I set about packing and sanitizing the villa. I had a big board with all the photos of my guards pinned on it, in part so I could organize shifts, in part so I could remember all their names. I pulled the photos off, went outside, and burned them. It was dark and silent out there, with just the faint roar of the waves carrying softly across the sand. In the east I could see the barest hint of dawn.
I stamped the ashes into the sand.
I packed up the laptop, the satphone, the company cash, and my few personal possessions. I was pretty much done. I flicked on the TV news again. The story had broken that two Americans were dead. I knew who one was: the Ambassador. Thank God that hadn’t hit the news yet. I had no idea who the other might be.
A text bleeped through from Massoud. “I am outside waiting for you.”
I stuffed the Browning down my pants, the spare mags in my pocket, grabbed my camera, and headed out the door. The first light of dawn was breaking red and angry across the sea. I slid into the passenger seat of Massoud’s Nissan.
Massoud glanced at me. “Morgan, it is good to see you still alive. But you know that two Americans have been killed?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Do you know who?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“You know a second compound was attacked?”
“Yeah, I heard.”
“Word is they were hammered for hours by the Shariah Brigade but they managed to hold out. Finally, American reinforcements turned up on a flight from somewhere.”
“That’s good.” So that must have been how they’d broken the siege at the Annex and evacuated their people. But it didn’t shed much if any light on what had happened at the Mission.
I could feel Massoud’s eyes upon me. “Did you know about this other compound, Morgan?”
“Nope. No idea.”
I knew Massoud knew I was lying. He probably knew why as well.
“So, they must all have been spies in there,” Massoud probed.
“Don’t start,” I snapped. “Not today. Not that whole fucking American spies bullshit. I don’t care who was in there.”
The “American spies” line was a daily refrain with the Libyans. How come you can speak Arabic—are you an American spy? How come you speak this Welsh that no one else can understand—are you an American spy? Why do you know so much about the Koran—are you an American spy? Maybe they’d had this drilled into them during the Gaddafi years—that every foreigner is an American spy—but either way I did not need this shit today of all days.
“I’m British, remember,” I told Massoud. “I’m the British security manager at the Mission. That’s all. Now drive.”
Massoud got us under way. “You really think you will get into that place this morning?” he asked me.
“No, probably not. If your countrymen are any good they’ll have security there out the asshole. The Libyan police and military should have the entire Mission surrounded and cordoned off. But in this place you never fucking know.”
“Morgan, it is not wise going back,” Massoud remarked. “We tried once last night . . . You will not get in. And what do you hope to achieve this morning?”
“Just drive.”
The Libyans didn’t get it. They didn’t grasp why I was so tight with the Americans. They didn’t understand it. They thought I was the Guard Force’s champion, not that of the Americans. In truth I was both. They thought the Americans told me what to do and I instructed the guards in turn, so I probably resented the Americans. They didn’t understand how there could be such a special bond between two nations so far apart—America and Great Britain.
Massoud’s phone rang and he gabbled away in Arabic for a minute or so. He ended the call and there was a heavy silence. He wouldn’t look at me.
“Morgan, now it is four dead Americans.”
“How do you know?” I demanded.
“My friend at the airport has just seen four bodies turn up and get loaded onto an aircraft.”
“Ask him what their names are. Ask him who they were.”
“I have. I have asked. He doesn’t know. But he can see Americans are there loading up their dead.”
“So ask him to find out who the fuck they are!” I snapped. I was desperate for information.
“Morgan, he can’t. No one will tell him. He’s not able to.”
I’d known that two were dead and I had accepted that fact. One was the Ambassador and I figured one was most likely one of his close protection guys. But now it was four dead Americans, and I just knew in my heart that the number would keep rising.
My phone rang. It was Phil, another of my security mates now working out of Tripoli. “You okay, mate?” he asked. “I’m watching the news.”
“Yeah, well, I’m living it.”
“What do you need, mate? Anything? Cash? How are you getting out? Where are you right now?”
“I’m fine. I’m keeping moving.”
“If you need anything just get in touch. If need be, mate, I’ll fly down there for you.”
