There were six of them at the conference table: Boris and the tall Russian, Lenny; Jamal and Nasir, who were from the UAE according to Otis; and Faisal and his middle-aged sidekick from the pool deck.
Around the edges of the room sat the support people, and through the windows de Payns could see the small army of security thugs standing out in the cold, staring in at their bosses. The only security person inside the owner’s bar was Ahmed, who sat on a stool beside the beer taps.
It was a heavily monitored table and de Payns was measured in how often he approached. Jamal smoked cigars and Faisal cigarettes, giving de Payns an opportunity to change ashtrays as well as charge drinks.
‘Tripoli could be ours again with a big surge,’ Faisal was saying as de Payns replaced his ashtray. ‘We need the airport and the treasury building, and the west is ours very quickly.’
De Payns moved around the table, ears twitching at the references to Libya.
‘You mean Bouri and El Sharara are yours very quickly?’ quipped Boris with a smile, referring to two large oil and gas projects controlled by the western Libya government, the GNA.
‘If the deal still stands, they’d be our fields,’ said Faisal. ‘And most importantly, we’d control Mellitah. Our royalty deal gives us a joint interest, no?’
De Payns had heard Mellitah mentioned at briefings in Paris. It was the compression station and main interconnector for the Greenstream pipeline that carried Libyan gas into Europe via Sicily. Most of Libya’s petroleum revenues were generated from the west of the country, which was controlled by the US-backed GNA. The east of Libya was controlled by General Khalifa Haftar’s LNA coalition with the support of his ally, Russia. The UAE supplied armaments to Haftar, who paid with Russian money. Vladimir Putin’s primary goal was to control the petroleum assets.
‘It’s a joint venture all the way,’ said Boris, nodding. ‘The deal’s still good. What do you need from us?’
De Payns moved to the bar and emptied the ashtray, his mind spinning at what he was hearing. It seemed the meeting on Azzam was about Russia and Haftar making plans to take the west of Libya and choke the natural gas supply into Europe. He grabbed a bottle of single malt Scotch and a jug of water and walked around the advisers, some of whom were drinking whisky.
‘… training and support …’ said Boris.
Faisal: ‘… your special forces people, for some lightning actions in … can’t win a war in North Africa, only from the air … tell Dimitry we need some of those special operations people he holds back—the whole point of going private is so we can get things done …’
De Payns returned to the bar and prepared a tray with replacement drinks. The Libyans were asking the Russians for special forces, but Russia didn’t have an official contingent operating in Libya. Putin used a mercenary force called Wagner Group. The reference to ‘Dimitry’ had to be Dimitry Utkin, the CEO of Wagner Group. Regardless of the fear levels that were rising in him, there was no way de Payns could go back to Briffaut empty-handed. He needed to take something solid back to Paris.
He faced the room and looked at his black Garmin sports watch. Angling it slightly, he hit the back-lap button twice in fast succession, setting off five hi-res camera shots. The principals had flown in on helicopters, circumventing the surveillance team around the superyacht marina, and de Payns needed a photograph of these people.
‘… but not in Chad,’ Lenny was saying, as de Payns returned with martinis and gin and tonics.
Faisal laughed and took a martini from the tray. ‘My uncle met his worst defeats in Chad. I don’t think you have to worry about that.’
‘Not what we hear,’ said the tall Russian. ‘There’s a lot of bad blood on that border and your uncle has teams operating on the other side.’
‘Those are operations against Muslim Brotherhood terrorists,’ said Faisal, annoyed at the Russian. ‘Just like you had to act in Chechnya. It’s not a war; it’s a policing action.’
‘What my colleague is saying,’ said Boris flatly, ‘is that we can assist in training and troops, but we won’t fight a grudge match that General Haftar lost in Chad years ago.’
‘But Niger’s no problem?’ sneered Faisal. This must be Faisal al-Mismari, de Payns realised: General Haftar’s Western-educated nephew. ‘You’ll fight those terrorists because Russia will get to control Niger’s uranium, right?’
From the corner of his eye, de Payns saw Boris eyeball Faisal; his expression was dangerous.
The Libyan, oblivious, torched a new cigarette. ‘What about weapons?’
‘What about them?’ replied Boris. ‘You have what you need, no?’
‘What about this new drone?’
Boris paused. ‘What about it?’
De Payns ran out of tasks at the table and retreated to the bar, from where he could still overhear snatches of the conversation.
‘… what use is a surveillance drone?’
‘… maritime tracking … Turkish weapons deliveries … intelligence is a weapon.’
De Payns delivered a Scotch to the man sitting almost directly behind Boris, and heard Boris say, ‘Be patient. If we directly supply attack drones to Haftar, the Americans will supply their own to the GNA. You want that? Or you can keep it as weapons from UAE, input from Wagner.’
‘The Turks have used strike drones against us,’ said Faisal. ‘That’s how we lost Al-Watiya Air Base.’
‘Yes, and an S-one system from UAE brought down those drones,’ said Boris.
‘Not until we’d lost all of our gains,’ said Faisal. ‘The Turkish drones are defeating the S-one systems.’
‘Actually,’ said Lenny, smiling, ‘the Turkish operators are defeating the Libyan operators.’
De Payns returned to the bar, where he noticed Ahmed’s attention had switched from the table to him. ‘Let the girl serve the table—you get the help something to drink.’
‘Sure, boss,’ said de Payns.
‘And Frenchie,’ said Ahmed, beckoning his attention. ‘You tell those meatheads that if there’s one cigarette butt on the deck of this yacht, someone’s going overboard. Got it?’
‘Sure, boss,’ said de Payns again.
He made his rounds of the security people, handing out small bottles of water, the Med twinkling in the moonlight and a cold breeze wafting across the deck. He showed them the crew toilets and he delivered Ahmed’s standing order about the cigarettes, which was greeted with great mirth once the translations were made.
‘He can fight me for it,’ chuckled a bearish Wagner soldier, who took his bottle of water and then offered de Payns a stick of gum. De Payns knew better than to refuse a gift from a Russian. It was always easier to take the damn thing and avoid the social arm wrestle.
‘Nice,’ said de Payns, the horrible taste of peppery cinnamon bursting in his mouth.
‘Mikhail,’ said the hulking Russian, offering his hand.
‘Fred,’ said de Payns, shaking it. ‘Let me know if you need anything.’
Back at the bar, de Payns stood off from the meeting as Lenny made eyes at Simone and Nasir ogled her derrière, miming a bite.
‘Worried about your girlfriend, are you, Frenchie?’ asked Ahmed.
‘She’s not my girlfriend.’
‘Then stop clenching your fists. Go and be useful.’
De Payns made a circuit around the edge of the room, collecting glasses. As he paused for an ashtray, there was a lull in the meeting and Boris’s voice cut through.
‘We can revisit the question of weapons, but tell me, have you considered the document delivered to you last week?’
‘Vulcan?’ replied Faisal al-Mismari.
‘That’s right,’ said Boris. ‘You have an answer for us?’
Faisal chuckled. ‘Okay, so this is quid pro quo? A bunch of Libyans pull off a terror act under a false flag in—’
The table went silent, and when de Payns turned to look, Jamal’s cigar hand was raised in a gesture of silence and those around the table were staring at the Frenchman.
‘I believe you’re needed downstairs,’ said Jamal.