John Milton: The Jungle Part 15

The waiter noted it down. "To eat?"

"The brioche is good," Omar said. "They serve it with honey and crushed nuts. Very tasty."

"I'll have that," Milton said.

The waiter scribbled that in his notebook, too, and then left without another word.

"Time flies," Omar said, "but some things never change. My apologies for his manner. I think they are selling their rudeness as part of the 'experience' of coming here. I find it all rather foolish, myself, but their coffee is good, so I keep coming back."

Milton examined the man more closely as they waited for their food and drink. His name was Omar Ben Halim, and he had been an important player in the Jamahiriya, Libya's external intelligence and operational ent.i.ty. The Libyans had only had a modern intelligence service since the overthrow of the monarchy in 1969, and the regime had modelled the body on the KGB and the Stasi. It had quickly become infamous for its clandestine support of the PLO, the Italian Red Brigades, ETA in Spain, US Black Power groups, and Muslim separatists in the Philippines and Indonesia. But it was their funding of the Provisional IRA that had aroused the attention of MI6, and, after searching for a suitable turncoat, the agency had settled upon Omar. He had been a colonel in the military until he had been appointed as a commander of the sub-directorate responsible for direct contact with terrorist organisations. What was much less well known about him was that he was a thief. He had been pilfering money from the regime for years and, when MI6 threatened to publicise his crimes, he had been left with little choice but to work for them. Regular cash payments lent the enforced relationship a veneer of civility, and the combination of carrot and stick had ensured his cooperation for thirty years.

The old clock tower was nearby, and it chimed loudly as the waiter returned with a tray bearing Milton's coffee and brioche. He placed the cup and the plate on the table, handed Milton the bill and waited for him to settle it. Omar took out a ten-dollar bill and gave it to the man, dismissing him with a flick of his wrist.

The cup was dirty and chipped. Milton put it to his lips and tried the coffee. It was bitter and not particularly pleasant.

"Good?" Omar asked.

"It's fine."

"And the cake?"

Milton took a bite of the brioche. It was dry, most likely quite old, but he pretended to enjoy it. "Not bad at all."

Omar chuckled. "There is no need to pretend, Mr. Smith. I know that standards have slipped. Tripoli is a different place since the last time you came here. The fall of the regime was supposed to be a new start for my country, but it has not been like that. The colonel had many faults, but he knew how to bind his people together. Now, without him, there is chaos. The militia squabble over who is in command. There is a government here, one in Tobruk and another in Switzerland. The fear of Gaddafi kept things under control. Now, without him, my fear is for the country itself."

"What happened to you?"

"The Jamahiriya was disbanded. The militias claimed credit for it, but the truth is that the staff had long since stopped working for it. Some went abroad. Others left the city and returned to their homes."

"And you?"

Omar reached up and removed his gla.s.ses. Milton looked into his olive-coloured eyes; they were flecked with steel. "I stay, Mr. Smith. The Jamahiriya might have gone, but the Mukhabarat still exists. The militias fear it still, as they should. They remember the rooms where they were taken when the colonel wanted to find out the things he needed to know. They remember the things that were done to them to enforce their cooperation. It is a collective memory. And the Mukhabarat's time is coming again. ISIS presents a serious threat. An existential threat. You can find them if you drive for two hours out of Tripoli. And so the militias have allowed the Mukhabarat to rea.s.semble. It has tightened its grip on security across much of the country. It is already back to much of its capacity under the colonel. It is the future of my country's stability. I love Libya, Mr. Smith. And so I work with it now."

The news was welcome. Milton had not known what he would find, but he knew that he would need Omar's help. Without him, he would struggle to find the man he needed to find. That he was still plugged into the security service was a bonus that had not been guaranteed.

"You have come a long way to speak to an old man," Omar said. "How can I help you?"

"I need to find someone."

"Then I would say that person is most unfortunate." Milton knew what he meant: Omar thought that Milton was still involved with Group Fifteen and that the man he was looking for had had his card marked.

