“She’s… I don’t think she’s willing to intervene either,” he said after a few seconds, his fingers clenching the paper cup so hard that coffee almost spilled over the top. “She’ll get us outside the embassy, but most likely Carrie and I would have to leave tomorrow.”
Abdul leaned forward and picked up his own cup. After a quick sip, he asked, “What if you simply disappeared?”
“I thought about it, but running will worsen our chances. How can we investigate and gather evidence if we’re wanted by the mukhabarat?”
“You’re right about that,” Abdul said. “Nothing good will come from running.”
Justin glanced again outside the window. A taxi was parked in front of one of the restaurants. A group of people huddled in front of the next door coffee shop. His gaze soared, and he noticed two men sitting in one of the balconies of the apartment complex across the intersection. They were on the fourth floor, about three hundred yards away.
“Still nothing,” Justin said, consulting his wristwatch.
“Relax.” Abdul leaned back, his right hand stroking his chin. “He’s probably enjoying some decent coffee. Unlike this one.”
“You bought it.”
“Big mistake, but it was the only thing half decent at the machine.”
“If we’re running and hiding, sooner or later we’ll get caught, not to mention that you’ll land in hot water, all over again.”
Abdul shook his head. “That’s if I help you.”
“Huh? What?”
“I’m kidding. Of course, I’ll help you. Now, the risk is great, but if we can undo the plot to kill the Prime Minister, that will mean great rewards, great rewards, for all of us.” Abdul’s voice echoed with envy.
“Chief of the mukhabarat?” Justin noticed Abdul’s drooling.
“Oh, yes, yes. Even army’s chief of staff.”
“No way! Isn’t that position reserved for a general? I don’t see any stars on you.”
“If we save his life, the Prime Minister can make me a general with a snap of his fingers.”
“That’s an extremely long shot.”
“Not impossible.”
Justin stood up and paced impatiently along the wall. He stole a glance at his wristwatch and pulled the window curtains aside again. His gaze found Nour crossing the street by the eastern wall of the embassy. Nour was carrying two plastic bags on his left hand and holding his cellphone pressed against his ear with the other hand.
“Nour’s coming back. He’s just… wait, what the hell?”
“What’s going on?”
Justin squinted and raised his hands to his forehead, to ward off the reflection of his face in the window’s glass. A rifle’s barrel jutting out from the fourth floor balcony tolled his alarm bells.
“Sniper, there’s a sniper, fourth floor, two o’clock.”
“What?”
“Nour’s their target. Go, go, go!” Justin shouted.
He sprang over the couch like a leopard chasing an antelope. His left foot banged against the table, sending Abdul’s coffee spilling on the couch and the carpeted floor. Abdul jumped to his feet and hurried behind Justin. They ran down the hall, turned the corner and began jumping the stairs three and four at a time. As they reached the first floor, one of the guards by the reception desk, a tall, bald man, stepped forward, spreading his arms to stop their approach.
“Where d’you think you’re goin’?”
“Nour’s in danger. Outside—”
The guard shoved his large palm into Justin’s chest.
“You ain’t leaving this—”
Justin cut him off with a right fist slamming against his square jaws. A left knee to the stomach dropped the man to the floor. Abdul went for the other guard, but before they had exchanged any blows, Justin leveled the pistol he took from the guard sprawled on the floor at the head of the second guard.
“Don’t move.”
Abdul disarmed the second guard and followed Justin, who opened the door leading to the courtyard.
“Open the gate, open the freaking gate,” Justin screamed at the guards manning the main entrance of the embassy, threatening them with his gun. Abdul raised his pistol as well, but the heavy steel plate gate was already rolling. Squeezing through the narrow opening, Justin raced down the street.
“Nour, Nour,” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Nour!”
The American was about a hundred yards away, strolling at leisure and focusing solely on his cellphone conversation. Dashing forward, Justin fired a warning shot in the air. The gunshot sent a few people scattering for the safety of nearby stores. The chaos caught Nour’s attention. He stared at Justin barreling toward him, gun drawn and shouting in panic. Nour raised up his hands, asking about the unbelievable scene unfolding in front of his eyes, when a second gunshot erupted, echoing in the empty street. It did not come from Justin’s gun. The bullet struck Nour in the back. His phone flew out of his hand. A second later, his lunch spilled on the ground. Nour’s feet gave in and he dropped face first into the concrete sidewalk.