“Thanks.”
“Let me know when you get home, okay?”
I killed the call. We turned the last corner and hit the approach road to the Embassy. I simply could not believe my eyes. There were no police. No cordons. No military. No roadblocks. No security at all. Nothing. The place looked wide open. I let out a string of curses.
“You have got to be kidding! One of the biggest atrocities ever and there’s no one fucking here!”
I told Massoud to pull over and to wait in the car. I got out, checked my weapon, and made for the battle-scarred entranceway. As I strode ahead Massoud appeared beside me. He told me there was no way I was going in again alone. I guessed he sensed how close I was to losing it, so he was here as much to protect me from myself. Either way, it was good to have some company.
As we moved toward the main gate a white Toyota Corolla pulled to a halt just in front of us. A guy got out dressed in a Libyan policeman’s uniform. Bearing in mind that we’d had a “Libyan policeman” doing the pre-attack recce of the Embassy, I was sorely tempted to draw the Browning and put a bullet in his head. Massoud must have realized as much, for he moved quickly and started talking to the guy.
The three of us stepped inside the gates. The smell of burning and the smoke caught in my throat. My God, it looked a whole lot worse in the daylight. It looked as if the place had been flattened in a series of air strikes. As he surveyed the scene Massoud’s expression was one of pure horror. He looked shocked beyond words.
He glanced at me. “Morgan, I am so sorry.”
I gritted my teeth against the rage. “It’s not your fault, Massoud. You didn’t do this.”
Some random Libyan guy emerged from the smoke. He ran up to me. “This is disgusting. I cannot believe they did this. I am sorry. I lived in the U.S. for nearly twenty years. How can they have done this? I am so sorry . . .”
I gave a curt nod of thanks. We had work to do. As there was zero security around the place, that meant the Shariah killers could return at any moment, especially if they learned that I was here. I gave myself twenty minutes max to get this done.
“Let’s get moving,” I said to Massoud.
We headed in and to our right was the row of gutted vehicles. I pressed on toward the VIP Villa. Twenty-four hours ago this was a luxury building, decorated beautifully and full of fine furniture. I walked through the scorched entranceway—the place where I’d got challenged a few hours back by the bad guys. The interior of the Villa was totally and utterly fire-blackened and destroyed.
I needed to take photos of everything, but I told myself to concentrate on the grim remains of the “safe room”—the place in which I had to presume the Ambassador had met his end. I walked through the steel gateway that led into the complex of bedrooms that made up the “safe room.” The furniture in this place had been like nothing I had ever seen before. Whether it was genuine or repro I didn’t know, but it was the kind of stuff you’d expect to see in a French chateau or an English castle. But it was all burned, looted, gone.
I checked what I presumed had to have been the Ambassador’s room, or maybe it was Sean’s. Weird. Clothes were still hanging in the wardrobe almost completely untouched by the flames. I presumed the killers hadn’t been able to throw the gasoline this far inside the building, because of the steel bars, and as a result it wasn’t as badly firebombed as the rest of the place.
I checked the way out onto the roof—the place where Scotty, Dave, and the others would have been making their last stand. It was via a large window protected by reinforced steel bars. The window was hanging open, the bars swung wide. Who had opened it? Why? Was this the way the bad guys had tried to get in, or was this the way the good guys had tried to escape the hell of the inferno?
My attention was drawn outside. I could hear muffled shouts and yelling from behind the villa. Massoud and I looked at each other: What the hell was going on? We moved around to the back of the building, and there was the lone Libyan policeman getting abused by five armed men. They spotted the two of us and started leaping about and shouting and doing their V-for-victory signs, as they took photos of each other posing by the burned-out building.
All except one were in full combat dress, and I could see two at least had AK-47s slung over their shoulders. The lone policeman made his way back toward us, clearly making an early escape. No surprises there: the Libyan cop was moving swiftly out of the danger zone. As he passed Massoud he muttered something.
“What did he say?” I grated.
“Shariah Brigade militia,” Massoud replied.
My blood was boiling.
This is it, I told myself. People are going to die now.
