Dead or Alive (70 page)

“Man, he’s really doing it,” Chavez said. “Your dad’s got some brass ones, Jack.”

Jack nodded.

Clark asked, “He told you about it, I assume?”

Another nod. “I don’t think he’s overjoyed at the whole idea, but it’s the call of duty, you know? To whom much is given, much is asked.”

“Well, he’s given a lot already. Okay, to business: What’d we learn?”

Jack took a sip of coffee, then said, “Nayoan likes pea soup, and he’s a bad tipper.”

“Huh?” Chavez said.

“He had pea soup and a club sandwich. Twelve bucks, give or take, according to the menu. He left a few quarters. Besides that, I’m not sure what we learned.”

“Not much,” Clark agreed. “Didn’t expect much. If he’s in the bag for the URC, it could be a once-in-a-while thing. The odds of us catching him dirty in one day were nil.”

“So what next?”

“According to the consulate website, they’ve got a reception at the Holiday Inn Express tonight. Some kind of joint benefit party with the Polish consulate.”

“Left my tux at home,” Chavez said.

“Not going to need it. Point is, we know where Nayoan’s going to be tonight, and it ain’t at home.”

 

 

 

E
ight thousand miles away, the engineer emerged from the tent’s changing room and used a rag to wipe the sweat from his forehead and neck. On wobbly legs, he walked to a nearby stool and sat down.

“Well?” Musa asked.

“It’s done.”

“And the yield?”

“Seven to eight kilotons. Smallish by today’s standards—for example, the Hiroshima bomb was fifteen kilotons—but it will be more than sufficient for what you’re planning. It should give you, say, fifteen pounds per square inch out to a distance of five hundred meters.”

“That doesn’t sound like much.”

The engineer smiled wearily. “Fifteen psi is enough to demolish reinforced concrete. You said the floor is mostly earthen?”

“That’s correct. With some underground hardened structures.”

“Then you have no worries, my friend. This enclosed space you’ve mentioned . . . You’re certain of its volume?”

“Yes.”

“And the overstructure? What’s its composition?”

“I’m told it is something called ignimbrite. It is—”

“Yes, I’m familiar with it. Also called volcanic pyroclastic or welded tuff—essentially, compacted layers of volcanic rock. That’s good. Providing the overstructure is thick enough, the shock wave should be directed downward with minimal attenuation. The penetration requirements you gave me will be met.”

“I’ll take your word for that. Is it ready for transport?”

“Of course. It has a relatively low output signature, so passive detection measures won’t be your worry. Active measures are a different story altogether. I assume you’ve taken steps to—”

“Yes, we have.”

“Then I’ll leave it in your good hands,” the engineer said, then stood up and headed toward the office at the rear of the warehouse. “I’m going to sleep now. I trust the remainder of my fee will be deposited by morning.”

T
HEIR CONTACT MET THEM near Al Kurnish Road on the east side of Sendebad Park, within a stone’s throw of the Australian consulate. Hendley had declined to explain to Brian and Dominic the nature of his relationship with the Aussie, nor had their boss felt it necessary to share the man’s name, but neither brother thought it a coincidence their bogus passports and visas bore Australian seals.

“Afternoon, gents. I assume you’re Gerry’s boys, yes?”

“I suppose we are,” Dominic said.

“Archie.” Hands were shaken all around. “Let’s take a stroll, what say?” They waited for a break in traffic, then jogged across Al Kurnish to a dirt parking lot beside the wagon wheel-shaped Al Fatah building, then down to the water’s edge.

“So I understand you’re on a little snipe hunt?” Archie said over the rush of the waves.

“Guess you could call it that,” said Brian. “Guy got murdered here last week. Hung first, then decapitated and feet chopped off.”

Archie was nodding. “Heard about that. Nasty bit of work, that. Call that the ‘naughty no-step’ around here. You think this bloke got out of line, did a little freelancing?”

Dominic nodded.

“The Swedish embassy, yes?”

Another nod.

“And you’re after the whos and whats, I take it?”

“We’ll take anything we can get,” Brian said.

“Well, first thing you need to know about Tripoli is that it’s a damned safe city, all things considered. Average street crime is pretty low, and neighbors watch after one another. The police don’t get overly concerned about this group killing a member of that group unless it spills over onto the streets or one of them does something to draw attention to itself. The last thing the Curly Colonel wants is bad international press, not after all the public-relations work he’s done. The truth is the URC has been rather quiet for eight or nine months. In fact, there’s some spin on the street that the Swedish embassy business wasn’t URC.”

“Not sanctioned, at least,” Dominic said.

“Ah, I see. A lopped head and chopped feet tends to send a strong admonishment, doesn’t it? Still, could be worse. Usually the family jewels are involved, too. Well, the apartment where your fellow got clipped is off Al Khums Road. Pretty tight-knit place. As I understand, that particular apartment was empty at the time.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“I know some French ex-pats that are pretty friendly with the cops.”

“They just used the apartment for convenience, you think?” Dominic asked. “A studio?”

“Yeah. Poor dill was probably killed somewhere else. You saw it on a website? URC or LIFG?” Archie said, referring to the Libyan Islamic Fighting Group.

“URC,” Brian replied. “Anyone else the URC might have farmed the job out to?”

“Plenty. Wouldn’t even have to be a group. There’re crims in the Medina—the Old City—that’d slit your throat for twenty U.S. Not robbery per se, but murder-for-hire, mind you. But that video . . . Seems a tad highbrow for your average ape.”

