The General and the Elephant Clock of Al-Jazari (14 page)

“W
HAT
a dickhead.” John leaned over the table, pulled up his e-mail. “Sam, is the food coming?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here it is.” He opened the reply to the e-mail he’d sent to Greg Mortimer, the regional security officer at the embassy.
Hey, John. Long time. Yeah, I heard about your two guys. You want to go see them when you get in tonight, give me a call. I’ve got a couple of young Marines who can go with. The head of the prison is a man named Ben Mberek. He’s got a price and it is green American money. I understand he dreams of a boat in Miami for his retirement years. We can talk in person about other issues, about young men you might have known.

John smiled down at the computer. He picked up the phone, dialed the number Mortimer had given him. “Hey, Greg. John Mitchel here.”

“General! How was the trip?”

“Very good. We’re at the Regency in Carthage.” A couple of waiters pushed open the door, started setting plates on the table. Sam stood between them and the general in a move John recognized. Gabriel used to do that when strangers were in the room. “What do you think, a little hello to the night staff?”

“Might be a surprising way to proceed.”

John stepped into one of the bedrooms. “I will be sure and bring gifts to those who have given hospitality to my young nephews.”

“Good idea. I’ll see you in an hour. I’ll bring a vehicle that will do the job. How many of your crew you bringing?”

John looked at Sam. “Just myself. I’m leaving my aide behind to mind the fort.”

“Good. See you then.”

Jen came out of the second bedroom. She had washed her face and combed her hair back into another ponytail. Now she looked about twelve years old. “Are we going somewhere?”

Sam moved to her, his back to the wait staff who were putting the food on the table. “Not with strangers in the room, okay?”

She waved a hand and frowned at him. “They’re fine.”

“That’s not your call! I need to keep him safe, so keep your mouth shut when there are strangers in the room.”

She glared at him until John moved to them, put a hand on each of their shoulders. “I’m not going to listen to every conversation deteriorate into a pissing contest of this sort. Find a way to get along. Let’s proceed with these two assumptions: I know what I’m doing, and I do not need to discuss it with you before I proceed. Sam, you back my play the best you can. I will not always have the time to explain. If you aren’t sure, just stay quiet. Jen, I have one goal only, and that is to get these young Americans home. We can address any other issues you are working on when that job is done, agreed? I want to hear about what you’re doing in Tunisia. I admire the work you’re trying to do here.”

Jen looked blank for a moment. “You do? Really?”

“Of course.”

Her face was pale with worry, ginger freckles standing out in stark relief. “So what’s your plan?”

“Food,” John said. “The smell of saffron and rice is driving me mad.”

She laughed, pulled Sam over to the table by the sleeve. “Oh, go ahead and eat, both of you. I can tell your mouth’s watering from across the room.”

They sat down together, and one of the waiters dished up the rice and chicken dish while another poured water into stemmed glasses. John closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself feel the fatigue, and then he put it away. That bed would feel so good when he finally crawled between the sheets.

He waited to eat until the staff had bowed their way to the door. “Information,” he said, “is a critical weapon for the warrior-philosopher. Let us be careful about giving our weapons away. Sam, when we are finished eating, make sure all the serving dishes are placed outside the room, and then you check under the edges of tables and such for listening devices. Let’s do that whenever we have guests in the room, even the cleaning staff. A simple precaution, but don’t forget the possibility there’s something we have not found, okay?”

Jen was looking cranky again, shoveling the food into her mouth. John held up a hand. “I know that in a perfect world these types of precautions would not be necessary, Jennifer. I will leave it to you to move us toward that perfect world. For now, I wonder if you can tell me anything about the museums in Carthage?”

“The museums?” Jen’s face was blank. Sam didn’t bother to speak, just shook his head.

“Children, you do know Carthage is a UNESCO World Heritage Site and the Bardo is one of the most famous museums in the world?”

Eyes were glazing. He sighed. If he was sitting at the dining room table with Kim and Billy, and he had asked them about Carthage, they would have both looked up, eyes bright, and Kim would have begged him to tell everything he knew. He would have looked things up on his tiny phone, shown the table a mosaic or a sculpture. Billy would have pulled a book from the bookshelf, and they would have discussed ancient trade routes and the shapes of olive oil lamps. Jen turned to Sam. “So did you volunteer, or did he make you come?”

Retired General David Painter was a pain in the ass. John thought about Christmas morning twenty years in the future, Painter turning down the volume on his hearing aids so he wouldn’t have to listen to these two bicker. John felt reasonably cheered.

H
E
PUSHED
away from the table, went into his bedroom and pulled the new suit from the bag.

It was the color of a gun, John thought, and he was pretty sure Kim had not thought of that analogy. John was going to use it, though, because every small tactical advantage could open a new avenue toward a successful resolution. He would have to remember to tell Kim he was right about the new clothes and haircut. The shirt and tie were also gunmetal gray, so he was monochromatic, and even to his own eye he looked faintly lethal. He was going to wear his Suede Hipster Chukkas because they were comfortable and he may end the night needing to run, even though Billy had given him specific instructions on wearing the Derbys with the new suit. John opened the door, called Sam over. “How much cash do we have?”

“Twenty thousand, plus the credit card.”

“Put ten thousand in an envelope. Don’t seal it.”

“Sir, I should go with you.”

John shook his head. “I’ve got backup from the embassy. Your job if I don’t get back is this: You pull up the list I have titled
Serious Emergency
. You call or e-mail those people the information you have. And then you get Jen to her father’s people in Algeria or back home if the embassy can issue another passport. I’ll leave those decisions to you. You’ll figure it out. I’m going with Greg Mortimer. He’s the regional security officer for the embassy. If I don’t come back by morning, try to find him so you know what’s going on.” John hesitated. “Whatever you tell Gabriel, try not to alarm him, okay?”

