The flight from Paris had been equally strange. Absent were the Italian suits and gold-trimmed briefcases. Those few legitimate businessmen who ventured here generally preferred the big European carriers. The passengers on Libya’s state airline had been young students, weary vacationers, and a significant contingent of swarthy characters who seemed to eye one another continuously. Each was no doubt engaged in his or her own brand of illicit behavior, and the specter of professional overlap had weighed heavily throughout coach; the black market, smuggling, and terrorism were a way of life in these parts.
Roth looked at his watch and wondered how much deeper into this godforsaken sandbox they’d have to go. He’d seen Libya in satellite photos, yet Roth never imagined he’d get to see it up close. He wondered idly what corner of the country they were in now, but the thought passed quickly. Knowing wouldn’t do him any good. The possibility of escape was nil. He was deep inside the Libyan Desert, in the hands of his swornenemies. And he was about to make them an incredible offer. If they accepted, Roth would be driven back to the airport with the promise of becoming a wealthy man. If they refused, he wouldn’t see the light of the next morning.
His hand squeezed the armrest on the door and he wondered for the thousandth time how he’d gotten himself into this mess. He felt like a pawn in a chess game, only he was neither black nor white — simply a lone, errant piece trying to exist between two battling armies. Still, there was a chance. Roth could survive, maybe even profit if it all worked out. All he had to do was talk. He’d always been good at that, and he already knew what to say. If they believed his offer was legitimate, and of course it was, the only question would be price.
Al-Quatan shifted forward in his seat and peered through the front windshield. The Colonel then leaned back and used his thumbs to tuck in some loose shirt around his waistline. They were getting close.
Nothing about the journey had really surprised Roth so far, nor had anything about Colonel Al-Quatan. He was a short, compact man, with the olive skin tone so common among the Bir al-Sab Bedouins of the Negev region. He sported a thick black mustache, and a bristle of close-cropped hair served as base for his maroon beret. The shoes were gleaming, the fatigues pressed and heavily starched. To complete the package, a leather holster was wrapped around his ample midsection, one hip displaying a large caliber ivory-handled revolver, the other a satellite phone. Roth knew the colonel’s commission was self-appointed, never having been issued by any particular country or army. But he was, without doubt, the organization’s military commander, and he had no hesitation in flaunting the title of rank, as had been the case earlier when introducing himself at the airport.
The truck rounded a hill and a small city of tents appeared. The area was well lit, the tents grouped tightly together. Roth saw laundry hanging from lines between tent poles. A large pile of trash had accumulated off to one side of the complex. They had obviously been here for weeks, if not months. It was a place where they felt safe. Roth wished he had some kind of mental navigation device. The coordinates of this place might be worth a lot to the right people.
The Suburban neared the perimeter of the compound and its headlights illuminated two men sitting next to the road on an overturned fifty-five gallon drum. One stood up lazily and Roth was surprised to see, of allthings, an Israeli-made Uzi strapped loosely across his chest. The other man didn’t even get up, his Russian weapon leaning on a rock, its butt in the sand. These would be the guards. The one who was standing smiled and waved at the familiar truck, which passed without stopping.
Al-Quatan gave a directive to the driver in Arabic. Roth correctly interpreted the command and a surge of adrenaline jolted through his body. They were going directly to Khalif’s tent. Roth was not fluent in Arabic, especially given the numerous dialects, but he had a basic knowledge of the language, a fact he would certainly keep to himself for the next day or so.
Al-Quatan looked away for a moment and Roth quickly wiped a mist of perspiration from his upper lip. It was going to happen fast now, the balance of his life to be determined in the next twenty minutes. He had to keep his wits.
The Suburban stopped sharply in front of a large, centrally located tent.
“Stay here,” Al-Quatan ordered Roth. The colonel got out of the car, disappeared into the billowing tent for less than a minute, then returned.
“Moustafa Khalif will see you now. Abu will take your bag.”
Roth followed Al-Quatan to the tent. At the entrance were two armed men, these more serious and professional than the ones on the perimeter. It only made sense that Khalif would have his best men nearby. They gave their Israeli guest a rough pat down and a hard stare, then ushered Roth inside as Al-Quatan followed.
In the tent, Roth found a random, asynchronous atmosphere. Plywood floors were partially covered by ornate carpets. A scattered assortment of chairs, couches, and tables were strewn about the place, none seeming to match. A Louis Quinze desk was shoved into one corner, and on top was a ten-gallon jerry can with the word petrol stenciled in big block letters. A large crystal chandelier hung from the center of the tent’s frame, half its light bulbs burned out.
The two security men took up post at the entrance, out of earshot, but with a clear line of sight toward the Israeli. Roth was sure their aim was excellent. Al-Quatan moved off to one side and stood silently. Only then did Roth notice the other person in the room. He rose from a plush sultan’s chair, a tall man with huge olive eyes, a salt-and-pepper beard, and weathered features. Roth recognized him instantly. The man’s arms outstretched in greeting and, dressed in the traditional Arab jellabah, his robe flowed outward, giving the appearance of a huge bird airing its wings.
“Mr. Roth, I am Moustafa Khalif. I am pleased that you have come.”
Roth nodded politely, noticing Khalif made no effort to amplify his greeting with any of the traditional physical add-ons — no Arabic embrace or Western handshake. He looked much like the photos Roth had seen so often in the newspapers back home, perhaps older, a bit grayer.
“I hope your journey was not a difficult one,” Khalif said. His English was measured and deliberate, almost without accent.
“Not difficult, just long,” Roth said.
“Good. I know we are not conveniently located, but you can understand our reasons.” Khalif waved a wing toward an open chair. “Please have a seat.”
Roth chose a sturdy dinner chair as a man in an ill-fitting white servant’s jacket presented a tray of tea. So far, so good.
“Traveling. There is something I am no longer able to do. When I was a child, my parents took me to Italy and Austria. The Sistine Chapel, Vienna, the Alps. I remember it like it was yesterday.”
Khalif gave a wistful sigh and Roth tried to imagine the terrorist as a child. He couldn’t.
“Here, I am a prisoner, surrounded by a desert and a people that are not my own. Still, we are safe, and for the moment that is important. From this place we can pursue our freedom, and someday, if it should be the will of Allah, we will return home. Perhaps then I can travel once again.”