“No, it’s too dangerous,” he said. “Let’s follow the Toubou.”
“And do what?”
“We snatch him.”
Malko had made up his mind. They absolutely had to find Abu Bukatalla, and they were running out of time.
Abu Bukatalla had established his headquarters in the desert near al-Abyar, a dozen miles east of Benghazi. Its site on a hill above the flat landscape gave him a clear view of any approaching adversaries. He’d sealed all but two of the openings in the walls around the farm and stocked the place with weapons and food, leaving the bulk of his matériel in a well-guarded warehouse in Derna.
Following the failure of his attack on al-Senussi, Abu Bukatalla sent out informants so he could plan a more targeted assault. It would have to be a surprise attack. Even he didn’t have the strength to fight the Obeidi tribe, which had thousands of men under arms. And there was no more point in contacting the pretender to the Libyan throne.
Abu Bukatalla’s second in command squatted next to him, an AK-47 close at hand, awaiting orders.
“Send somebody to the Ouzou Hotel,” Abu Bukatalla said. “I want to know everything al-Senussi is up to, and especially anywhere he goes.”
The takfiri’s idea was simple. Lacking an airplane, al-Senussi would have to leave Libya by road—a perfect opportunity for setting a trap.
As the militiaman left, another came in and handed Abu Bukatalla a wad of bills.
“Hisham says he has a customer for the guns I delivered,” he said. “He’ll let me know as soon as he has the money.”
For Abu Bukatalla, trafficking in arms was a secondary source of income. True, Qatar gave him a lot of money, but it would be stupid not to turn the thousands of AK-47s stolen in Bayda into dinars. Once al-Senussi was killed, he would take a trip to Qatar to solidify his position. On that pleasant thought, he went to his tent and stretched out on a mattress on the ground.
The takfiri lived very frugally, eating dates, milk, and sometimes mutton, and drinking a great deal of tea. Like the Prophet.
The Toubou had just parked the station wagon across from his garage.
“Pull up closer,” Malko told the operative.
The Toubou glanced at their car, probably assuming it was a neighbor coming home. He was carrying AK-47s when he found himself nose to nose with a blond foreigner who had stepped out of the blue car. He had eyes only for the pistol in the unknown man’s right hand and stood paralyzed as Malko hissed an order:
“Get back in your car.”
The old Toubou spoke enough English to understand. He put the weapons into the station wagon and slid behind the wheel. Malko got in beside him and pointed at the Ford.
“Follow that car.”
The pistol jammed into his right side eliminated any temptation to argue. He started the car.
Malko stared at the Toubou’s profile, repressing a powerful urge to put a couple of bullets in his head. After all, this was the man responsible for the savage murder of Peter Farnborough.
The two cars passed through the entrance to the CIA base, whose gate immediately swung shut behind them.
The Toubou hadn’t said a word during the whole drive, but Malko could see that his hands on the steering wheel were trembling. He was terrified. As they pulled up in front of the residence steps, Malko’s cell rang. It was Ted.
“Stay in the car,” he said. “We’re coming to ‘condition’ him. Turn off the engine.”
Malko switched off the ignition. The Toubou was staring straight ahead, hands clutching the wheel. Searchlights played on the lawn.
One of the rear doors opened and an agent slid in behind the Toubou, whipped off his glasses, and slapped a wide swath of black tape over his eyes, blindfolding him. Then he stepped out of the car, opened the driver’s side door, and helped the Toubou out. In a flash, he tied his hands behind his back with plastic handcuffs, then led him into a garage next to the house. He sat him down and handcuffed him to a heavy metal chair.
The Toubou still hadn’t said a word. Ted appeared and spoke to Malko in English:
“He’s all yours.”
For the first time, the old man opened his mouth and spoke.
Ted translated.
“He’s asking why he was arrested. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He’s a believer and he hates Qaddafi.”
“Does he know Peter Farnborough?” Malko asked.
Ted put the question to him, then translated the answer.
