“There always are.”
“The immediate concern for us is Scorpion, the WMDs. We want to know, one, if they do exist. And two, if they exist, we want to make sure we secure them so they don’t fall into the wrong hands.”
“Got it.”
“NATO claims to have inspected all the sites and secured the few old mustard-gas shells they found. But our chief there doesn’t believe they were thorough. The whole NATO command thing is sensitive. We don’t want to look like we’re second-guessing them or stepping on anyone’s toes.”
“Naturally.”
“But given the possible stakes, Al thinks it’s too important. And Donaldson and I agree.”
“I thought Donaldson didn’t like us,” Crocker said.
“Where’d you get that impression?”
“From him, primarily.”
“He thinks you guys are great.”
Crocker had another question. “You mentioned Al. Al who?”
“Al Cowens. He’s our station chief in Tripoli. You’ll be working closely with him. You might have to coordinate with the NATO commander there, who is a Brit. But we’re leaving that up to Al. He’s no-nonsense, like you, Crocker. I think you’ll like him.”
“I know Al,” Crocker said. “He’s a stud.”
“Oh, and one other thing. You’ll be going in undercover as American civil engineers doing a study of the city’s electrical grid.”
“Perfect.”
“Al’s idea.”
“When do you want us there?”
“Tonight, tomorrow. As soon as possible.”
Crocker’s only previous trip to Libya had occurred roughly sixteen years before, when he had run a training program for a group of anti-Gaddafi rebels, Berber tribesmen all from one extended family. They were two dozen brave men ranging in age from seventeen to seventy. After hot days showing them how to disassemble, clean, and fire AK-47s, Crocker and the two Special Forces operatives he had been sent with would sit around a fire and listen through their translator as the men told gruesome stories about tribe members who had run afoul of the Gaddafi regime.
One man had refused to sell his farmland to one of the strongman’s cronies. He and his entire family were rounded up and tortured. As Gaddafi’s friends watched, men and women were raped, then the men’s genitals were hacked off and the women were blinded.
After Crocker left he learned that the entire clan he’d worked with had been captured and killed. The memory left a bad taste in his mouth.
The Libyan Arab Airlines jet he and his men rode in banked over the Mediterranean. Tripoli, a sparkling gold crescent of concrete and glass in the light of the setting sun, glittered below.
Mancini, in the seat behind him, leaned forward and recited some facts. “It’s a city of almost two million. Founded way back in the seventh century BC by the Phoenicians. They were essentially an alliance of city-states that controlled the area around Lebanon and Israel from about 1200 to 800 BC. Big traders. Loved the color purple, which they considered royal, and they got it from the mucus of the murex sea snail.”
“The murex sea snail?” Akil groaned. “Too much information.”
“Ignorance is dangerous, Akil,” Mancini retorted. “Remember that.”
“So is clogging up your brain with trivial crap.”
The old DC-727’s landing gear groaned into place as the female flight attendants tied scarves around their heads.
“History isn’t trivial,” Mancini said. “Those who don’t learn from it are destined to repeat it.”
“Thanks, professor. Now shut the fuck up.”
The plane hit the runway like a bag of bolts and jerked right.
“Check this out,” Davis said, lifting the carpet and pointing to a six-inch-diameter hole in the floor near his seat. Through it they could see the runway flying by.
“Nice.”
Stepping off the plane, they were hit by a blast of fresh Mediterranean air pungent with spices and mixed with jet fuel.
Ritchie asked, “Didn’t we bomb this shithole in the eighties?”
“That was Mitiga Airport, east of the city, near Gaddafi’s former stronghold,” Mancini interjected. “Nineteen eighty-six, to be exact. Part of Operation El Dorado Canyon launched by President Ronald Reagan.”
“Bombed his tent, too,” Ritchie added.
“That’s right. Gaddafi barely escaped. Turned out he was forewarned by some Italian politician.”
“Fucking asshole.”
Shifting loyalties. The Libyans were now our friends. They were also one of the top oil-producing countries in the world, exporting approximately 1.2 million barrels of crude a day, 80 percent of which went to Europe. Violence and instability there meant an increase in gas and heating oil prices back home.
The terminal was dark and relatively empty. All the green flags once flown by Gaddafi’s Great Socialist People’s Libyan Arab Jamahiriya had been replaced with the black, red, and green of the NTC. Soldiers in green camouflage uniforms holding AK-47s patrolled the building. Some were wearing sneakers and sandals; others were equipped with boots. They looked more like gang members than members of a disciplined army.
After a period of contemplation, Gaddafi proclaimed the Socialist People’s Libyan Arab Jamahiriya and released the first volume of The Green Book, which outlined his concept of direct democracy with no political parties. The country thereafter would be governed by its populace through local popular councils and communes. A General People’s Committee (GPCO) would serve as the country’s executive cabinet.
Gaddafi resigned as the head of the General People’s Congress (GPC) and was thereafter known as the Leader of the Revolution. But it was really all a ruse. Absolute power still rested with him as supreme commander of the armed forces and the embodiment of what Gaddafi called direct people’s power. The popular councils (also known as revolutionary committees) were used to spy on the population and repress any opposition to Gaddafi’s autocratic rule.
Eventually the truth caught up with him, as it had with other despots.
When the six Americans reached Immigration, a young man with a wispy beard and thinning hair stepped forward and said, “Salaam alaikum.”
Because he had an olive complexion and was casually dressed in a tan shirt and wrinkled brown pants, Crocker assumed he was a local. “Salaam alaikum to you.”
The man squinted through gold-rimmed glasses and smiled. “You’re Tom Crocker, right? I’m Douglas Volman from the U.S. embassy.”
“Hey, Doug. Nice to meet you.”
“Welcome to Tripoli. Follow me.”
The six casually dressed “engineers” followed Volman and his driver, whom Volman introduced as Mustafa, out the arched terminal entrance to a large black SUV parked at the curb.
Mustafa wore a green baseball cap with a Playboy Bunny logo embroidered on it. This struck Crocker as too casual for a local employee of the CIA.
“Who’d you say you work for again?” he asked Volman as they started loading their luggage in back.
Volman flashed his diplomatic ID. “I’m a political counselor at the U.S. embassy.”
“State Department?”
“Yeah, Foreign Service.”
Made sense. He seemed smart, well educated-and soft.
They sped through the city on a highway littered with abandoned, stripped cars and garbage. Traffic was chaotic and moved extremely fast. From the passenger seat, Volman turned to face them. He chewed a piece of gum as he spoke.
“Libyans are the friendliest, warmest people in the world. But everyone’s on edge now that Gaddafi is gone.”
“I thought they’d be happy.”
“Some are. Many aren’t. He remained a popular figure with a large segment of the population even until the end. He created a standard of living here that’s higher than that of Brazil.”