I'd normally expect guys like this, in the back of beyond, to be half asleep, bored or just pissed off. But he and his mates looked particularly switched on; they wore shades under their ball caps, crisply pressed green uniforms and carried AKs across their chest.
Mansour gave a low groan. 'Money will not help us.'
'Why not?'
'They are Kata'eb Al-Amn – Security Battalions. Gaddafi's men.'
I looked at Lynn. 'What's he talking about?'
Lynn spat something in Arabic. Mansour grunted back.
'What?' I hated being out of the loop.
'It's unfortunate.' Lynn's head appeared between the front seats. 'You don't usually find the Security Battalions at VCPs. They consider themselves above this kind of thing. Checkpoints are normally manned by the army or the People's Militia. Draftees. Eminently bribable. But not this lot.'
Unfortunate? Not quite the term I'd have used. 'Are they looking for something – us, maybe?'
Mansour sucked his teeth. 'Perhaps they had some trouble here. There have been protests over the price of bread and rice. They could be looking for troublemakers.'
'What are you going to tell them?'
'Quiet; I will deal with it.'
The guard reached the Toyota and started talking to the driver. Even the goat was starting to look uncomfortable. Mansour's time was up and I wasn't liking this one bit.
I turned to Lynn. 'Weapon?'
The strain was registering on his face too. 'On my lap.'
I checked. It was concealed by his jacket.
I nodded towards Mansour. The sweat was starting to trickle down his face. 'A word out of place, shout and I'll put my foot down. Then shoot him through the back of the seat.'
The guard handed back a fistful of papers to the driver of the Toyota. The goat celebrated by trying to bite the head off a chicken that chose that moment to stick its neck through the bars of its cage.
The guard turned his attention to us.
Our fate rested in the hands of a man who'd have slit his own mother's throat twenty years ago on the say- so of the Great Leader with the big lapels.
97
I kept my hands on the wheel so the guard could see them and so I could turn the wheel as soon as this went noisy. The automatic gearbox would do the work for me. All I had to do was shift my foot off the brake and onto the gas. The Makarov was still where I needed it – cold comfort in a rapidly worsening situation.
The guard swaggered up to the Audi and tapped the glass with the muzzle of his AK.
Mansour powered down his window. Warm, dust-laden air blew into the car as he beckoned the guard to his side of the wagon.
The guard bent down to give us a good look and I saw the pips on his shoulders. I wasn't hot on Libyan rank insignia, but I reckoned he was a captain or a major. His face was heavily pockmarked. A layer of black stubble showed beneath the ball cap. He stared at us over the top of his Aviators before finally addressing Mansour.
I caught the word Ajdabiya in Mansour's reply.
There was another burst of questioning and I glanced in the mirror at Lynn. I didn't like the way this was going. By the look on his face, he didn't much either.
I ran my right hand down the side of the wheel so it was nearer the weapon.
The guard barked again and Mansour reached slowly into his inside pocket.
The guard's head moved a fraction; I was pretty sure the eyes behind the Aviators were looking straight at me. I smiled back.
Mansour handed over a small green carnet. More questions, more suspicion. The guard looked from me to Lynn, then switched his attention to Mansour's little green identity card.
I swore I heard the tick of the electronic clock on the Q7's dashboard as the officer scrutinized each line of Mansour's ID.
He glanced at the card, then at Mansour's face. Suddenly he barked at us, using a different tone altogether:
The officer stepped back. I had no idea what was going on. Was he going for his weapon?
My hand moved towards the Makarov. I'd drop the guard before he could fire and then get my foot down.
Mansour realized what was going through my mind. He held his hand flat below the level of the window, where the guard couldn't see what he was doing. He was signalling for me to cool it. 'They're letting us through.'
