Page 17 of Never
Hakim jerked his head at Abdul’s vehicle. ‘Sell your car.’
So he had checked Abdul out earlier. No doubt the proprietor had pointed out his vehicle. ‘Of course I will sell my car before I go,’ Abdul said. ‘But I must pay my brother the money he lent me to buy it.’
‘The price is two thousand.’
‘But Libya is not Europe. The final payment should be due on arrival.’
‘Then who would pay it? People would just run away.’
‘It’s not very satisfactory.’
‘This is not a negotiation. You trust me, or you stay at home.’
Abdul almost laughed at the idea of trusting Hakim. ‘All right, all right,’ he said. ‘Can I see the vehicle in which we will travel?’
Hakim hesitated then shrugged. Without speaking he stood up and walked towards the garage.
Abdul followed.
They entered the building by a small side door. The interior was lit by clear plastic skylights in the roof. There were tools on the walls, new tyres racked on deep shelves, and a smell of motor oil. In one corner, two men in jalabiyas and headscarves sat watching a television set, smoking, bored. On a table nearby were two assault rifles. The men glanced up, saw Hakim, and returned their attention to the television screen.
Hakim said: ‘They are my security guards. People try to steal gasoline.’
They were jihadis, not security guards, and their indifferent attitude suggested that Hakim was not their boss.
Abdul remained in character and asked them brightly: ‘Would you like to buy some cigarettes at half price? I have Cleopatras.’
They looked away without speaking.
Much of the garage space was taken up by a small Mercedes bus that would hold about forty people. Its appearance was not reassuring. Long ago it had been sky-blue, but now that cheerful paintwork was blotched with rust. Two spare wheels were strapped to the roof, but their tyres were not new. Most of the side windows had lost their glass. That might be deliberate: the breeze would keep the passengers cool. He looked inside and saw that the upholstery was worn and stained, and ripped in places. The windscreen was intact, but the driver’s sunshade had come loose and hung at a drunken angle.
Abdul said: ‘How long does it take to reach Tripoli, Hakim?’
‘You will find out when we get there.’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘I never tell people how long. There are always delays, then they become disappointed and angry. Better for them to be surprised and happy when they arrive.’
‘Does the price cover food and water on the journey?’
‘Essentials are provided, including beds at overnight stops. Luxuries are extra.’
‘What kind of luxury can you get in the middle of the desert?’
‘You’ll see.’
Abdul nodded towards the jihadi guards. ‘Are they coming?’
‘They will protect us.’
And the cocaine. ‘What route will you follow?’
‘You ask too many questions.’
Abdul had pushed Hakim far enough. ‘All right, but I need to know when you plan to leave.’
‘Ten days from today.’