I reached behind me and felt for the Browning. The heavy steel bulge was right where it should be. They started walking toward us, strutting and cocksure in their “victory” and their strength of numbers. Morgan, lad, this is going off big-time. Get the fuck ready.
They still had their AKs slung over their shoulders, and I figured I could get the drop on most of them. I’d hit the two I could see with the guns first, then deal with the others.
One started shouting: “You American! You American!”
And what if I am?
He was jabbing a finger at me now. “You American! You American! Death to America!”
The five of them kept coming. Bring it on. If you think I’m an American why are your weapons still slung, assholes?
Massoud uttered a few words in Arabic, then: “Inglesi. Inglesi.”
“Inglesi?” the lead Shariah guy hesitated. “Inglesi okay. Manchester United. Wayne Rooney. English football good!”
That tipped me over the edge. “Is it? Is it good? Is this shit behind you good? You killed all the Americans and you murdering bastards want to talk fucking football?”
I couldn’t stop yelling at them. I was shaking with anger. Seething. I had never wanted to kill anyone as much as I did these guys. I knew they were probably low-level Shariah, but still I was dying to drop the whole lot of them. They’d come here to take their sick souvenir photos in front of the burned-out wreck of a building where the American ambassador—a fine friend of Libya—had met his end, and most likely to show their mates what good, strong, brave jihadists they were.
And for that in my book they deserved to die.
I saw them exchange glances. They could sense my hatred, even if they couldn’t understand all that I was saying. All I needed now was an excuse. I wanted them to have a go. I needed them to make the first move. I knew the lead guy would have to pull his weapon off his shoulder, cock it, aim, and fire. All I had to do was grab the Browning, push it out front, and go. I was more than ready and I was convinced I could drop them before they could drill me or Massoud.
Of course, they wouldn’t know for sure that I had a weapon. The Browning was well hidden. I guessed that made my aggression and my staring, killer gaze incomprehensible to them. To them, it had to seem as if they were being challenged to fight by one lone Brit who was unarmed.
The mouthy one spat some words in Arabic at Massoud.
I flicked my eyes across to Massoud. “What did he say?”
“They are asking what your problem is. Easy, Morgan. Take it easy.”
“Fuck taking it easy.” I fixed the lead Shariah fighter with a stare. “I tell you what my problem is, asshole: you murdered some good people here tonight. Friends of mine . . .”
“Man United,” the guy tried again. “Inglesi football good.”
“Be careful, Morgan,” Massoud muttered. He tried placing a restraining arm on me.
I shook it off. “No! Fuck them! Let’s get it on!”
One thought was racing through my head now: Do I shoot them? Do I shoot them? Do I shoot them? I couldn’t be the one to move first. I needed them to.
“You fucking people are so fucking stupid,” I spat out. “You idiots are being watched right now by the Americans—don’t you know that? There will be a drone or satellite watching this compound right now. Don’t you get it?” I started laughing. “Don’t you realize the Americans are on their way? And you guys—you’re dead men walking. All of you. You’re all of you fucked.”
These guys seemed to understand enough basic English to get the gist of what I was saying. I saw fear replace the bluster and arrogance in their eyes.
“If I was you guys, I’d fuck off right now . . . Even I don’t want to be around here when the Americans arrive.”
Massoud translated those last words. The five Shariah Brigade fighters didn’t seem so brave now. As they made to shuffle past us Massoud started berating them about how they’d brought shame on Libya.
“Shame is the least of your problems!” I spat after them. “You got the Americans on your ass now, and they’ll hunt you to your fucking graves.”
They tried to walk to the front gate, but once one had started running they all did. Just as I had thought. They were cowards, the lot of them.
We made our way to the main consular building, but still I was shaking with rage. The pool was full of debris: smashed-up chairs, computer gear, desks, a TV. There was Arabic graffiti scrawled all over the white walls. I made sure to photograph every last bit of it. Maybe the evil bastards had been dumb enough to sign their own names, or maybe the names of the factions of the Shariah Brigade they belonged to, or maybe even the names of their commanders—those who had masterminded this night of savagery.
