Serpent of Moses

13



Despite the bumpy flight and the airline food, Duckey had to admit it felt good to be in the field again, even in an unofficial capacity. During his last few years with the Company, he’d spent his days in an office keeping tabs on the foot soldiers who did the real work. So when he’d boarded the plane in Charlotte, he experienced a slight fear that he wouldn’t know what to do when he arrived in Tripoli.

But it was like riding a bike. As soon as he’d entered the terminal in the Libyan capital, he felt the familiar tingle down his spine as his eyes took in everything and everybody. The big difference was that on this special op, he didn’t have the considerable resources of the United States government.

Walking through the terminal, his carryon in hand, another difference occurred to him. In the past he would have had a well-defined mission with a specific set of objectives. This time his only goal was to find Jack, and he was on his own in that task.

He worked his way through the airport, dodging bodies and luggage carts. Because of ongoing construction, all traffic through TIA came through the one terminal, which made navigating its length a challenge. But part of what Duckey had enjoyed about his old profession was that he got to rub elbows with all different sorts of people. It was something he’d missed at Evanston, and something for which he envied Jack.

From the information he’d gathered so far, Jack’s trail ended in this airport, his last visible transaction the rental of a car. Prior to that, he’d gone up to the fourth floor to the terminal’s only restaurant for lunch. Duckey thought of stopping by the restaurant but decided it would serve no purpose. With the number of people who cycled through the establishment, the possibility that anyone would remember a lone American was minuscule. That left the Alamo counter.

“Can I help you?” the man behind the counter, after giving Duckey a once-over, asked in heavily accented English.

“I have a reservation,” Duckey said. “Under the name Duckett.”

The Alamo employee punched a few buttons on his computer and after reviewing the information gave a slight nod.

“We have your car available, sir,” he said. “Would you like to purchase insurance?”

Duckey declined and handed over his credit card. “Do you get a lot of Americans coming through here?”

“A good number,” the other man—Farag, according to his name tag—said without looking up.

“Enough that it would be hard to remember someone who came through, oh, about a week ago?”

This time, Farag did look up, a gesture that coincided with the sound of the printer coming to life. Duckey thought him no older than twenty, a local who, though young, had been in the job long enough to have been exposed to a great many different types of people and cultures. Consequently, even though his English was only passable, he understood that Duckey was not simply making conversation.

“It would be very difficult for me to remember someone who came to my counter a week ago,” Farag said, his eyes narrowing.

“I can appreciate that,” Duckey said. “But I have a friend who rented a car from you last Thursday. An American, about ten years younger than me, dark hair, a little rumpled. Does that ring a bell?”

Farag gave a slow headshake. “As I said, sir. Too many people come through here for me to remember most of them.”

Duckey nodded. “His name’s Jack Hawthorne. He rented a Ford Taurus.”

At the mention of Jack’s name, he saw Farag’s eyes light up.

“Hawthorne,” he said. “Like the writer.”

“Exactly. Like the writer.”

“I only remember because of The Red Letter,” Farag said.

It took Duckey a moment to realize what Farag was referring to, and when it came to him he decided not to correct the Libyan’s substitution of red for scarlet, worried that might put the brakes on their developing rapport.

“I asked him if he was related to the writer,” Farag said, obviously pleased that he could recall the man Duckey was inquiring after.

“That’s great,” Duckey said. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” He sensed the growing impatience of the man who had taken a place in line behind him and chanced a quick glance, his eyes widening on seeing the line had grown by several more people. “Do you remember him saying anything about where he was going?”

Farag frowned as if giving the question some thought, then shook his head.

“Do you know if he returned the car? Here or somewhere else?”

Another headshake, yet this one was slower in coming, as if Farag was realizing he shouldn’t be providing information about one customer’s transaction to another customer.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I am not authorized to give you that information.”

Duckey tried his best smile. “I know you’re not supposed to, although I was hoping you’d make an exception. Jack’s a good friend of mine, but no one’s heard from him in a while. To be honest, I’m kind of worried.”

He could see right away that Farag wasn’t biting.

“If you are such good friends, I would think that he would call you if he wanted to talk with you.”

