For twenty-five years, General Amadou Masrata had served Gaddafi without question. When the leader had needed to squelch a fledgling rebellion in Tobruk, he’d sent Masrata. When other—less qualified officers—had outshined him and gained the dictator’s favor, Masrata had quietly worked to undermine them, turning his own misfortune into steady promotion as those lesser officers were executed almost at random for treason. Often Masrata had participated in the executions personally. How better to ingratiate himself to the dictator?
He’d been the man in the shadows, the man propping up the increasingly unpopular government, and the man who, when necessary, wasn’t beyond using overwhelming force to crush dissent. But this was different. This uprising had been long in coming. Even so, it had grown and spread despite Masrata’s use of artillery and tanks against his own people to try and wipe out the contagion of rebellion.
Masrata had had good reason to support Gaddafi. Masrata’s tribe had benefitted under the dictator’s rule, and Masrata had gained, too. Women, money, power, prestige, all were his as long as the dictator stayed in control.
Alas!
The days of the dictator were over. His closest aides still alive were fleeing the country as fast as they could. Many former supporters had prepared for this eventuality by quietly—over many years—siphoning off the wealth of Libya’s oil and gas industry to amass vast fortunes in overseas accounts they could now use to hide themselves and maintain their lifestyles. Masrata had been successful in taking his own cut of Libya’s wealth through graft and corruption, but his tastes were expensive and what wealth he had gained, he’d spent on fleeting pleasures.
Now, with Gaddafi dead and his remaining forces on the run, Masrata had a final hand to play, and he played it well.
He stood in the shade of a small, corrugated-tin guard shack beside the eleven-foot security fence. A hot, dry desert wind was blowing; it reminded him of the exhaust from a jet aircraft. Masrata had grown up in the desert. He’d lived his entire life within sight of it. He’d trained as a young infantry officer in it and had led men across it. But more importantly, he hated it. He detested the way the fine sand covered him, finding every nook and cranny to settle upon. He hated how the heat made him sweat and then the sweat, mixed with the sand, created mud at the crook of his arm, how the dust chaffed his groin and filled his hair and mustache with the powdery sand. Yes, he hated the desert and hoped to never see it again.
But for that he needed money, and what he had left wouldn’t get him across the border. Not safely anyway, and certainly wouldn’t guarantee him the life of luxury he was now accustomed to. No, for that he needed help. A lot of help.
The truck appeared through the dust devils and the heat mirages rising up from the hard-packed earth road. Masrata checked his wristwatch, a Rolex of course, a gift from his former—recently departed— benefactor.
The American was on time, at least.
The truck was marked with the Red Cross symbol on the sides and top in hopes of avoiding any unwanted attention from NATO aircraft still prowling the skies looking for legitimate military targets. Masrata checked his sidearm, making certain the weapon was loaded and the flap to his holster loose. He didn’t anticipate treachery, but he couldn’t discount it either.
The truck slowed and came to a halt a few meters away. As the dust cleared, Masrata saw his longtime associate appear from the driver side of the Toyota pick-up. He was dressed in khaki shorts, functional desert boots, cotton shirt, and a tan vest with multiple pockets sewn into it.
His name was Andrew. Masrata didn’t know his last name. No one knew his real name. He was small in stature, barely 5-5, and slender of build. His hair was a thick shock of graying blond tangles. His face was rather plain, with no feature standing out, and his light brown eyes were concealed by sunglasses. A perpetual, disarming smile was on his face, and Masrata was certain that smile had fooled many unwary victims. Masrata saw no weapon on Andrew’s person. Then again, he’d never known Andrew to carry a weapon. Of course, the American didn’t need to carry one as long as the Lithuanian was with him.
The Lithuanian’s name was Dmitri, and he stepped out of the passenger side of the Toyota truck. His eyes were hidden by sunglasses as well, but he scanned the desert with a fierce expression. He was big, well over six foot, and Masrata estimated he weighed in excess of two-hundred seventy pounds. Across his broad, meaty shoulders was an assault rifle, and not some cheap Russian AKM, but a FN SCAR, which seemed fitting considering the business Andrew was in. It wouldn’t do to meet a new customer and not be armed with the latest and greatest. Dmitri had an odd face, with an incredibly thick jaw that looked to have been crafted in a tank factory. He’d learned over the years that Dmitri had been in the army before Andrew had found him and hired him as his personal bodyguard, henchman... killer.
