But a big one remained.
“Why not ask al-Senussi himself? He might suspect who’s after him.”
Tombstone scowled. “That wouldn’t be very smart. Al-Senussi doesn’t know that someone tried to kill him. Nothing leaked to the press, and the passengers on the plane didn’t notice anything. If we tell him, he might take the first flight for London with his sweetie. That would be the end of the game, and we don’t have anybody to replace him.”
“I understand your plan better now,” said Malko. “But what’s the point of seducing Cynthia Mulligan? You said yourself that she doesn’t know what’s going on.”
“She’s living with al-Senussi, so she’d be aware of his appointments, the people he sees, his telephone calls. If we learn that, we might be able to figure out who our prime suspects are.”
“But even assuming she falls into my arms,” asked Malko, “why should she tell me anything?”
Despite its sweeping view of the Nile, the third-floor bar was deserted. A waiter rushed over and ushered the two men to a table overlooking Nasser Avenue and the river. Like most of the hotels in Cairo, the Four Seasons was three-quarters empty. The Arab Spring had decimated the tourist industry, reducing some of the guides who led camel rides around the Pyramids to eating their breadwinners to survive.
“Two mojitos,” ordered Tombstone.
The mood in the room was closer to that of a wake than that of a trendy bar. Just as the mojitos arrived, three Gulf Arabs walked in, looking as gray as undertakers.
Malko turned to Tombstone.
“You sure they’re going to come?”
The American gave a resigned smile.
“If not, at least we’ll have had an excellent mojito.”
“By the way, does Nasser know what I’m doing in Cairo?”
“No, of course not. I told the Mukhabarat you were here to check on Islamist groups that were getting out of hand.”
Tombstone was sucking on his mojito straw when Malko saw his eyes go to the bar’s entrance. He turned around to look and got what felt like a punch to the solar plexus. A couple was walking into the bar, and the atmosphere seemed to have suddenly warmed up. In stiletto heels, the woman walked like a runway model, her chest held very straight, head high, hair flowing down her shoulders. The bartender’s eyes were popping out of his head, though the unknown woman’s clothes were perfectly proper. A gray silk dress that ended above the knee, it didn’t show any cleavage but it fit her like a glove.
When she passed their table, Malko could see that in spite of the modesty of her outfit, the silk clearly outlined her nipples.
The man walking behind the woman almost went unnoticed. Wearing a white shirt and black pants, he had curly hair, very dark skin, and coarse features.
The pair sat down at a nearby table, with the woman facing Tombstone and Malko. With natural ease, she crossed her legs high enough to display some thigh.
It was enough to give a man sweaty palms.
When their waiter came over, he kept his eyes fixed on the Nile, probably to maintain his professional cool.
When they had ordered—mojitos, also—al-Senussi took his companion’s hand and held on to it.
He was probably afraid someone would steal her.
They didn’t talk much. The young woman seemed intrigued by the riverboats that cruised up and down the Nile in a splash of neon lights and blaring Arab music. Malko had trouble taking his eyes off her. His “target” was a very beautiful woman, with eyes that gave her a feline look.
Tombstone leaned toward him over the table.
“Okay, let me take you to dinner. No point in hanging around here; it might attract attention. Our customer’s in love, but that doesn’t mean he’s a fool. The main thing is, you’ve seen her.”
Malko didn’t argue. After all, he could hardly jump the young woman in the Libyan’s presence.
Downstairs, they found Nasser chatting at the front desk. When he saw them, he promptly went to get behind the wheel of the Mercedes. As they took off, he said a few words in Arabic to Tombstone, who relayed the message.
“I asked him to find out about the couple in Room 2704. The guy at the desk said that al-Senussi ordered a limousine for seven o’clock tomorrow morning. He’s going to Marsa Matruh.”
“Where’s that?”
“On the coast, beyond El Alamein. It’s an ordinary seaside resort, about three hundred miles from Cairo.”
“Is he checking out of the hotel?”
“No, just going for the day.”
“With Cynthia Mulligan?”
“I suspect he has a meeting that involves his project, so he won’t take her along. That gives you a free day to work on her.”
They drove toward Tahrir Square—now empty of demonstrators—and turned into Qasr el-Nil. A few minutes later, in a busy street across from Saudi Airlines, the Mercedes pulled up at a wooden door inlaid with mother of pearl. A sign in Arabic and English read “The Arabesque.”
“We’re eating here,” said Tombstone.
The place looked like a bar, with a big flat-screen television on the wall and deafening modern music. They walked around the counter into a small roo
m on the right. Not many customers. A few men were chatting around a high, round table under the TV.
“The food isn’t too bad,” said the American. “Mezzes and fish. It’s one of the fashionable places. Want a beer?”
“Is there anything else?” Though Austrian, Malko wasn’t too big on beer.
“No.”
“Okay, I’ll have a beer, then.”
Abu Bukatalla watched tensely as the road stretched ahead into the darkness. With his striped polo shirt, green khakis, and full beard, there was nothing especially distinctive about him. But the takfiri Bukatalla was one of the most dangerous men in Libya and the leader of a militia of about a hundred fanatics. He hated Qaddafi but refused to go to the front lines, unwilling to fight alongside NATO infidels.
A few miles before Sallum, a small Egypt-Libya border crossing, his driver left the paved Tobruk highway to take a dirt road running south of it that was used only by locals. They were less than a mile from the border, and night had fallen. In the front seat of the old Opel, Bukatalla’s bodyguard held his folding AK-47 across his knees, safety off and a cartridge in the chamber. As one of the most radical Islamist leaders in Libya, Bukatalla had his enemies.
He took out his cell phone, dialed a Libyan number, and got an immediate answer. The conversation was very short. Feeling satisfied, he hung up.
Five minutes later, a pair of headlights flashed, briefly lighting up the road. The driver pulled over and Bukatalla climbed out of the Opel, followed by his bodyguard. They walked to a car parked nearby.
Its driver got out and hugged him.
“Allahu akbar, the man at the checkpoint is a friend,” the man whispered.
The two Libyans climbed into the back of a very old Mercedes. It had Egyptian license plates, to avoid traffic stops. A car with Libyan plates could cross the border if it was driven by its owner, but you needed special insurance and had to register with the sometimes inquisitive immigration service.
They rode in silence for a few minutes, until the border crossing’s lights appeared. Unlike the big checkpoint on the main highway, this one was tiny and used only by locals, mainly Egyptians who crossed into Libya to buy gasoline or dates. The driver stopped in front of a barrier painted with the Egyptian tricolor and guarded by a policeman. He rolled down his window and said a few words.
The Madmen of Benghazi Page 3