Duckey had a hard time retaining his smile against growing exasperation. As his expression changed to something more akin to a grimace, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dinar note, which he slid across the counter.

“I could really use that information,” he said quietly. Behind him, he could hear a rising grumbling and he saw Farag look past him to a line that kept growing.

The Libyan opened his mouth and Duckey could almost see the denial forming on his lips, but then the man sighed, glanced down at the currency on the desk. He briefly met Duckey’s eyes before reaching for the money and slipping it into his pocket. Then he turned his attention back to the computer.

“Jack Hawthorne rented a Ford Taurus on Thursday the fifteenth,” Farag said. “He was supposed to return the car on Saturday the seventeenth.”

Duckey watched as a frown crossed the Libyan’s face. He hit a key, then another. After a few moments, he looked up at the American.

“The police called us on Monday to report that the car had been parked on a street in Al Bayda for three days. It has since been returned to us.” He offered Duckey an apologetic shrug. “I’m sorry. I did not work that day and so knew nothing about it.”

“Al Bayda?” Duckey asked.

“It is a city about a thousand kilometers to the east,” Farag said. “Your friend would have been better served flying into La Abraq.” He paused and added, “As you should have as well.”

He reached for a folded map on the desk and handed it to Duckey, along with the keys to a car the American was no longer sure he wanted. Farag then motioned for the next customer.



From a northeast window on the twenty-second floor of the Al-Fateh Tower, Amadou Boufayed looked out over the Mediterranean, watching the small boats cut lines along the beach. From his height, Boufayed could see the shallow water stretch out beyond the beach for half a mile, the greenish-blue ribbon of land extending beneath it until, all at once, it gave way to the dark blue water of the open sea. Of all the things Boufayed appreciated about his office, the view it afforded him was chief among them, especially in the afternoon when the sun sent waves of color over the water. Of course, the view from one of the larger windows in the floors above was better, in the offices occupied by the undersecretary and those close to him. But he believed he would inherit one of those offices at some point and so was content to enjoy what he had in the interim.

He’d been pleased that the provisional government had recognized the need to maintain many of the agencies that had served the previous head of state so well. That pragmatism had served to preserve the Liaison Office of the Revolutionary Committees, despite what those in the West might have referred to as the agency’s draconian policies. It also meant that Boufayed had been allowed to keep his office.

He stood at the window for another minute before he heard a knock at his door, followed by the sound of it opening. When he turned away from the window, it was to see a member of his team waiting, a folder in his hands. After the loss of the German and his Israeli escorts, those around Boufayed had taken care around him, lest one of them find themselves a focal point for his irritation. Boufayed could see that thought on the face of the man in front of him, but while that past failure still bothered him, the disappointment had ebbed to the point that those who reported to him no longer had to fear a scathing rebuke or additional paper work levied out of spite.

Boufayed gestured for the folder. Once it was in his hands, he wordlessly scanned the contents. It took him only a few moments to review the documents, along with the photo that accompanied them. After he’d finished, he looked up and, with a raised eyebrow, invited Bady to fill in the gaps.

“From what we have been able to ascertain, he is CIA,” the other man said. “Our records indicate that he’s been retired for several years. He is here alone, and from what we have been able to determine, he has no established itinerary. Or a return flight scheduled.”

Boufayed considered the information, wondering what the presence of an ostensibly retired CIA agent in Tripoli could mean. The arrival of an agent in-country was not an uncommon occurrence, as evidenced by the Israelis three weeks before. Yet most took great pains not to be recognized as such while still in the airport. Indeed, according to the rules by which these games were played, foreign intelligence agencies possessed a fair amount of knowledge regarding which of their agents had been compromised and which could still work in a country with a certain level of anonymity. This Jim Duckett did not fit the latter category.

“I assume you’ve had him followed,” Boufayed said.

“I have,” the man confirmed. “He rented a car but, strangely, did not take it. Instead, he purchased a ticket for La Abraq. We have someone on the flight.”

Boufayed frowned. The change in travel plans smelled of misdirection. It told him that whoever Jim Duckett was, he bore watching.

“I want to know every place he goes once he reaches La Abraq, and every person he talks to.”

“Of course,” his underling said, nodding at Boufayed and then leaving to carry out his orders.