From there we turned left onto the gravel track leading to the TOC. I rounded a corner and there was the burned-out wreck of the canteen. To my utter disbelief two skinny guys came hurrying out laden with gear, and they started to make their way to a rusty pickup truck. They were carrying what looked like a metal filing cabinet. The bastards were still looting.
“WHAT ARE YOU FUCKERS DOING?” I exploded.
Massoud made a run for them. He too was beside himself with rage now. He was screaming at them in Arabic. They dropped their loot, ran for the pickup, and jumped in. I saw him trying to yank the driver out of the window by his hair. This had really pushed Massoud over the edge. Americans were dead, the Embassy was in ruins, his job was gone, and Libya had been shamed in the eyes of the world—and yet there were still guys here looting.
I stepped into the canteen. Everything here had been burned or looted or smashed to smithereens. I searched among the ashes and the debris, and at least there were no bodies. I crossed over to the TOC. Unbelievably, there was still smoke billowing out of the windows—that was how fierce the conflagration had been here.
I stepped inside. It was boiling hot and awash with smoke. I guessed maybe this was the last place that the Shariah killers had managed to torch. If so, maybe it was from here that some of the Americans had mounted their last stand—and that meant there could well be bodies.
I steeled myself to go on.
I pushed farther inside.
The political officer’s room was still burning. It was totally trashed. Filing cabinets and desks were overturned and lying on top of each other. I checked where all the classified documents were stored, but there was nothing left that I could see. The weapons locker was on the floor, and it had been busted open. All the M4s, the pistols, and shoguns were gone. Most of anything that was left here was too hot to handle, but my greatest relief was that none of my friends were lying among the debris here as burned and scorched corpses.
I got out, having spent a good five minutes in there photographing everything. I gulped in big lungfuls of fresh air. I wiped the sweat from my eyes. My hair was soaked and plastered to my scalp. I had one thing left to do now: check the vineyard and the two orchards for bodies. I glanced at my watch. I was worried that those Shariah fighters might have rushed off to fetch their friends. We’d been here a good twenty-five minutes already. I told myself to hurry.
I started to run now, dashing from one patch of vegetation to another, my eyes scanning the ground for any dead Americans. There were none that I could see. Even the scores of Shariah corpses appeared to be gone, so I presumed they must have been in here collecting their dead.
I came to the flagpole, the one on which only the day before the flag had been flying at half-mast, in memory of 9/11. I had a lump in my throat just at the thought of it, and this place being hit on that momentous anniversary. Maybe we should have seen it coming, but we’d had not the slightest sniff of any intel about the kind of attack that hit us. I wanted to retrieve the flag, so I could hand it back to whichever of my American friends had survived, but even that was gone.
I raced through the last patch of cover—the orchard next to the outhouse/gym where I’d come over the wall—then back toward the main gate. I caught sight of Massoud waiting for me. He must have wondered what the hell I was doing, tearing around the complex like a madman. But I couldn’t have lived with myself had I missed one of the guys and his body had been left behind.
As we headed out the gate someone grabbed me by the arm. It was an older Libyan male and I recognized him instantly. It was the owner of the compound.
He gestured at the destruction all around us: “The Americans will give me money, yes? They will pay?”
I stared at him, struggling to keep my anger in check. “Not if I have anything to do with it they won’t.”
I walked to the car. I was incandescent with rage. I saw Massoud and the lone policeman start to whack some more looters around the face, using open-handed slaps.
“Come on!” I yelled over at him. “Let’s go!”
We set off. All the way back to the villa the silence lay heavy and oppressive between us. I kept thinking of those who had died, not that I knew exactly who it was yet. The not knowing was the worst. It was eating away at me. I told Massoud to wait as I went into the villa and grabbed my gear. I just wanted to get to the airport now and get out of this horrific, messed-up city—and to get out with the photographs that I’d taken this morning very much intact.
We set off for the airport. As we drove through downtown Benghazi I glanced around at the familiar sights, ones that were somehow now so alien to me. I knew for sure that I would never return to this place: it would be too much for me ever to come back. Beside me Massoud seemed very somber and shaken.