Dmitri didn’t speak; he never did. But Andrew, as usual, greeted Masrata with a warm smile and offered his hand. “Always a pleasure, General.”
Masrata shook the offered hand and then eyed the rabble in the bed of the truck. Four men dressed in filthy suriyahs—the Libyan name for the dress-like gown common among Arab men.
“Who are they?” Masrata asked, anxious to skip the pleasantries.
Andrew’s smile stayed in place, and Masrata noticed the arms merchant wasn’t even sweating. “You said I would need drivers. I wasn’t certain how many,” he replied.
Masrata nodded and asked, “My money?”
“It’s waiting for me to deliver it to your Swiss account, my friend, just as soon as you show me the merchandise.” Andrew looked perfectly at ease, which was impossible considering the fact the entire country was in anarchy. Masrata had lived here his entire life, he knew the country well, and he knew the situation was desperate. Just how Andrew could appear so calm was a mystery, but he had always been this way. Always calm, always self-assured, always in charge of the situation.
“Everything is already loaded,” Masrata assured him and gestured toward the open gate. Dmitri motioned to one of the men in the bed of the Toyota. The Libyan immediately got behind the wheel of the small truck and followed Andrew, Masrata and Dmitri through the gate.
With the NATO air campaign hammering the military forces being used against the Libyan people, the country’s army bases had become death traps, and Masrata was fairly certain American satellites were doing their best to keep track of all key facilities, such as the arsenal they were walking into.
As they passed through the fence, Masrata saw the long rows of low, broad concrete bunkers covered in several feet of sand to provide some camouflage and additional protection. Not that the sand or reinforced concrete would have withstood a modern airstrike. They’d been built long before precision guided munitions had become widespread, and Masrata wondered why NATO hadn’t targeted these bunkers already.
The vast majority of the bunkers contained small arms ammunition and artillery shells—things the arms merchant had—years earlier—been interested in. However, Masrata knew Andrew no longer coveted such mundane things as rifle bullets. These items were valuable, but only in huge quantities, and such amounts were hard to move and required greater risk. No, Andrew wasn’t interested in such things any more. He wanted only the high-value items; the merchandise that was easily transported and had a huge payoff.
“You said my merchandise is already loaded?” Andrew asked as the Toyota truck slowly followed them while they walked toward the large tractor-trailer rig parked in front of one of the bunkers.
“Yes,” Masrata assured the American. Andrew had never admitted his nationality, but his accent was pure American. “The base is all but deserted, and I was able to find a couple of soldiers hiding in one of the barracks to load the pallets. They are guarding the truck as we speak.” The forklift was parked just inside the entrance of the bunker.
Masrata looked toward Andrew who was still smiling but quiet. Masrata understood the reason. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone else involved. Witnesses were always a threat.
“Not to worry,” Masrata assured his longtime associate. “They are nobodies.”
* * *
“Andrew” wasn’t his real name, although he used many as he managed his global interests. His real name was Martin Fischer, and he didn’t like complications such as the unwanted witnesses, but he was pleased with what he saw. The tractor-trailer rig appeared to be in good shape, certainly good enough to get him, Dmitri, and a driver to Tobruk where a coastal freighter would be waiting. He’d expected to need several trucks for the trip, but Masrata—as always—had done well and found a rig in good working order. The three soldiers tightening down cargo straps securing the pallets of munitions were an unexpected problem, but hardly an insurmountable one.
Dmitri stepped quietly to the side. Martin lowered his sunglasses as he stepped into the open magazine. He felt his skin tingle at the sight. It would have been nice to take it all, but he reminded himself of one of his favorite maxims: “The pigs get fat, the hogs get slaughtered.” He’d been in business this long because he knew when enough was enough. Unlike Masrata who’d made millions selling state-of-the-art weaponry to Martin over the years but was again penniless.
