“Yes, ma’am.”
A moment later the screen, which had gone blank after the Reaper was shot down, blinked to life. A blue box with a white “play” arrow appeared, and Renee watched the sergeant’s cursor scroll over to the arrow and click it.
The video showed the inside of an American FOB. The gravel was scorched black in some places, and the walls of the buildings were pockmarked with bullet holes. The camera panned over a row of bodies before focusing on Colonel Barnes.
The colonel stood framed by the dark mountains in the background. The sky looked impossibly blue, with white clouds slowly drifting on an invisible breeze.
“General Swift,” he began. “Do I have your attention now?” Barnes looked comfortable and supremely arrogant in his dirty camouflage uniform. His blond head was streaked white in the sunlight, and despite the dark sunglasses, he oozed a violent aggression.
“I advised you to heed my warning, but you wouldn’t listen. Still the most clueless man in Afghanistan, I see. I would suggest leaving as soon as possible, before the natives find out that the Americans killed their president. Anvil 6 out.”
The video ended, leaving Colonel Barnes’s face framed on the large screen.
CHAPTER 14
The drive from Algiers to the Libyan border crossing at Ghadames took seventeen hours, and Mason tried to sleep for most of the way. The compact Toyota was cramped and smelled like dirty laundry and stale cigarette smoke. It was impossible for him to get comfortable, and he finally gave up the idea of going to sleep and just smoked.
His driver, a young Libyan, stopped before the border crossing to buy six cans of warm beer from a roadside vendor. Returning to the car, he asked Mason if he wanted one before popping the top and chugging the can.
Alcohol was illegal in Libya, which meant that it was hard to find but not impossible to get. Mason got out of the car to take a piss on the side of the road, and after he finished, he stretched his legs and surveyed the long line of cars at the border.
Ghadames had always been a prominent city because it had fresh water. Thousands of years ago, the arid crossing would have been packed with caravans waiting to water their camels at the oasis. Since the civil war it had become a hub for drugs being smuggled into the country and weapons coming out.
It was a dangerous place, but Mason’s only concern was the 290 miles left to Tripoli. The driver tossed the empty can of beer out of the window and lit a cigarette before getting back on the road.
The driver cursed under his breath and honked his horn as he maneuvered the car onto a dirt bypass and snaked around the line of cars. He stopped next to a tan shack and honked his horn twice. A middle-aged soldier ambled slowly from the building, with the bored expression that only a civil servant can muster. His uniform was stained with sweat and bulged around the midriff as he made his way to the car.
“You again. What do you want this time?” he asked the driver, his hand resting on top of his leather holster.
“Uncle, you look tired. Are they working you too hard?” the driver asked with concern before handing over the sack of beer.
“This fucking job, all day I sit out in the sun and listen to these people. I’ve had enough, I tell you.” He took the beer with a smile and patted the driver on his hand. “You are a good nephew, but next time bring me the American porno mags that I’ve been asking for.”
His nephew smiled as the soldier bent down to get a look at Mason.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I have family in Tripoli and my mother is sick,” Mason replied in Arabic. The soldier nodded and patted the top of the car, telling them that they were free to go.
The car pulled off and the driver asked Mason if he had his pistol ready.
“Yeah, why, what’s up?”
“There are more checkpoints on the road ahead, but they aren’t manned by the military. It should be okay, but you never know.”
Mason slipped the Glock out of his waistband and placed it beneath his thigh, making sure it was out of sight. He ignored the sharp edges cutting through his pants and tried to enjoy the scenery as they drove toward the city.
They had to stop four more times before making it to Tripoli, and at each checkpoint the driver had to fork over a wad of wrinkled dinars to get past the militia guarding the road. The government might have controlled the borders, but the road was still in control of the rebels. Halfway to their destination, the driver pulled over at a bombed-out gas station and Mason switched cars. He thanked the man for his help before settling into the nicer Toyota Land Cruiser that would take him to the safe house. The American wondered if Toyota was the only company that imported vehicles to the Mideast.
“Maybe I should give all this up and set up a dealership,” he thought to himself before dozing off.
His new driver woke him up outside Tripoli and pulled the SUV through the gate of a modest house on the outskirts of the capital. Mason grabbed his gear and stretched before walking up to the door.
Knocking twice, he turned the brass knob and pushed open the heavy wooden door. The interior of the house was dimly lit and filled with cigarette smoke. The floors were a rough concrete, and a large rectangular rug took up the middle of the large room, beneath an equally large table.
The furnishings of the house had obviously been picked off the street, because nothing in the room matched. A faded blue chair and two brown couches added an island of color in comparison to the whitewashed walls, and the chairs surrounding the table were mismatched and rickety.
Mason smiled as Zeus turned away from the table, the small black comb he used to brush his prized goatee still in his hand.
“Well, look who finally decided to show up. I was just telling Tarek that I thought you’d decided to live in Morocco.”
The American looked over at Tarek, who was hunched over a computer, his strong shoulders and huge arms dwarfing the tiny laptop. Like Zeus, he had worked for Ahmed in the Libyan intelligence service, and after a visit to the United States he had fallen in love with the movie Serpico. Ever since, he had adopted Pacino’s shaggy hair and thick beard, which he dyed black to cover the gray. Mason had bought him a leather coat, like the one Pacino wore in the movie, and despite the warmth of the night he still had it on.
Zeus embraced him as he dropped his gear near the couch, and kissed both sides of his face in the traditional Middle Eastern greeting. Mason nodded to Tarek, who made no attempt to tear his attention away from the laptop.
“What happened to your face?” Zeus asked, holding his friend at arm’s length. “I told you about the whorehouses in Morocco, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“It’s nothing,” Mason replied.
“Let me guess, you got into a fight because you ignored your friend’s advice. Am I right?”
“I handled it.”
“That’s not the point, my friend. One day you’re going to go against someone faster or stronger than you, and then what? If you don’t listen to me, you will never live long enough to get out of here.”
“I got it,” Mason said, annoyed at the scolding. “I see you’ve been busy.”
He pointed to the table, which was covered in maps and photos, and a computer that had seen better days.
“When Ahmed said that his ‘little prince’ needed help, we dropped everything.” He smiled at his own joke and pointed to Tarek. “Now, if I could only get this one to do some work, I might be able to get some rest. Tarek, you are being rude. Say hello to our guest,” he snapped.
Tarek grunted from the computer. Mason could see that he was scrolling through a gallery of porn, which had become a national obsession since the Internet ban was lifted.