Responsibility was never established.
The family managed to move to the United States, which was difficult but not impossible. Father’s cousin had a Lebanese restaurant in Newark, and Father was guaranteed a job there. Abdul went to school on a yellow bus, muffled in scarves against unimaginably cold weather, and found that he could not understand a word anyone said. But Americans were kind to children, and they helped him, and soon he could speak English better than his parents.
Mother told him he might get another baby sister, but the years went by and it never happened.
The past was vivid in his mind as he drove through the dunes. America had not looked so different from Beirut – it had traffic jams and apartment buildings, cafés and cops – but the Sahara really was an alien landscape, with its scorched and thorny bushes dying of thirst in the barren ground.
Three Palms was a small town. It had a mosque and a church, a filling station with a repair shop, and half a dozen stores. All the signs were in Arabic except the one that said ‘église de Saint Pierre’, Church of St Peter. There were no streets in desert villages, but here the houses were built in rows, with blank outside walls that turned the dusty dirt roads into corridors. Despite the narrowness of the streets, cars were parked along the sides. In the centre, next to the gas station, was a café where men sat drinking coffee and smoking in the shade of three unusually tall fan palms; Abdul guessed the trees had given the town its name. The bar was a makeshift lean-to at the front of a house, its palm-leaf canopy unsteadily supported by thin tree trunks roughly trimmed.
He parked his car and checked his tracking device. The consignment of cocaine was still in the same place, a few yards from where he stood.
He got out, smelling coffee. He took several cartons of Cleopatras from the trunk. Then he went to the café and switched into salesman mode.
He sold some single packets before the proprietor of the café, a fat man with a huge moustache, complained. After Abdul had worked his charm the man bought a carton and then brought Abdul a cup of coffee. Abdul sat at a table under the palms, sipped the strong, bitter coffee already dosed with sugar, and said: ‘I need to speak to a man called Hakim. Do you know him?’
‘It’s a common name,’ the proprietor said evasively, but the way he glanced reflexively at the garage next door was a pantomime giveaway.
Abdul replied: ‘He is a man of great respect.’ This was code for an important criminal.
‘I will ask one or two people.’
A couple of minutes later, the proprietor strolled, with a casual air that was not very convincing, to the repair garage. Soon afterwards an overweight young man emerged from the garage and walked towards Abdul. He shuffled like a pregnant woman, with his feet splayed, knees apart, belly forward and head back. He had curly black hair and a vain little moustache but no beard. He was dressed in Western sports clothes, an outsized green polo shirt with grubby grey jogging pants, but around his neck he had some kind of voodoo necklace. He wore running shoes, although he looked as if he had not run for years. When he came within speaking distance Abdul smiled and offered him a carton of Cleopatras at half the normal price.
The man ignored the offer. ‘You are looking for someone.’ It was a statement, not a question: men such as this hated to admit there was anything they did not know.
Abdul said: ‘Are you Hakim?’
‘You have business with him.’
Abdul was sure this man was Hakim. ‘Sit down, let’s be friendly,’ he said, though Hakim was as friendly as an overweight tarantula.
Hakim waved at the proprietor, presumably to indicate that he wanted coffee, then sat at Abdul’s table without speaking.
Abdul said: ‘I have made a little money selling cigarettes.’
Hakim made no response.
Abdul said: ‘I would like to go to live in Europe.’
Hakim nodded. ‘You have money.’
‘How much does it cost? To go to Europe?’
‘Two thousand American dollars per person – half when you board the bus, half when we reach Libya.’
It was a huge sum of money in a country where the average wage was about fifteen dollars a week. Abdul felt the need to quibble. If he agreed too readily, Hakim might become suspicious. ‘I’m not sure I’ve got that much.’
Hakim jerked his head at Abdul’s vehicle. ‘Sell your car.’
So he had checked Abdul out earlier. No doubt the proprietor had pointed out his vehicle. ‘Of course I will sell my car before I go,’ Abdul said. ‘But I must pay my brother the money he lent me to buy it.’
‘The price is two thousand.’
‘But Libya is not Europe. The final payment should be due on arrival.’
‘Then who would pay it? People would just run away.’
‘It’s not very satisfactory.’
‘This is not a negotiation. You trust me, or you stay at home.’
Abdul almost laughed at the idea of trusting Hakim. ‘All right, all right,’ he said. ‘Can I see the vehicle in which we will travel?’
Hakim hesitated then shrugged. Without speaking he stood up and walked towards the garage.
Abdul followed.
They entered the building by a small side door. The interior was lit by clear plastic skylights in the roof. There were tools on the walls, new tyres racked on deep shelves, and a smell of motor oil. In one corner, two men in jalabiyas and headscarves sat watching a television set, smoking, bored. On a table nearby were two assault rifles. The men glanced up, saw Hakim, and returned their attention to the television screen.
Hakim said: ‘They are my security guards. People try to steal gasoline.’
They were jihadis, not security guards, and their indifferent attitude suggested that Hakim was not their boss.
Abdul remained in character and asked them brightly: ‘Would you like to buy some cigarettes at half price? I have Cleopatras.’
They looked away without speaking.
Much of the garage space was taken up by a small Mercedes bus that would hold about forty people. Its appearance was not reassuring. Long ago it had been sky-blue, but now that cheerful paintwork was blotched with rust. Two spare wheels were strapped to the roof, but their tyres were not new. Most of the side windows had lost their glass. That might be deliberate: the breeze would keep the passengers cool. He looked inside and saw that the upholstery was worn and stained, and ripped in places. The windscreen was intact, but the driver’s sunshade had come loose and hung at a drunken angle.
Abdul said: ‘How long does it take to reach Tripoli, Hakim?’
‘You will find out when we get there.’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘I never tell people how long. There are always delays, then they become disappointed and angry. Better for them to be surprised and happy when they arrive.’
‘Does the price cover food and water on the journey?’
‘Essentials are provided, including beds at overnight stops. Luxuries are extra.’
‘What kind of luxury can you get in the middle of the desert?’
‘You’ll see.’
Abdul nodded towards the jihadi guards. ‘Are they coming?’
‘They will protect us.’
And the cocaine. ‘What route will you follow?’
‘You ask too many questions.’
Abdul had pushed Hakim far enough. ‘All right, but I need to know when you plan to leave.’
‘Ten days from today.’
‘So far ahead. Why the delay?’
‘There have been problems.’ Hakim was getting annoyed. ‘What do you care? It’s no business of yours. Just show up on the day with the money.’
Abdul guessed that the problems had to do with the attack on al-Bustan. That could have disrupted other jihadi activities, with senior men killed or injured. ‘You’re right, it’s not my business,’ he said pacifically.
Hakim said: ‘One bag per person, no exceptions.’
Abdul pointed at the bus. ‘These vehicles usually have a big luggage hold as well as racks inside.’
Hakim became angry. ‘One person, one bag!’
So, Abdul thought, the cocaine is in the luggage hold.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll be here ten days from today.’