Somewhere in northwest Libya
Asim Al-Asheed is sitting comfortably on a padded couch, a glass of sweet tea in his hand, a plate of dates and grapes and small cookies on a table in front of him, and he’s smiling graciously at his host for the night, Omar al-Muntasser.
Omar is fat, bearded, wearing loose white cotton pants and shirt, and working a series of worry beads in his pudgy fingers. If this was any other night, Asim would gently get off this overstuffed couch, walk around to Omar’s rear, grab his hair, and slit the fat man’s throat.
Omar is smiling, his words seem to be dipped in honey, but he is not bending.
“My dear friend Asim, I apologize again, but it will be impossible for me to find lodgings for you and your friends tonight,” Omar says. “I will feed you, and fuel your vehicles, and prepare meals and drinks for wherever your journey may take you, but I cannot offer you lodgings. My apologies.”
The man’s receiving room is filled with rugs, tapestries, framed photos of Omar Mukhtar, Libya’s most famous resistance leader and Asim’s own personal hero, and of Ahmed Al-Trbi, Libya’s greatest footballer.
Three of Omar’s sons are standing against the wall, armed with pistols, staring at Asim with anger, knowing that the man’s presence here is putting their father and their families in danger. Earlier, Omar “excused” Asim’s cousin Faraj to check on how much gasoline would be needed for Asim’s two Suburbans and the GMC van, and Asim knows that the ruse was used to leave him alone with this tribal leader, once an ally.
Asim says, “My blessed friend Omar, again, I am honored to be under your roof and with your strong and devout sons, but I wonder: what kind of example are you providing them by refusing an old friend such simple hospitality?”
A wave of the fat man’s hand. “Ah, but these are not simple times, are they, like when you started your jihad? Then you could live and regroup here, with few concerns, and your neighbors would always be willing to help. Today? The Russians, Turks, and Chinese all crawl around our lands, with money and influence and weapons, and now the Americans are coming.”
“The Americans are always coming,” Asim says. “Until they get bloodied, like in Somalia, Iraq, and Afghanistan, and then they leave.”
Omar’s smile is still there but seasoned with a brisk shake of the head. “This time is different. You murdered the daughter of the former president. The Americans are a soft people indeed, but when you go against their children like this, especially one so prominent, they will not give up until you are dead.”
“A risk I’ve always been comfortable to meet,” Asim says, the anger growing harder inside of him.
“Your risk, yes, is quite admirable. But your presence here is putting my family at risk, and my people.” Omar points to the ceiling. “At this very moment, an American drone could be circling overhead, and CIA agents could be reviewing its video footage, watching you walk inside…and then missiles will rain down on us. Many of us will die, women and children as well, but do you think the Americans would care? No. They would only care that they had killed you. My family and I would be, as they say, collateral damage.”
“Omar, my friend—”
“No,” he says, heaving himself out of his chair. “Enough. Your vehicles have been refueled, you have been given water and food. Leave. Now.”
Asim slowly stands up, gives a quick nod in Omar’s direction, and says quietly, “I am in your debt for offering me shelter, even if it was for a short time. But the Chinese, Russians, Turks, and even the Americans will someday leave. And you will remain, and so will I. And we will meet again, dear friend.”
Omar says, “If you are alive at that time, I shall look forward to it.”
The door outside opens and Asim passes by the angry-looking sons and approaches a concrete stairway, which empties into a modest tiled courtyard. Small electric lamps light the way outside, and Faraj is standing in the courtyard, along with the two men who were guarding the president’s daughter.
From the looks on all three of their faces, Asim knows what’s happened.
“How?” he asks.
Faraj starts to speak and Asim changes his mind.
“No, later,” he says, knowing that Omar’s sons are looking at him, and not wanting to give them any satisfaction or gossip to be taken back to their father, and thus to the tribesmen here, and to others in these mountains.
It takes only a few minutes for his three-vehicle convoy to depart Omar’s village, and from the lead Suburban, he tells his driver, Taraq, to pull over, and then he assembles everyone in the glare from the vehicle’s headlights.
There is a confusing conversation lasting two or three minutes during which the two men tasked with guarding Mel Keating blame each other for her escape, and when they pause in their weeping and pleading, Asim takes out his 9mm Beretta pistol and shoots the first one in the head. The man slumps to the ground and his companion makes a run for it. Asim fires twice, catching him in the back, and then he goes to the figure on the ground and finishes him off with a bullet to the forehead.
He takes a deep breath.
The anger is still roiling within him.
To his cousin Faraj, Asim says, “Take these two and drag them into the desert. Leave their bodies to the birds and the rats.”
Faraj barks out the order to the group of men, comes over to Asim, and says, “Then, Asim?”
He puts the still-warm pistol in his hidden waist holster.
“We find Mel Keating,” Asim says, “and finish it.”