“So why didn’t they just do the deed somewhere in the Medina?” Brian asked. “Kill him, then tape it, then dump the body on the street.”

“Then the cops’d have to go into the Medina, see? This way everybody gets to pretend it happened somewhere else and the natural balance remains. How many sites did this video go up on?”

“Six that we found.” This from Dominic.

“Well, there’re plenty of Internet service outfits around, but the groups that run those sites usually do the hosting themselves, with a dedicated server so they can pick up and move—physically and electronically. If the URC farmed out the killing, then you’re probably out of luck; if they did it themselves, it means the message came from high up the ladder. The kind of job you don’t leave to chance. If that’s the case, then there’s going to be some overlap—some local URC captain in touch with one of the mobile hosts.”

“I take it this ain’t something you look up in the yellow pages,” Brian said.

“You take it correctly. I may know a man. Let me make some calls. Where are you staying?”

“The Al Mehari.”

Archie checked his watch. “I’ll meet you there by five; we’ll have a drink.”

 

 

 

H
e was an hour early and came with his own car, a mid-’80s forest-green Opel; as was almost everything else in Tripoli, the car was covered in a fine layer of red-brown dust.

“You have a rental car?” Archie asked as they pulled west onto Al Fat’h Street amid a cacophony of horns and squealing of brakes.

“Whoa!” Brian shouted from the backseat.

“Traffic laws here are nonexistent. Call it Darwinism at its most basic. Driver survival of the fittest. So: the rental car?”

“No, we don’t have one.”

“Once we’re done, you can drop me back at the embassy and use this. Mind that second gear, though. It’s wonky.”

“Just as long as you don’t expect it back in one piece.”

“This is rush hour. It’ll quiet down in another couple hours.”

 

 

 

T
ripoli’s modern-day walled and labyrinthian Medina was born during Ottoman occupation and had served for centuries as much as a deterrent to invaders as it did a center of commerce. Situated beside the harbor and bordered on four sides by Al Kurnish Road, Al Fat’h Street, Sidi Omran Street, and Al Ma’arri Street, the Medina was a warren of narrow streets, blind, winding alleys, arched walkways, and small courtyards.

Archie found a parking spot near the Bab Hawara gate, along the southeastern wall, and they got out and walked two blocks south to a café. A man in black slacks and a tan short-sleeved shirt stood up from his table as Archie approached. They shook hands, embraced, and Archie introduced Brian and Dominic as “old friends.”

“This is Ghazi,” Archie said. “You can trust him.”

“Sit, please,” Ghazi said, and they settled at the table beneath the umbrella. A waiter appeared, and Ghazi fired off something in Arabic. The waiter left and reappeared a minute later with a pot, four small glasses, and a bowl of mints. Once tea was poured, Ghazi said, “Archie tells me you have an interest in websites.”

“Among other things,” Dominic said.

“There are many men who provide the services Archie mentioned, but one in particular might be worth your time. His name is Rafiq Bari. The day after that Web video went up and a day before that man’s body was discovered, he moved his business—quite suddenly and during the night.”

“Is that all?” Brian said.

“No. There are rumors that he’s done work for certain people. Websites that appear and disappear—proxy servers, redirects, rotating domain names, all of that. That’s Bari’s specialty.”

“How about ISPs?” Dominic said, referring to Internet service providers. “Any chance these people are creating their own rather than using commercial companies?”

Archie answered this one. “Too much hassle, I expect. There’s not a lot of oversight with that sort of thing here. A name and a credit card number is all it takes. Domain names can be registered in bulk and changed at the drop of a hat. No, the way this Bari fella does it is the way to go, at least here.”

Dominic said to Ghazi, “Who’s he living with? Any family?”

“Not here. A wife and daughter in Benghazi.”

“What’re the chances he’s going to be armed?”

“Bari himself? Very unlikely, I would think. When he moves about, he sometimes has protection.”

“URC?”

“No, no, not directly, I do not believe. Perhaps hired by them, perhaps, but these are just Medina people. Thugs.”

“How many?” This from Brian.

“The times I have seen him . . . Two or three.”

“Where do we find him?” said Brian.

 

 

 

B
y the time they dropped Archie back at the consulate, the sun’s lower rim was nearly touching the sea’s surface to the west. All across the city, streetlamps, car headlights, and neon signs were flickering to life. They’d decided that Dominic, who’d undergone the FBI’s defensive driving course, would be behind the Opel’s wheel. True to Archie’s prediction, the traffic had slackened somewhat, but the roads still bore more of a resemblance to racetracks than to urban thoroughfares.

Archie climbed out from the backseat and leaned his arms against the passenger door. “That map of the Medina you’ve got is a fairly good one but not perfect, so keep your heads about you. Sure this can’t wait till morning?”

“Probably not,” Brian said.

“Well, then loosen up and smile. Act like tourists. Window-shop; haggle a bit; pick up some swag. Don’t march through the place like diggers—”

“‘Diggers’?”

“Soldiers. You can park on one of the side streets near the Corinthia—that monstrosity of a hotel we passed on the way here.”

“Got it.”

“It’s visible from pretty much everywhere in the Medina. If you get lost, head for it.”

Brian said, “Damn, man, you make it sound like we’re walking into the lion’s den.”

“Not a bad analogy. All in all, the Medina’s safe at night, but word’ll spread if you stand out. Two more things: Dump the car if you have to. I’ll report it stolen. Second, there’s a brown paper bag under the tire in the boot with some goodies inside.”

Dominic said, “I assume you’re not talking about snacks.”

“That I’m not, mate.”