Part 15 (1/2)
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 relations.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+rt, 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.