Maahi nodded, his throat so constricted that he couldn’t trust himself to speak. The operation had been sprung on him, and while his first reaction was to say no, he knew he had a younger brother and a widowed mother to think of.
Parzan al-Sharif sat on the edge of his desk in a shallow dugout at the back of his desert compound. The camp had been inherited from the previous al-Kaniyat commander, who had lost his powerbase when militia founder Mohammed al-Kaniyat was killed in a Turkish missile strike, using an American weapon. The rumour persisted that Parzan had provided the coordinates to the Turks, a move not unheard of among the militia commanders who generated great wealth through their connections to General Haftar.
‘This action is of personal importance to me,’ said Parzan, dressed in his signature desert cams and scarf. ‘Your loyalty will be noted.’
The man’s appearance reminded Maahi of a picture torn from an old Newsweek magazine and pinned to the kitchen wall of the trucking company his father once drove for. The picture was of PLO commander Yasser Arafat, and Maahi wondered if Parzan—a primary school teacher by profession—had seen the image and decided it was a look of authority.
Libya had become that way since the end of Gaddafi. Schoolteachers commanding militias, mayors making bombs, pilots flying gold to Switzerland; farmers’ sons turned into armed thugs and former IT engineers running slave markets.
Drummers making courier runs for warlords.
Maahi had drummed in his family troupe, playing for weddings, homecomings and other celebrations. Maahi had almost forgotten the joy of performing with his father and uncles. What he was being asked to do now made him sick to the stomach.
‘You remember your training with the machine pistol?’ asked Parzan, looking at one of his small cigars.
‘Yes,’ Maahi whispered. In his first months in Parzan’s cadre he had been trained to use an MP5 machine pistol which had its stock removed, so it was easy to conceal. It was easily slung under an armpit and was not visible if the carrier wore a baggy shirt or jacket over the top.
‘You were accurate with that weapon,’ said Parzan, lighting up. ‘I need you to be accurate again, under great pressure.’
Maahi nodded.
‘This is your reward for success,’ Parzan said, resting his hand on a stack of American dollar bills. ‘That’s one thousand US dollars. I’m sure your mother would appreciate that.’
Maahi wondered how long his mother would retain possession of such an amount if her oldest son was not around to protect her.
The commander smiled. ‘I have faith in you, Maahi,’ he said. ‘In fact, my belief in you is so strong that I will keep Demir here with me.’
Maahi looked into Parzan’s eyes and knew in his heart that if the opportunity ever came, he would kill this man. ‘Why does Demir have to stay here? He’s not part of anything.’
‘Yes, I know this,’ said Parzan. ‘So, we’re agreed, then? There’s no reason to make your brother a part of this operation?’
Maahi breathed in deeply through his nose. ‘We’ll keep Demir out of it,’ he said. ‘You can rely on me.’
‘Good,’ said Parzan, smacking the tops of his thighs. ‘You’re going to play music in Europe—you should be excited.’