“No, no, no,” Justin cried, aiming his pistol at the sniper’s balcony, and squeezing off one round after the other. He kept running toward the fallen American. Other gunfire came from behind him. Justin figured it was Abdul firing his weapon. A bullet wheezed past his head and Justin realized now he had become the sniper’s moving target. He jumped to the side and rolled over the ground. Then, he climbed to his left knee and fired a quick burst. The bullets shattered the glass door behind the sniper. Justin fired his last rounds and then tossed the empty pistol aside, as he hid behind one of the embassy SUVs parked on the side of the road.
“Abdul, I’m out.”
Abdul replied by firing two more times, before diving for cover inside one of the stores to his left. The sniper shot back, hammering the SUV’s widows. Justin peeked out from underneath the car at Nour. The man was motionless. A pool of blood was forming around his head. More rounds poured toward Abdul’s position.
“Fire back,” Justin shouted.
“I’m empty. Are you OK?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Nour’s down.”
A loud rumble came from his right and Justin turned his head. Two white GMC Envoys rolled out of the embassy, accompanied by armed guards in dark blue fatigues. As they edged closer to him, weapons at the ready, Justin glanced at the fourth floor balcony. The shooter was gone.
“Medic, he needs a medic,” Justin shouted at the guards.
Two of them began to check Nour’s body for signs of life. Justin stood up, shifting the weight of his body to his right leg. He had reopened his left leg wound and blood was tricking down his foot. Carrie was running toward him and he gave her a smile. Seconds later, she fell into his arms for a tight embrace.
“I’ll have that treated,” Carrie said in a worried voice, her eyes noticing the bloodstain around Justin’s foot.
“Thanks.”
“I tell you not to go shooting without me, but you never listen.” Carrie raised a stern finger and shook her head very dramatically.
“You were busy having a girly talk with Johnson.” Justin searched the street for Abdul. “By the way, how did that go?”
“Slightly better than this.” Carrie pointed at the guards hovering over Nour. An ambulance pulled into the intersection and screeched to a halt next to the wounded American. The Libya British Diagnostic Center logo was painted on the left side of the ambulance.
“You took one for the team.” Abdul jogged toward them.
“No, old wound.” Justin replied. “Oh, no,” he added, looking over Carrie’s shoulder.
“What is it?” she asked.
Carrie turned around, just as Matthew appeared at the embassy’s gate. His dark gaze first fell on his chief of security, whose body was being lifted into a gurney and wheeled into the back of the ambulance. Matthew ran to the ambulance and exchanged a few words with a guard and one of the paramedics. Justin read Matthew’s rage through his body gestures: sinking shoulders, clenched fists, a kick to the ambulance rear tire. Then, the man’s blazing eyes found Justin and the rest of his group. He braced for the verbal storm that was about to hail upon their ears. However, Matthew’s blue eyes cooled off as he measured up the agents. He walked over to them.
“Nour is barely alive. Thank you for helping him. After you patch up your wound, meet me in my office,” he said. “The two of you.” He pointed at Justin and Carrie. “In fifteen minutes.”
Chapter Twenty-one
United States Embassy, Tripoli, Liby
a
May 15, 1:30 p.m. local time
Matthew’s office was on the second floor, in the eastern corner of the embassy. The walls were adorned with portraits of American presidents. Washington, Lincoln, Roosevelt, Gerber. Justin slowed down his pace as they reached the last portrait. Stacy Gerber, who was to arrive in Tripoli in two days, was looking at him through her still green eyes. A true politician gaze, inspiring and comforting, secure and confidant.
She may be off the terrorists’ hit list, but this is far from over.
A moment later, he noticed Carrie and the guard had stopped and were staring at him.
“I’m coming,” he said, before they had a chance to say anything.
“What is it?” Carrie asked.
“Nothing. I was just looking at the President’s picture.”
The Secret Service Assistant Director’s office door was open, but the guard still tapped it lightly out of courtesy. Matthew, standing by a small window, glanced at them. He gestured for Justin and Carrie to take a seat next to a stainless steel table with a round glass top. A few piles of manila folders were scattered over the table. Justin noticed a few aerial photographs and mug shots, as well as a few reports. Some were stamped TOP SECRET.