Martin was aware of Masrata’s money problems and had used this knowledge to make one final score from the Libyan general before the weapons store that had been Libya for so many years was potentially closed with the arrival of a new government. The fact that Masrata was broke wasn’t a surprise. He had unusual appetites, and Martin had helped the general acquire his particular needs over the years as part of their mutually beneficial arrangement.
“Splendid,” Martin announced appreciatively. “What about the gripstocks and infrared receivers?”
Masrata led him to another pallet he’d brought from one of the base’s armories. The general pulled a tarp off the pallet to reveal two dozen launch systems. He then pointed at two large suitcase-like boxes. “The test equipment is in there.”
“Always a man of your word,” Martin said with delight. “Have your men place them in my truck.” He returned to the Toyota, clapping his hands to get the attention of the four Libyan drivers he’d brought along. They were poor beggars, all of them desperate to feed their families, and more than willing to do whatever Martin asked, considering the money he was paying them. “Let’s go!” he barked in Arabic.
The men scrambled from the back of the truck and removed the rolled-up fabric cover in the bed of the truck. Made from dozens of hastily sewn together white linen bed sheets, the complete assemblage was large enough to cover the entire bed of the tractor trailer. A large red—freshly painted—cross had been added to the top of the covering to hopefully fool any NATO aircraft overhead. Martin reached into the cab of the Toyota, removed his briefcase and set it up on the hood as Masrata stood beside him. Dmitri stayed in the shadows, watching everything and protecting Martin’s back, as always.
In the briefcase was a laptop as well as an Explorer 700 portable satellite receiver to provide him broadband Internet service anywhere. Martin looked over at Masrata, noticing the fifty-something year-old Libyan sweating profusely. He was still dressed in the uniform of a general, which Martin thought was a bit strange. Then again, Masrata had always liked his flashy uniforms. The general’s vanity was just another vice Martin had been able to exploit over the years.
Once on-line, it took Martin a few seconds to log into one of his business accounts and set up the transaction. All that was needed was an account to send it to. He turned to Masrata. He didn’t particularly like the general, but he felt he understood him. The general was a businessman. His entire government had been corrupt—like most governments Martin dealt with—and the general had seen that his only path to success was by cutting out his own little piece of the pie. It made Masrata predictable, but also trustworthy as far as Martin was concerned. As long as Martin fulfilled his end of every deal, Masrata had been dependable. A very satisfactory business arrangement.
Too bad it was about to end.
“Okay, General, just type in where you want the money to go, hit the enter key, and it’s all yours.”
Masrata wiped his sweaty hands on his uniform trousers. Martin thought he looked a bit more nervous than usual, but considering Libya was collapsing around him, he thought it not odd that Masrata appeared a bit desperate. The general typed in the bank routing and account numbers, then hit enter. As the computer processed the request, he looked at Martin.
“I was afraid you would kill me,” he confided.
Martin understood the feeling. Betrayal and treachery were part and parcel of the business he’d chosen years earlier after leaving his former life as a trader at the New York Stock Exchange. Wall Street had been rife with deceit, and the lessons he’d learned there trading in stocks and bonds had transferred nicely to his current business. But not all lessons had come from Wall Street. “Cheating customers is hardly a good strategy for expanding one’s business,” Martin confided, remembering a Yale Business School professor’s advice.
Martin closed up the satellite link, placed it in the briefcase, returned it to the cab of the small truck, and then turned to face the three soldiers standing nervously outside the hangar.
“What are your plans for getting out of here?” Martin asked curiously, not really caring. With a new regime coming to power and Masrata’s long history of brutal treatment of the Libyan people, he would be lucky to escape Libya alive. He’d killed thousands of people within the last few months trying to suppress the rebellion, and God only knew how many people he’d murdered over the decades.
“That is hardly your affair, my friend.”
“True enough,” Martin responded and checked his watch. There was a brief window where there were no satellites overhead. Just two hours, and by the next pass he wanted to be long gone. Of course, he reminded himself as he checked the skies around them, there were spy drones that could already be orbiting his position, ready to unleash a Hellfire missile into the bunker killing all of them.