Milton saw no point in disabusing him; a little fear could be useful for him, too. "His name is Ali. Do you know him?"

"The smuggler?" Omar said.

"Yes."

He stroked his chin, and Milton could tell that he knew plenty about Ali and that he was a.s.sessing why Milton wanted to know about him and how much it would be prudent to reveal. "What do you need to know?"

"Where I can find him. That would be a good start."

"You know these people are dangerous, Mr. Smith? The smugglers are making millions from the migrants. It has made them extremely rich. They will not take kindly to someone-a Westerner-putting his nose in their business."

"I realise that," Milton said. "I'll take my chances. I just need you to help me find him."

"Why?"

"The smugglers are selling girls to pimps in Europe. I want to find the pimps. Ali can tell me what I need to know."

"Or he might shoot you and toss you into the ocean." Omar shook his head with wry amus.e.m.e.nt. "You are sure?"

"I am."

"Very well. Let me make some enquiries."

"There's something else, too."

Omar spread his hands hospitably. "Name it."

"A weapon."

The suggestion did not faze him. "That can be arranged. What would you like?"

"A small pistol. Something I can conceal."

"That won't be a problem. I should have something for you tomorrow morning. Shall we meet here for breakfast?"

Milton stood. "Of course."

Omar stood, too, reached down for his dark gla.s.ses and put them on. "Be careful, Mr. Smith. Tripoli is not a safe place for foreigners."

"I can look after myself."

Omar put out his hand and Milton shook it. "I'll see you tomorrow. Enjoy the rest of your day."

He left. Milton watched him cross the patio and disappear into the crowd before leaving the table himself. He glanced ahead and saw three people who were showing tell-tale signs of interest in him: a man with a bicycle, leaning against the wall of a store; a woman in a red blouse and brown skirt with a small dog on a lead; a man in a purple shirt, smoking a cigarette in the doorway of a bakery. Milton watched them as he set off. The man near the bakery finished his cigarette, tossed it aside and went in through the doorway; Milton dismissed him. The other two watched as Milton walked away from the cafe and then, with appalling tradecraft, started to follow.

The Mukhabarat might still have been alive, but its new staff were not what Milton remembered.

Milton didn't mind. He wasn't surprised that Omar would have him followed. It was to be expected in a state like this, with a secret service that was so deeply entrenched in the culture that not even the disruption of a coup could shake it loose. Milton had nothing to hide, at least not yet, and, as he ambled into the souk, he made no effort to lose his tails as they drifted into step behind him.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

MILTON SPENT THE REST of the day wandering the streets of the city. He visited the Arch of Marcus Aurelius, Martyrs' Square and the fish market, and returned to the cafe where he had met Omar so that he could spend time at the Al-Majidya mosque. He followed the beach road and looked at the murals that had been painted to celebrate the revolution, more vivid and thoughtful works than the hundreds of graffiti'd images of Gaddafi as a rat that had appeared on almost every street corner.

The secret police followed him throughout the day. The tails were replaced by new operatives every now and again, but they were so green that it was a simple enough thing for Milton to spot the handoffs. After an hour, it was obvious that he was being followed by four agents-three men and a woman-and he put them out of his mind. He had no problem with them following him.

Milton found himself drawn to one particular restaurant on Riad El Solh, opposite the Saint Famille school. It was called Abdul Rahman Hallab & Sons 1881, was reputed as the best in the city, and had even sp.a.w.ned franchises throughout the rest of the region. It was something of a landmark, famed for its knefe and baklava and a host of other oriental sweets. The restaurant was housed within a grand building with an imposing doorway and wide windows that let in a plentiful amount of light.