“He says he doesn’t know who that is.”
“He’s the man who asked him to lead him to Abu Bukatalla a few days ago,” Malko said.
This time the Toubou nodded and spoke at length.
“Yes, he saw him but he doesn’t know his name.”
“What happened next?”
“He called Hassan, the man he knows in the militia, and passed on the foreigner’s request. Hassan told him to set up a meeting for the next day in the militia’s former barracks.”
“And then?”
“The foreigner seemed very happy, he says, and gave him a hundred dinars. He hasn’t seen him since.”
The Toubou had clearly acted in good faith and had been manipulated. The MI6 agent, on the other hand, had been careless.
Now slumped with his head on his chest, the man wasn’t faring very well.
“Can I go now?” he asked plaintively.
Ted answered with a few sharp words.
The prisoner immediately began to squirm in his chair and weep.
“I told him we’re going to kill him,” explained Ted, “because he’s responsible for our friend’s death.”
To reinforce the threat, Ted took a Beretta 92 from under his shirt and inserted a magazine.
The blindfolded Toubou couldn’t see him do it, but he recognized the characteristic click. Now he started to whimper like an unhappy puppy. Using his advantage, Ted pressed the gun’s muzzle against the prisoner’s neck.
The Toubou howled and shook his head, shrinking from the Beretta’s steely pressure. Ted pulled the slide back, chambering a round.
This second click unleashed a new wave of cries and supplications from the Toubou.
“Tell him there is one way he can save his life,” said Malko.
A brief dialogue followed, and Ted translated.
“He doesn’t want to die. He has children, two wives, and he’s a good Muslim. He’ll do what we want.”
“He has to take us to Abu Bukatalla.”
This time the answer was even more tearful. Ted translated as he went along.
“He says that Abu Bukatalla is a very cruel man, very fanatical, a takfiri. If he does that, he will kill him, slit his throat like a sheep.”
“Tell him that if he refuses, we’ll kill him right now.”
If the Toubou’s hands had been free, he would have been wringing them. He was now moaning continuously. Ted said something to him, and his wails redoubled.
“What did you tell him?” asked Malko.
“That he had the right to pray one last time. That we’re going to point him in the direction of Mecca.”
As he spoke, Ted released the Toubou, who promptly fell to his knees and started pounding his forehead against the concrete floor.
Malko and Ted exchanged a look: he was ripe.
“For the last time,” Ted asked him, “where is Abu Bukatalla?”
“In the desert, in a farm out in the desert just before al-Abyar,” he said. “There’s only one road there.”
“Is it far?”
“One hour away; the road is bad.”
“You’re going to take us there.”
The Toubou banged his forehead on the concrete even harder.
“He says he doesn’t want to,” said Ted.
Malko didn’t insist. They knew enough already. It would be easy enough to spot a camp of that size, even in the middle of the desert.
Overcome with gratitude, the Toubou now wouldn’t stop talking. He explained that it was an abandoned farm
with an oasis, in a hollow.
Ted made him shut up. They had all they needed.
“We’ll take him down to the basement,” he said. “We’ll see if we can get more out of him tomorrow.”
Ted had taken a couple of beers out of the fridge. He and Malko were sitting in the kitchen.
“So what do you want to do?” asked the American.
“You know Langley’s instructions,” answered Malko. “We have to eliminate Abu Bukatalla. That’s an order from the White House. Without that, there won’t be any Operation Sunrise.”
Ted gave him a sideways glance.
“How are we supposed to do it?”
“You don’t feel there are enough of you?”
Ted shook his head.
“I wouldn’t try even if I had a written order from the SOG,” he said. “We wouldn’t stand a chance against those guys. They’ve got heavy weapons, they know how to fight, and they outnumber us twenty to one. Besides, a lot of those tangos fought in Iraq, and they hate us. They’re prepared to embrace shushala”—martyrdom—“to take us down.”
“You have any other ideas?”
Ted looked at him with a crooked grin.