Sam had his wooden face on. “Yes, sir.”

John slipped the thick envelope of cash into the inside pocket of his suit coat, then he put his phone and passport and military ID in his pocket. He left the rest of his wallet on the dresser. Jen opened the door to Greg Mortimer when he knocked. He looked a few years older than John remembered, but he supposed they all did. The man had brown hair down over his ears, a longer style than he’d worn before, and he was wearing a nondescript beige linen suit. “Hey, John,” he said, shaking hands. “I’ve got a couple of boys along to ride shotgun. You speak Arabic, right?”

John nodded, introduced Sam and Jen. Jen was starting to look worried. “Is this a good idea? Isn’t it better to wait till morning?”

John shook his head, followed Mortimer out the door. “Some work was meant to be done in the dark. I’ll be back soon.”

John studied the brushed stainless steel of the elevator doors. Mortimer was quiet. When they got outside, he pulled John toward the dull green Jeep with the two big Marines standing next to it. The boys were in civvies, but you could not hide a US Marine just by putting him in civilian clothes. They looked big and tough, and John introduced himself to both of them, shook hands. John and Mortimer climbed into the back seat. “Thanks for coming out, Greg.”

“No, thank you for handling this. We need a peaceful resolution and as quickly as possible. This situation has the potential to develop into one of those horrible yearlong stalemates that only ends with people dying. The word is Ben Mberek has a price, but I’ve never had to test that theory. He’s Security Service, and there is, I hear, some degree of conflict between them and the Ministry of Justice since the revolution. Everyone is fighting for the little bit of an edge that will let them come out on top. The Ambassador is royally pissed.”

“At Ali Bahktar or at the boys?”

“At everyone, seems to me. He doesn’t like to get in the papers,” Greg said. “What’s your plan?”

“See Ben Mberek and slide him a thick handful of baksheesh to let me see the boys. Suggest to him that I have some degree of power, that I’m a person he wants to owe him a favor. Once I know if the boys are hurt or in danger, I’ll decide what’s next. Seems unlikely we’ll be able to do more than that but you can never tell. It’s worth a gamble. If there appears to be any conflict between him and the Ministry of Justice, I’ll play on it. I may have the chance to pick them up and walk them out of there before anybody realizes what we’re doing. If he wants to stick his thumb in the Ministry’s eye, that might be a good way to do it and make a little pocket change to boot. Tell me about Ali Bahktar.”

“Salafist. Hard-line Jihadist. Has a couple of thugs who run with him. They stand around in camo cargo pants and look menacing, hassle women in Western clothes, carry crap weapons. No real training by any terrorist organization that we’ve discovered, but they’re ripe for it. These little groups of men looking for trouble are becoming more overt, more dangerous. Bahktar likes to hear himself talk and likes to get the crowds stirred up. Doesn’t have any education or original rhetoric. Doesn’t like Americans. The real Imams are keeping their distance, but that world is very touchy right now. I am not sure how the Ministry feels about him. He’s not moving up, more moving to the side. Pegged as trouble, I would guess. Looking to make his mark.”

“I met him when he was a teenager, thirteen or fourteen. He tried to cut my throat over a plate of Turkish delight.”

“In a Bedouin tent? My word.”

“His grandfather was a warlord. I can’t imagine there was a place for him in the new Tunisia.”

“That grandfather is dead, his father’s father. I confirmed the other information you sent me. This man is his maternal grandfather, but I don’t know if he has any influence over his grandson. I could not confirm any regular contact between them.”

“Even if he doesn’t in private, Ali will need to be seen to respect his grandfather in public. It’s just a thread to pull on if things get complicated.”

They pulled up outside 9 Avril Prison. The high guard tower sent slices of yellow light into the street, lighting the red-and-white Tunisian flag on the flagpole in the courtyard. The high stone walls were topped with razor wire, and two policemen in olive-green-and-black uniforms were leaning against the guard shack, smoking. Mortimer rolled down the window. “We have come from the American embassy.” He held his identification out the window, but didn’t relinquish it when the guard tried to take it out of his hand. The two Marines in the front seat plastered their IDs against the front windshield. “Open the gate. Ben Mberek is expecting us.”

One of the policemen stepped into the darkness and spoke on his radio, then went into the guard shack and lifted the gate. John and Greg stayed slumped down in the back seat, but they had been still long enough for photographs. A tall man in an olive green uniform and black boots stood on the top step of the prison and watched them, his arms crossed over his chest. He was older, in his sixties, maybe, with a grizzled gray beard and a hard face, a black mole on his cheek.

One of the Marines came around, opened the back door for John. He walked just behind him up the steps. The other stayed with the vehicle, the driver’s side door open, scanning the courtyard. Greg came around his other side.

John walked up the steps, his hand extended, and spoke in Arabic. “Good evening! You are very gracious to allow me to come and see you so late! I’m afraid I am still on Washington, DC, time. My name is John Mitchel.”

The older man shook his hand gravely, studying him with narrowed eyes. “I am Moncef Ben Mberek. I have heard of a General John Mitchel.”

“Oh, I am retired from the United States Army now.”

Greg came up to his side, shook hands. “Dr. Mitchel is a noted classics scholar. He has been to Tunisia before.”

“Yes, I have,” John said. “I came with my teacher, Dr. Omar al-Salim, to study in Carthage at the Bardo. Things have changed in Tunisia since I was here last.”

“Come in, General.” He turned, escorted them through the heavy prison doors. The wooden doors were heavy and dark, deeply carved, with thick iron rings set deep in the wood. “One of my men is making tea.”

“Excellent. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Your Arabic is very good.”