“What’s wrong?” I asked him.
“I feel very bad for the Americans,” he answered. “What has been done here is a shame on our country. And I regret because I know I will never work for you any again.”
I was all choked up. I liked Massoud. He didn’t deserve any of this. Like my guards, Massoud was one of the good guys.
As we neared the airport I felt as if my world was about to explode. I feared they’d stop me and take the camera; or shove me in front of the hordes of reporters who had to be flooding in to try to get the story right now; or arrest me and throw me into some cell. Massoud must have sensed what a mess I was in. When we got there he told me to wait in the car. He went and talked to some of his Army friends who were manning the airport. Via them I was ushered straight into the first-class departure lounge—bypassing passport control and security.
Fox News was playing on the lounge’s TV set. The Benghazi Embassy siege was headline news, and the death of Ambassador Stevens was now being openly reported. I sat there glued to the screen, knowing that I had to look like absolute death: I hadn’t slept for ages; my hair and beard were caked in sweat, dirt, smoke, and grime; and I was quite literally stinking.
An elderly-looking Arab man approached me. He held out his hand. “Sir, I am so very sorry for what happened to your friends last night.”
I took his hand and shook it. “Shōkran”—Thank you.
He’d been speaking educated, fluent English. I had never seen him before, but I presumed he wanted to apologize on behalf of his country, and as a Westerner I was the first person he had seen to whom he could do so. A lot of Libyans would be like this man, and like Massoud: they would be full of shame and outrage.
Two Western-looking guys entered the lounge. I saw them pointing at me and whispering. I felt paranoid, like my head was about to detonate in a shower of brains and goo. They came over and started trying to introduce themselves. They had French accents and one pulled out a notebook. Reporters.
“So, you are an American?” he asked.
“Nope. Welsh.”
“Oh . . . Pays de Galles.”
“Yeah.” Pays de Galles is the French name for Wales.
“What were you doing in Benghazi?”
“Working.”
“What can you tell us about the attack on the Benghazi Embassy last night?”
That was it. I lost it. “LISTEN: YOU’D BETTER FUCK OFF BACK TO YOUR SEATS WHILE YOU STILL CAN!”
Massoud came sprinting over. “Yala! Yala! Yala!”—quickly. He grabbed them and led them away.
He came back. “Morgan, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I grunted. “Just keep those fuckers away from me.”
Massoud got some of his Army friends to throw a cordon around me, keeping everyone away. I was in my own little world now. It was somewhere very close to hell. Are they all dead? I kept asking myself. Should I have tried to shoot the guy with the Dushka, and gone over the wall at the first attempt? If I’d done so, might I have saved them? Should I have got the Ambassador’s body and taken it back to the villa? Should I be dead alongside all my friends?
The same thoughts kept swirling around and around in my head, like a dark storm. I was on the verge of a breakdown.
Massoud crouched beside me and showed me a video clip on his mobile phone. It showed what I guessed had to be some of the good Libyans carrying Ambassador Stevens out of the VIP Villa. Massoud explained that as the battle for the Mission had ebbed and flowed, some of Benghazi’s many good citizens—people of a similar mind-set to him and Zahid—had managed to get into the Mission compound and pull the Ambassador out of the VIP Villa. It must have been those guys who helped get him to the hospital. In the video footage it looked as if they were genuinely trying to help him, but I prayed that his family hadn’t seen any of those images.
I imagined how terrifying it must have been for him, locked in the safe room but with all the noise of the assault hammering in from outside. Then the heat and the flames. I felt anger burning through me again. Such a lovely man. Such a shitty way to die. You poor bastard. This was fucking my head up even more.
My flight was called.
Massoud and I embraced. “Shukran, habibi”—Thank you, my brother—I told him. I had tears in my eyes.
So did he. “You will come back to Libya, Morgan? You will come back?”
“Yes. I’ll be back,” I lied.
I would never return to this place.
I took my bag and walked away without a backward glance. I couldn’t take it anymore.
As I boarded the plane all I could think of was getting a long way away from here, and back to my family.