“I guess I owe you an apology,” Matthew began in a flat voice, his back toward them, his gaze still floating outside the window. He allowed a few seconds to pass and then, after the agents’ respectful silence, he added, “I hope you still want to get to the bottom of your investigation.”
“We do, sir,” Justin replied.
“Absolutely,” Carrie added.
“OK, then.” Matthew turned around, resting his back against the window and pointed at the table. “I
want
this bastard and I don’t care if his uncle is the King or the Crown Prince. If Al-Farhan is behind Nour’s shooting, I want him to pay.”
Justin threw a quick glance at one of the pictures.
Is that the Prince?
he wondered. Instead, he asked, “How’s Nour doing?”
“The British doctors are working on removing the bullet. If it has pierced his lungs, his chances of coming out of the coma drop significantly. At this point, they’re still assessing the internal damage. Let’s just hope his spinal cord is intact. Those damn bullets are so unpredictable. You never know what has been pierced and slashed along its path, and…”
Matthew’s voice trailed off, and Justin did not ask for further details. He knew that even surface gunshot wounds could deteriorate into life-threatening situations. Nour had taken a bullet inches away from his vital organs. His prognosis did not look good.
“Anyway.” Matthew attempted to clear the glooming cloud shadowing his mood, “I was saying, if this jerk had anything to do with sending Nour’s shooter, he has no idea what’s coming to him.” He walked to the table and sat across from them. “My men searched the apartment on the fourth floor, but the shooter vanished. The place is now teeming with secret and not-so-secret police.”
“I saw two people on the balcony minutes before the attack,” Justin said, “but only one person firing the rifle.”
“It doesn’t really matter, since the mukhabarat will find nothing. They’ll arrest some poor schmuck, who’ll confess to the shooting under torture. We have no jurisdiction outside our embassy. My hands are tied.”
Matthew pointed both his index fingers at the agents. “But yours are not. You’re willing and you’re able.”
“Wait a minute,” Justin said. “What about the deportation order? Colonel Farid wants us out of Libya by tomorrow morning.”
“That’s taken care off. The colonel has been MIA since noon.”
“What? Where did he go?”
“His blue Fiat was found abandoned just south of the city. Farid’s not answering his cellphones and no one has any idea of his whereabouts.”
“You’re thinking what I’m thinking?” Carrie asked Matthew.
Matthew nodded. “Yes, Prince Al-Farhan seems to be the only known link between these incidents. First, you’re attacked after discovering something’s amiss in the plot against my President, which we know was a decoy. Then, after the attack failed, Colonel Farid disappears without a trace, and one of my men is shot assassination-style. There’s only one man we know who can pull this off in a matter of hours. Prince Al-Farhan.”
“Oh, now you’re connecting the dots,” Carrie said.
Her voice came out a bit accusatory, although Justin knew she did not mean to be brazen. Matthew was already on their side.
“No, I made the connection when I first heard you, but things were different at the time. Two hours ago, I didn’t have my right-hand man lying half dead on a surgeon’s table, and I was missing the last two pieces of evidence that support this theory: the disappearance of Colonel Farid and the two shootings. If Al-Farhan brought his dirty war to us, making Americans his target, we’ll pay him back. The Prince is now our target.”
“Wasn’t Al-Farhan targeting America all along? After all, the initial plot was to assassinate the American President during her visit here,” Carrie said.
“He was, but see, that plot was a hoax, a decoy. And good thing we found out. The President gets about three hundred threats a day, most of which completely outlandish. I admit, this plot seemed to have teeth, and we did investigate and take all necessary measures. When a US President visits a foreign country, especially one with which we haven’t had the greatest relationship in more than forty years, a lot of henchmen start coming out of the woodwork. And these henchmen drew blood. The blood of my man.” Matthew rapped his knuckle over the manila folders on the table. “Now, more evidence has piled up on my desk during the last two days. The Secret Service has been trailing Prince Al-Farhan’s movements over the last month, as soon as we learned about my President’s visit for the G-20 Summit. But the Saudis’ are so rich we struggle to keep up our surveillance. When they vacation for weeks in private islands, we can’t always send our men incognito. They have their own banking system, cloaked in secrecy. They fly in their private jets and pay off everyone to seal their lips.