He began to take in his surroundings. He was sitting in the corner of a small room. This is a washroom. His eyes rested on the shower glass door with a silver trim. Then, he stared at the white porcelain sink, its vanity and the large mirror of a semicircle shape. What is this noise? His ears felt plugged but still rang with a constant hum. He checked his ears with his hands, just as the entire bathroom shook sideways. I’m in a plane, he realized and swallowed hard, breathing in deep and pinching his nose. After a few tries, Justin heard a low popping sound in his ears, soon replaced by the same hum, this time much louder.
OK, the Prince has tied me up. Is this his plane? Is he here?
He found the small rectangular door and got up to his feet. He ignored the stabbing pain shooting up from his left knee and turned the round handle. The door was locked. He tried again, harder this time, shoving the door with his shoulder, wincing as the pain went through his entire body. Realizing he could not break through, Justin began to knock hard on the door, using the edge of his handcuffs.
A few seconds later, he heard the rattling of keys. The door opened slowly and Justin was greeted by the muzzle of a mini Uzi. He looked up at the gunman and frowned, recognizing the face. He was one of the two young men following him in the streets of Cairo four days ago, when he was going to the Castle, to meet with Carrie. Where is she? Where is Abdul?
With a quick flick of the gun, the gunman gestured to Justin to step out. He walked the four steps separating the airplane’s bathroom from a set of glass doors, covered by orange drapes.
“Welcome back, Justin,” he heard the voice of the Prince, as he entered what resembled a small lounge.
Prince Al-Farhan was lying in a white, L-shaped sofa. He was dressed in a golden robe, with a white headdress. A small cut was visible above his left eyebrow. Another man Justin had not seen before was sitting next to the Prince. He was probably in his forties, with a two days growth of stubble, black shoulder-length hair, and was dressed in a navy blue suit. The Prince’s aide, Zakir, who Justin recognized from pictures he had seen, had taken a seat across a glass top table, separating him from the other two men. He was typing on a laptop balanced on his knees. Two gunmen, in dark suits and matching pants, armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns, stood behind the Prince. Another dark suit was sitting by the other glass door leading to the rest of the private jet. A fourth guard rested against the door from which Justin came into the lounge.
“Sit down.” The Prince pointed at an empty seat on a couch next to Zakir.
Justin followed his order. The man from Cairo came in and stood guard behind him.
“We thought you wouldn’t join us until we completed our descent, but you keep surprising us, doesn’t he, General?”
The stubbled man nodded then showed his white teeth in a big, wicked grin. “He always does,” he replied in Arabic.
“So, you’re his dog, doing his dirty job?” Justin asked in Arabic as well, arching his right eyebrow.
The general was taken aback by the insult in his mother tongue. Before he could respond, the gunman behind Justin slammed the metallic stock of his mini Uzi at the back of Justin’s head.
“The general is a dear friend,” the Prince said, once Justin had regained his composure from the blow. He picked up a wine glass from the table and took a small sip of the red wine. “You will show him respect.”
Justin nodded slowly. “Sure, just help me understand this: The general here and you are going to kill Libya’s Prime Minister today. You’re giving him money, and he’s organizing the military.”
The Prince nodded. “Yes, you’re right. You can say I’m the brain and he’s the muscle.”
“I was thinking more in terms of beauty and the beast, but I only see two beasts here.”
The gunman behind him reacted to Justin’s words, but Justin was quick to move out of the way and avoid the blow. The mini Uzi stock missed his head by a couple of inches.
“Enough already,” the Prince shouted when the gunman tried again to hit Justin. “Your sarcasm, Mr. Hall, is not going to save the Prime Minister. Your CIA friends are not going to save him either.”
“You sit and watch. Nothing will happen to the Prime Minister. Your plan has already failed. We know there’s no assassination attempt against the American President. You were using her as a decoy, but your true target is the Prime Minister of Libya.”
“You’re right, Mr. Hall. Why bother with a puppet that will disappear from public life in four to eight years? If Libya’s history teaches us anything, is that this Prime Minister will stay in power for a long, long time, like the previously toppled Colonel Qaddafi.”
“But why do you want to kill him?”
The Prince sat back on the sofa. “We have a saying, Mr. Hall, which goes like this: It is better to die in revenge than to live on in shame. The Prime Minister has dishonored the House of Saud, my own family. Now, it’s time for him to pay for his shameful acts.”
“I see,” Justin said. I’m sure the fact that Libya has the ninth largest oil reserve in the world and pumps more than three million barrels of oil per day has nothing to do with your plans. But, OK, you have confirmed what I needed to know. Now, give me the details. “The motorcade. You’re attacking the Prime Minister’s motorcade?”
The Prince responded with a surprised look. “You think so? That’s how you would do it?”
The Prince’s voice was flat, giving no hints about the attack. Justin decided to change tactics.
“Look, I’ve failed to stop you.” He showed his cuffed hands. Then, he gestured toward the guards. “And I’m not going anywhere. At least, do me the courtesy of telling me.”
The general leaned forward and seemed to be getting ready to speak, when the Prince silenced him with a headshake.
“You’ll be there to watch with your own eyes, Justin,” the Prince said, “but I can tell you one who’s supposed to help the Prime Minister may actually end up killing him.”
Justin pondered on his words. The assassin is one of the Prime Minister’s bodyguards? One of his drivers? One of his closest aides?
The voice of the captain was heard over the public address system of the airplane.
“We have begun our descent over Tripoli, and we should land within the next fifteen minutes.”
The airplane trembled slightly and Justin felt it beginning its descent. Once we’re on the ground, it’s all over. If I’m to escape, I have to do it before we land.
“What’s on your mind?” the Prince reached for the wine bottle on the table and refilled his glass. “You’re going to tell us where the CIA men are hiding?”
“Sure, once you tell me where and how you’re planning to kill the Prime Minister.”
“Mr. Hall, I don’t think you’re in a bargaining position.”
“Think again.”
Prince Al-Farhan frowned and placed his wine glass back on the table without a sip. The gunman behind Justin moved closer. Justin felt him breathing on his neck.
“The CIA’s waiting for you,” Justin said. “As soon as you land, you’re their target.” Maybe I can convince him to call off the assassination.
“That’s impossible,” the general replied. “My men control the airport. You’re bluffing.”
Justin opened his mouth to reject the general’s claim, when the corner of his right eye caught a quick movement in between the orange drapes. It came from behind the dark suit guarding the right side entrance to the lounge. It lasted less than half a second, but he saw Carrie’s eyes taking in every detail of the lounge. She was about the storm in.