Milton slowed as he walked by the front door. He recalled it well, and the memory took him back to another time that might as well have been a thousand years ago. Hallab was where Milton and Number Five had arranged to meet their target. The man was something of a playboy with a well-known predisposition for European women. Number Five, Lydia Chisholm, was an icy-cold beauty who had been recruited to Group Fifteen after a glittering career in the Special Reconnaissance Unit. Milton hadn't known it at the time, but Chisholm had been involved in the betrayal of Beatrix Rose. That had been the signing of her own death warrant; the agent would eventually be tracked down and murdered for her crimes by Beatrix, Milton's predecessor as Number One of Group Fifteen.

Back then, Chisholm had been the senior agent, and she was responsible for the operation. It had been a cla.s.sic honey trap, with Chisholm and Milton posing as the representatives of an oil exploration company looking to secure a licence for drilling in the El Sharara area. Their target was a man called Abdullah el-Mizdawi, the brother-in-law of the former dictator and the chairman of the National Oil Company, the ent.i.ty responsible for the oil business in the country. El-Mizdawi's previous employment was with the intelligence service, and it was this that had brought him to the attention of MI6 and, more particularly, Group Fifteen. A Maltese shopkeeper had provided evidence suggesting that el-Mizdawi had bought the clothes that were later found in the remains of the suitcase bomb that had brought down Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie. Gaddafi had made it clear that his brother-in-law was not about to be extradited for trial, so the prime minister had approved his liquidation. A file had been generated and pa.s.sed to Control, who had selected Chisholm and Milton.

They had used polonium, a highly radioactive isotope that was one hundred billion times more dangerous than hydrogen cyanide. A microgram-the same amount as a speck of dust-was enough to be a lethal dose. A small amount had been withdrawn from a c.u.mbrian nuclear reactor, and Group Fifteen had put it to good use in a number of operations around the world. The polonium, while lethal when ingested, was nevertheless very easy to transport. Milton had been responsible for that, bringing it into Libya in the barrel of a modified fountain pen. Chisholm had emptied the container into the sweet tea that al-Mizdawi had ordered. He had come on to her, as they had expected. She had made her excuses and left.

Polonium was an effective and elegant poison. It was an alpha-emitter, and, rather than the gamma-emitters that decayed over years, it decayed in weeks and months. Alpha radiation was absorbed by human tissue, so it would have been impossible for the hospital to detect it using a Geiger counter even if they had known to look. It took three weeks for al-Mizdawi to die, the isotope slowly yet relentlessly attacking the blood cells followed by the liver, kidneys, spleen, bone marrow, gastrointestinal tract and the central nervous system. Milton and Chisholm had been back in London for a week when intelligence from Tripoli Station reported that al-Mizdawi had been admitted to hospital with suspected cancer. Two weeks later, he was dead.

Milton paused on the street, squinting through the bright sunlight at the restaurant. The memory of what they had done there brought back a flood of other memories that Milton had tried hard to suppress. Al-Mizdawi was just one of his victims. He had killed many, many more, and, he knew, he would kill again.

Milton decided that he did not want to be followed back to his hotel, so he went into the restaurant and made as if he was ready to eat. The waiter showed him to a table, and Milton sat down and pretended to look through the menu. One of the tails came into the restaurant, waiting at the matre d's lectern to be seated. Milton waited until the waiter had returned to take his drink order and, then, after he left, got up and made his way to the rear where signs advertised the restrooms.

There were three doors at the end of a short corridor: the men's room, the ladies' room, and a fire exit. Milton pushed the lever to open the door to the exit and went outside, stepping out into an alley where the bins were kept. He walked quickly along the alley to a junction. Left led back to the main street, where he would be picked up again. Right offered a route back to the souk through narrow lanes and alleys, a route where it would be much more difficult to find and track him. He turned right, jogging for the first few hundred metres until he had put several turns between himself and the restaurant, slowing only when he was sure that he was alone.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

MILTON WOKE EARLY the next day, showered and went down to the dining room for breakfast. He enjoyed his sfinz and a pot of very strong, syrup-like black tea and wondered what was happening in London. He had agreed with Hicks that he should not contact him unless it was absolutely necessary, and there had been no text messages, emails or any other communication. He knew that Hicks was more than capable of babysitting Sarah for the time he was away, and reminded himself that he would need to give some thought to the best way to make the girl safe as soon as he was able to return.