“Sure: NATO. They’ve got the gear. Send in two F-16s and there’d be nothing left of the bastards. They’d never know what hit them. There’s just one little snag. You’d have to convince NATO headquarters that they were a bunch of Qaddafists holed up in the desert. I don’t have the balls to do that.”
He took a swig of beer and slapped his bottle down.
The exchange left Malko feeling frustrated. Here they had figured where their enemy was hiding, but they couldn’t hit him. The Americans had no organization in Libya—no attack drones and no ground troops, aside from a handful of Marines and CIA operatives.
“Okay, I’ll talk it over with Jerry Tombstone tomorrow,” he said. “By the way, do you have any news from the Ouzou?”
Ted smirked.
“Seems Ibrahim is working his girlfriend over so hard, our guys need earplugs. Lots of screaming, all night long. She must really want to be the queen of Libya.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Malko with a sigh.
Malko was lying on his bed, pondering his next move. He had thought of a way to bring all the necessary elements together for a counterpunch, but he lacked the main ingredient, a strike force.
Someone knocked gently on his door, and Malko shouted for whoever it was to come in. The young Chadian woman opened the door, then stepped aside to admit Cynthia.
Malko couldn’t believe his eyes. Cynthia certainly didn’t give up easily. But then he noticed she was wearing jeans and a high-collared blouse, hardly a seduction outfit. In any case, she quickly brought him down to earth.
“Ibrahim wants to leave!” she said. “He’s in a rage and is threatening to drive off by himself if he doesn’t get help.”
In other words, throw himself into the clutches of Abu Bukatalla, who was almost certainly watching his movements.
“What’s gotten into him?” asked Malko.
“He wants to drop everything. He’s scared. They tried to kill him yesterday.”
“I know. Where is he?”
“At the hotel.”
“Okay, I’ll go talk to him. Get yourself a cup of coffee. I’ll be right there.”
As soon as Malko was alone, he got dressed and ran out to the lawn with his Thuraya.
The CIA chief was flabbergasted.
“What is he thinking? Here we hand him a terrific deal on a silver platter, and he suddenly gets fussy.”
“It’s a silver platter all right, but with some lead in it. Ibrahim simply isn’t the stuff of kings.”
Tombstone was clearly dismayed.
“If I tell Washington this, they’re going to kill me,” he said with a groan. “They’ve put all their chips on him. You’ve got to bring him around.”
“What if I’m not able to?”
“You’ll manage,” said Tombstone with his usual aplomb. “With Cynthia’s help.”
“There’s another thing,” Malko went on. “I’ve located Abu Bukatalla.”
The CIA station chief hooted with joy.
“Fantastic! I want you to bring me that fucker’s head.”
“For the moment, I’d afraid I can’t even give you a whisker from his beard,” said Malko.
He explained the situation to Tombstone, who merely said:
“Well, you figure it out! We pay you a fortune to do that sort of thing, for Christ’s sake. I’m sure the Agency pays you more than me.”
“That’s quite possible,” said Malko, turning the knife in the wound. “But we don’t run the same risks. Aside from cholera, yours are limited. But all right, I’ll go try to buck up our future king.”
In the Cherokee, Malko turned to Cynthia and said, “When Ibrahim sees me, I hope he doesn’t start asking himself too many questions.”
“He’s so scared, he doesn’t give a damn about anything,” she said with a smile. “If we showed up hand in hand, he wouldn’t even notice.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear!”
Just the same, Malko’s heart was beating faster when they walked into the Ouzou. They didn’t have to go far to find al-Senussi, who was sunk in one of the lobby’s big leather armchairs. When he saw them, he popped up as if on a spring and ran over.
Cynthia introduced them, using her sweetest voice:
“Ibrahim, darling, I’d like you to meet Malko Linge, an Agency operative who is working to protect you.”
The Libyan looked at him and frowned.
“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”
“That’s possible,” said Malko easily. “I travel a lot.”
Al-Senussi was still staring at him.
