Getting here had meant taking a dog-leg journey from the US through Geneva and hitching a ride out of Damascus with an air-taxi firm flying UN and aid volunteers into Tripoli’s Kleyate airport. I figured I was likely to attract less interest with my cover as an aid volunteer than I would in the crowded and suspicion-riddled mess of Beirut’s Rafic Hariri International, a feverish hunting ground for the Lebanese Government’s General Directorate of State Security or the other force in the country, the Iranian-backed Hezbollah and their counter-intelligence unit.
On arrival I’d visited a recommended source of equipment in Tripoli (or Tarablus, to differentiate it from the city in Libya), to buy the kind of supplies that you won’t find in your neighbourhood tourist bazaar. In this case it was a used Kahr semi-automatic pistol and a spare magazine. I’d also got myself some wheels. There were very few rentals here that didn’t ask questions about where you were going and where you were from; details likely to end up under the suspicious gaze of the local General Security Office.
I’d chosen a beaten-up Land Cruiser that had seen better days but had a decent engine and good tyres. The man who’d sold it to me was a cousin of the man who’d supplied me with the semi-automatic, who also hadn’t bothered asking questions. He had a weathered face and a nose like a hawk’s beak, and had shaken his head when I’d asked about a rental price.
‘Buy only. Not rent.’ He’d chopped the air with his hand to signal his terms and conditions. Maybe he figured I was bound to come to grief and he’d never see me or the car again. He might have been right at that, so I wasn’t in a position to argue. Besides, if I bought the car and had to drive any great distance after this job, I wouldn’t have to go to the trouble of returning it. Leave it on any street or back alley and sooner or later it would be gone.
The deal-maker in him still had a shot at reading my mind. ‘You bring back here, I give you a good price. Then I change the plates, give it a respray. Make it disappear.’ He laughed at his own astuteness, snapped his fingers and spat on the ground. I decided not to negotiate further. He was a better businessman than me and I needed the ride.
I paid him what he asked, then got in the Land Cruiser and drove away.
But that was already history. I shrugged off the questions in my mind about what had led to this point and hugged dirt, grateful that the shooter’s aim had been off even if his field-craft hadn’t. You have to take what comfort you can from these things and move on. I slid into the cover of some big rocks and made a decision: I had to get out of here.
I counted to five to see if another shot would follow. When nothing happened I skidded further across the slope until I reached a dip in the ground and rolled onto my back, feeling the cushion of my day sack beneath me. It was slimmer than normal backpacks, holding some basic rations, a map, a compass and a bottle of water; essentials for a one-day trip into bandit country.
The plan had been to meet Tango on what passed as a road some 300 feet down the hill. It was more of a wide track but he’d apparently specified the location as safe. I could see a clear five-mile stretch from up here heading north, and the plan was simple: once I’d checked Tango was the right person and not a unit of Hezbollah, I was to get a memory stick from him and bug out for the airport. With a quick in-and-out trip like this, it made sense to travel extra-fast and extra-light.
It was one of the essentials in the backpack that I needed most right now, but getting it required a bit more space for movement than I had here without getting bits of me shot off. I needed to find better cover and a safe exit route out.
As I thought about tactics I found myself staring up at a vast expanse of blue, cloudless sky, with the thin contrail of an aircraft going who knew where. Blue meant calm but I didn’t feel it. Being up there suddenly seemed a good place to be; better than down here with someone shooting at me. But that was wishing for the impossible.
I lay still for a moment, figuring out which way to go. Choosing the wrong exit route would make me an open target. Unfortunately I still wasn’t sure of the shooter’s location. Up the slope was no good as I’d be moving slowly and probably right onto his gun. Down was better, where I could move faster but I’d be right in line for a back-shot. I also had no way of knowing if the shooter had moved. A good one would have done so if there was a chance his location had been compromised. If he was still anywhere above me he had the advantage of elevation, and going right or left he could simply track me across the slope and wait for his moment to squeeze the trigger, like a plastic duck hunter in a fairground gallery.
The silence around me was complete; no bird noises, no wind, nothing, not even the sound of the plane. My breathing sounded way too loud. I made an effort to slow it down, along with the drumming of the pulse in my head. I reckoned I’d moved a mere twenty yards but felt and sounded as if I’d run a hundred.
Being shot at does that to the system; it accelerates the heartbeat and focusses everything right down to the moment, especially the demand for oxygen brought on by the rush
