In a vain attempt to alleviate the oppressive heat, Dan Shiller removed the Panama hat and fanned his face with it.
By the time the bus reached Zarzis, a sun-bleached Tunisian town on the coastal road to Libya, Shiller had removed his custom-tailored camel-hair jacket and abandoned his pure silk tie. The North African sun beat mercilessly upon the roof of the primitive vehicle, more of a truck with seats than a proper bus. Dust poured in through glassless windows. Most of the passengers spoke Arabic; a few conversed in Italian. About half wore Western garb of some description, while the rest were dressed in what looked to Shiller like soiled bedsheets. His fellow travelers were mostly men. Two heavily veiled women, one small child, and a malodorous goat completed the manifest.
The bus rattled steadily on through the blistering heat, stopping occasionally to pick up and discharge passengers. Dan unfolded a linen handkerchief and wiped his sweating forehead, instantly transforming the handkerchief from pure white to gray-beige.
Finally, after the longest four hours Shiller had ever spent on any public conveyance, the bus came to a halt at the Libyan border town of Abu Kammash. Two swarthy olive-uniformed Libyan soldiers with AK-47s slung over their shoulders climbed aboard. In Arabic, Italian, and French they demanded passports.
By the time the border guards reached Dan’s seat, the fugitive from American justice had his passport ready—complete with the Libyan visa he had purchased two weeks earlier for a thousand dollars cash from a clerk at the Tunisian consulate in L.A.
“Americano?” the soldier whistled in surprise. He flipped open the blue-covered passport, then a smile of recognition lit up his unshaven face.
“Ah, Signor Shiller!” With gestures and a few words of broken English, the man indicated that Shiller should accompany him off the bus. “Signor Barrouhi … he wait for you in automobile. You come. Bring all weeth you!”
Dan needed no further urging. The people from the bank had promised that he’d be met at the border, but until this moment the con man/mass murderer had wondered whether that appointment would actually be kept. He picked up his jacket and his carry-on bag and followed the soldier out into the blazing African afternoon.
Shiller breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted the big Mercedes-Benz stretch limo with the tinted windows. Thank God for air-conditioning. And thank God he didn’t have to travel the rest of the way to Tripoli in that fucking cattle car. It was about time these wogs started showing him a little respect.
The guard opened the back door of the limousine, and Dan ducked quickly inside. A heavyset man impeccably attired in a pin-striped doublebreasted suit half rose from his seat and extended a manicured hand to his guest.
“Mr. Shiller! How delightful to meet you,” the man said cordially in a mellifluous Oxford drawl. “My name is Sadok Barrouhi. I am a director of the Libyan Arab Foreign Bank.”
“Glad to meet you.”
“I do hope your trip from Jerba was not too uncomfortable,” Barrouhi continued. “And I apologize for the inconvenience. It is unfortunate that the Western nations have seen fit to prohibit air travel to and from our poor country.”
“Look, Mr. Barrouhi, it was a long, hot trip. But I’m here now. I just need a little sleep and I’ll be as good as new.”
“That is no problem, Mr. Shiller, your accommodations are all arranged. Meanwhile, may I offer you a drink? Scotch? Vodka?”
“Why sure—a scotch would be great. But I thought you … Moslems didn’t drink.”
The banker laughed. “That is the public custom. However, we are now in private. And I am afraid your decadent Western ways have quite seduced me.”
Somewhere between Az Zawiyah and Tripoli, twenty-one hours of travel caught up with Dan Shiller and he fell asleep in the cushioned comfort of the Mercedes limousine.
He awoke with a start as Barrouhi gently shook his shoulder. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he became aware that the car had stopped. He looked out of the window; they appeared to be parked in some kind of enclosed courtyard. Armed soldiers, several grades more clean-cut and smartly turned out than those at the border crossing, stood at attention around the perimeter of the compound.
“Where the hell are we?” said Shiller. “This doesn’t look like any hotel.”
“You are right, Mr. Shiller. This is not a hotel. In fact, it is one of the residences of Colonel Mu’ammar Qaddafi.”
“Colonel Qaddafi? You mean the president? Why bring me here?”
“The colonel has expressed an interest in meeting this mysterious multimillionaire. It is an honor that is rarely accorded to foreign visitors, particularly Americans.”
“What does he want?”
“Why not let him tell you himself? In the meantime, perhaps you would care to refresh yourself in the guest room that has been prepared for you.”
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on here.” Shiller’s sensitive antennae detected unwelcome vibrations. “The deal was, you’d put me up in a hotel, and tomorrow we’d discuss where the money was to be transferred. For which I’m paying you five million American dollars. Now if it’s all the same to you, Mr. Barrouhi, I’d just as soon stick to the script.”
The banker smiled apologetically. “I do sympathize with your position, Mr. Shiller. But one does not refuse an audience with the president of the Great Socialist People’s Libyan Arab Jamahiriya. Perhaps if I came by your room in half an hour … ?”