He glanced in the rearview mirror to see if anything had changed inside the compound. There were no new lights, no sounds of gunfire, no figures running yet. He drove on, adding speed as he could.
He was afraid someone had heard him driving out, and would run to the house and notice the men lying in Hamzah’s bedroom. He hoped that the bodyguards would assume the man who had murdered their employer was a member of a rival faction, and Spencer knew those factions would be fifty miles to the northwest of the village, engaged in the competition to control Benghazi. He must head east for Tobruk, the place that was held by Faris Hamzah’s friends and allies.
Spencer kept his speed conservative for a few blocks until he reached the turnoff toward Tobruk, the same route that he and Abdullah had traveled early this morning. Then he began to add speed, driving with both hands on the wheel and his eyes ahead.
The distance to Tobruk from Benghazi was nearly three hundred miles. But Abdullah had not taken him all the way to Benghazi, so he didn’t know how much closer than that he was now. He pushed the speed as hard as he dared, paying more attention to controlling the car than to the speedometer.
Minutes went by, and each time he saw another one pass on the dashboard clock he celebrated. He wished the SUV could fly, or that he could take it off the road and head east across country instead of bouncing along and twisting and turning. He strayed from the center of the highway only to hug the curves. As he came out of one he would aim for the next one he could see ahead, making as much of his head start as he could.
His minutes became an hour, and he was sure now that Hamzah’s men must have sped off toward Benghazi to pursue his killer. He couldn’t be so lucky that they had all fallen asleep and not heard anything.
Spencer was at the end of his second hour of driving and judged he must be nearly halfway to Tobruk when he came around a curve and saw lights about a quarter mile ahead on a long, straight stretch. After a few seconds he could see the lights were a military checkpoint. There were two Humvees parked a few feet apart with a wooden bar between them, and two uniformed men visible in front of them.
Spencer slowed down and opened the glove compartment to see if there were papers for the SUV he was driving. He felt under the seat, glanced for more storage wells in the doors, but found nothing. He quickly shoved the silenced pistol and its spare magazines under his seat.
He knew his best chance was to bluff. Maybe his age and his good Arabic would make him seem innocuous. He slowed to a stop at the roadblock and kept his hands visible on the steering wheel.
A sleepy-looking man in camouflage fatigues stood and walked to Spencer’s window. Spencer opened it and smiled at him expectantly.
The man said, “Where are you going, uncle?”
“I’m driving toward Tobruk, sir,” he said in Arabic.
“I can see that. What is the purpose of your trip?”
“I want to see the doctors at the Tobruk airport from a Canadian relief organization. I heard they’ll be there for another forty-eight hours.”
“Let me see your identification.”
Spencer thought about how carefully he had planned his trip. He had made sure to carry no identification so the Canadians would not be arrested as accomplices if he were killed. Now he regretted the precaution. “I don’t have any with me,” he said. “But my name is Mahmoud Haruq.”
The soldier looked weary. “Get out of the car.”
Spencer got out and stood beside the car. The soldier patted him down, and found nothing except a thick sheaf of Libyan dinars in his pocket.
“You have a lot of money and a new car. Why don’t you have papers?”
“It’s an emergency. I’m supposed to drive to Tobruk and bring back one of the doctors.”
“For whom?”
“For Faris Hamzah.”
“Is that who owns this vehicle?”
“Yes, sir.”
The soldier smiled as he turned to face his companions. “He works for Faris Hamzah.”
The others grinned and shook their heads in disdain. The man sitting on the rock by the road stood up, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and approached. “You work for Faris Hamzah?” he said. “Faris the Great?”
It was clear that these men were not fans of Faris Hamzah. He couldn’t decide how far the enmity went. Would they harm him just because they had contempt for Hamzah?
The second man walked to the side of the SUV and looked in at the empty seats, and then walked to the rear door. He pounded on it with his fist.
Spencer leaned into the open door, grasped the fob of the keys, and pressed the button that opened the door locks. The man lifted the back hatch and said, “Ah. Take a look.”