He had an idea on that score, but his direction would be guided by the resolution that he was able to fashion with the Albanians. He suspected that the resolution would be violent and that it would mean that they no longer posed a threat to Sarah, or to Nadia, but that was in the future.

He had to find them first.

He finished his second round of tea, stood and thanked the waitress, and made his way to the reception.

OMAR WAS WAITING for him at the same table at Caffe Casa. Milton pulled out the spare seat and sat down.

"Good morning, Mr. Smith."

"Good morning."

"How are you finding your stay?"

"Weather's nice," Milton said. "But I'm sure you know my itinerary by now."

"What do you mean?"

"Your agents," Milton said, shaking his head. "Where did you get them?"

Omar tried to feign ignorance, but he knew it was pointless and he allowed himself to chuckle. "Are they that obvious?"

Milton turned and pointed to the woman at the other table and, beyond her, the man with the bicycle who was waiting at the mouth of the souk. "They're amateurs, Omar. It took me five minutes to lose them yesterday. It never used to be this bad."

The spook leaned back in his chair and shrugged expansively. "Good men and women are difficult to find these days. The revolution has meant that funding has become precarious. And a career in intelligence does not bear the same cachet as it did under the colonel." He paused to pour out two small gla.s.ses of green tea. "But I hope you don't mind. It's not often we have the opportunity to entertain a British spy."

"Not at all."

"Where are you staying?"

"I think I'll keep that to myself."

"I wondered if you would choose the Corinthia?"

"Didn't seem the most private of places the last time I was there."

"You would have been their only guest."

"Business not so good?"

"I hear it will be closing soon unless things change. The proprietors cannot go on funding it indefinitely. A shame."

"Why's that?"

"You are right, of course. It is a friendly place for us. All the rooms are bugged. We were involved before the hotel was even constructed. The rooms were designed to our specifications." He grinned. "Now then, don't tell me that MI6 does not have similar arrangements. I was at the Savoy when I last visited your country. I'm sure everything I said was recorded."

"I wouldn't know," Milton said. "But I'm glad I chose somewhere else." He took a sip of the green tea, thick and sweet, and put the gla.s.s back down onto the table. "What do you have for me?"

"Information. The smuggler you are looking for is called Ali Tessema. He is Ethiopian. Everyone knows Ali, but no one will talk about him. He has never been photographed. Police rely upon a picture put together by the people he has trafficked. Here." He took a piece of paper from his bag and slid it across the table. "This is him."

Milton looked at the paper. It was a crude photo fit. The man had a wide face with light brown skin, eyes that were s.p.a.ced more than the average distance apart, a bulbous nose and full lips. There was an obvious cruelty to him, evident even in the facsimile.

"He looks friendly," Milton said.

"Ali is a most unpleasant man, Mr. Smith. He operates in a dangerous world, and only the most ruthless would last as long as he has."

"What do you know?"

"His name is well known, not just south of the Sahara but also in the Horn of Africa. There was a case, not long ago, where a migrant boat with two hundred and fifty pa.s.sengers on it capsized and sank. They all drowned."

Milton nodded. Samir had told him about the two boats that had set sail when he made the crossing, and how the other one had not made it to Lampedusa.

"Ali is the kingpin, Mr. Smith. The Italian police have wiretaps with Ali talking to an a.s.sociate in Khartoum. They discuss the sinking as if it is a minor business problem. He is a very wanted man."

"So where can I find him?"

"That won't be easy. He is an invisible man. The Italians have mandated direct action in Libya. Two months ago, they sent a special forces team here, to Tripoli, and shot dead one of Ali's rivals and eight of his bodyguards. They denied it was them, of course, but the same men returned three weeks ago. They thought that they had located Ali, but, when they stormed the property, he was not there. He is a ghost."