“Weren’t you at the Four Seasons in Cairo?”
Malko wished the Earth would swallow him up. But he was on the spot and had to say, “That’s right. I was already watching over you.”
Al-Senussi didn’t press the point.
“Okay, come back here,” he said. “We have to talk.”
They sat down across from the restaurant, and the Libyan cut right to the chase.
“I want you to tell your bosses that I’m giving up. I don’t want to play the part they’re asking me to.”
“That’s too bad,” said Malko. “It’s a grand adventure.”
Al-Senussi nearly choked.
“They’ve already tried to kill me a couple of times!” he shouted. “I hate Libya!”
“But it’s your country.”
“This is the first time I’ve ever set foot here. I prefer London.”
Malko didn’t dare say that he shared his point of view.
Instead he asked, “So what is it that you want?”
“To get out. Leave Benghazi. Drop everything.”
“I’m not authorized to discuss your projects,” said Malko. “You can take that up with the people in London who got you into this business. But there’s a problem: we don’t have a flight to Cairo before the end of the week.”
“In that case I’ll go by road. I have money. I hear a taxi will take you, for a thousand dinars.”
Malko was about to answer when he noticed a young bearded man on a nearby sofa who was eyeing them.
He leaned close to al-Senussi and said:
“Do you see the bearded man on the sofa there? I’m sure he’s watching us, and he’s almost certainly an Abu Bukatalla agent. Abu Bukatalla is just waiting to finish you off. And out on the highway, we can’t do anything to protect you. It’s eight hundred miles between Benghazi and Cairo.”
Ibrahim al-Senussi’s face fell.
“Then you have to find me a flight,” he insisted. “For Cynthia, too.”
He seemed to have regained his love of life.
Malko was about to reply when an idea suddenly occurred to him. It was an audacious plan and would be hard to carry out, but it would let him complete at least half his mission.
Th
e most important half, in his eyes.
“Listen,” he said. “Give me two or three days, and I’ll arrange to get you exfiltrated.”
“Is that so?”
“I swear it.”
Malko’s eyes met Cynthia’s, and she immediately spoke up:
“You can believe him.”
“Very well.”
Ibrahim al-Senussi abruptly stood up and said, “Let me know when we can get under way.”
He took Cynthia by the hand and led her to the elevator. Before he could pull her away, she gave Malko a long look that contained reproach—and many other things.
Al-Senussi had barely slammed the door to their room shut when he grabbed Cynthia by the throat and started banging her head against the wall.
“You slut!” he screamed, his eyes bulging. “You slept with that man! Do you think you’re pulling the wool over my eyes?” Afraid Ibrahim was going to kill her, Cynthia kicked at him, protesting:
“You’re mad!” she yelled. “It isn’t true!”
“Slut!” the Libyan repeated. “Don’t you think I saw the way you were looking at him? If I hadn’t been there, you would have laid down right on the floor. You’re nothing but a whore!”
Al-Senussi’s dark side was taking over.
A terrified Cynthia managed to jam her knee into his crotch, and he released her. She instantly bolted for the door and dashed out into the hallway. As she ran for the elevator, she yelled back at him, “Yes, it’s true! He fucked me, and I hope he fucks me again!”
Abd al-Raziq received Malko promptly in his beautiful villa, which had been barely touched by the previous day’s fighting.
Younes’s nephew listened to him carefully, with growing interest.
“I can’t take that kind of decision alone,” the young man said. “Only the head of our tribe can do that, but I think he will listen to you.”
“When?”
“I can take you to him right away, if you want.”
“I’d like that,” said Malko. “Time is short.”
Al-Raziq left to make the arrangements, and Malko told himself that if God was on his side, Peter Farnborough would be avenged.
And there would be fewer takfiri in Libya.
Ibrahim and Cynthia sat glaring at each other across one of the tables in the Ouzou’s rear lounge. She was still breathless from running down four flights of stairs.
The Madmen of Benghazi Page 18