rental car?”
“No, we don’t have one.”
“Once we’re done, you can drop me back at the embassy and use this. Mind that second gear, though. It’s wonky.”
“Just as long as you don’t expect it back in one piece.”
“This is rush hour. It’ll quiet down in another couple hours.”
Tripoli’s modern-day walled and labyrinthian Medina was born during Ottoman occupation and had served for centuries as much as a deterrent to invaders as it did a center of commerce. Situated beside the harbor and bordered on four sides by Al Kurnish Road, Al Fat’h Street, Sidi Omran Street, and Al Ma’arri Street, the Medina was a warren of narrow streets, blind, winding alleys, arched walkways, and small courtyards.
Archie found a parking spot near the Bab Hawara gate, along the southeastern wall, and they got out and walked two blocks south to a cafe. A man in black slacks and a tan short-sleeved shirt stood up from his table as Archie approached. They shook hands, embraced, and Archie introduced Brian and Dominic as “old friends.”
“This is Ghazi,” Archie said. “You can trust him.”
“Sit, please,” Ghazi said, and they settled at the table beneath the umbrella. A waiter appeared, and Ghazi fired off something in Arabic. The waiter left and reappeared a minute later with a pot, four small glasses, and a bowl of mints. Once tea was poured, Ghazi said, “Archie tells me you have an interest in websites.”
“Among other things,” Dominic said.
“There are many men who provide the services Archie mentioned, but one in particular might be worth your time. His name is Rafiq Bari. The day after that Web video went up and a day before that man’s body was discovered, he moved his business-quite suddenly and during the night.”
“Is that all?” Brian said.
“No. There are rumors that he’s done work for certain people. Websites that appear and disappear-proxy servers, redirects, rotating domain names, all of that. That’s Bari’s specialty.”
“How about ISPs?” Dominic said, referring to Internet service providers. “Any chance these people are creating their own rather than using commercial companies?”
Archie answered this one. “Too much hassle, I expect. There’s not a lot of oversight with that sort of thing here. A name and a credit card number is all it takes. Domain names can be registered in bulk and changed at the drop of a hat. No, the way this Bari fella does it is the way to go, at least here.”
Dominic said to Ghazi, “Who’s he living with? Any family?”
“Not here. A wife and daughter in Benghazi.”
“What’re the chances he’s going to be armed?”
“Bari himself? Very unlikely, I would think. When he moves about, he sometimes has protection.”
“URC?”
“No, no, not directly, I do not believe. Perhaps hired by them, perhaps, but these are just Medina people. Thugs.”
“How many?” This from Brian.
“The times I have seen him… Two or three.”
“Where do we find him?” said Brian.
By the time they dropped Archie back at the consulate, the sun’s lower rim was nearly touching the sea’s surface to the west. All across the city, streetlamps, car headlights, and neon signs were flickering to life. They’d decided that Dominic, who’d undergone the FBI’s defensive driving course, would be behind the Opel’s wheel. True to Archie’s prediction, the traffic had slackened somewhat, but the roads still bore more of a resemblance to racetracks than to urban thoroughfares.
Archie climbed out from the backseat and leaned his arms against the passenger door. “That map of the Medina you’ve got is a fairly good one but not perfect, so keep your heads about you. Sure this can’t wait till morning?”
“Probably not,” Brian said.
“Well, then loosen up and smile. Act like tourists. Window-shop; haggle a bit; pick up some swag. Don’t march through the place like diggers-”
“‘Diggers’?”
“Soldiers. You can park on one of the side streets near the Corinthia-that monstrosity of a hotel we passed on the way here.”
“Got it.”
“It’s visible from pretty much everywhere in the Medina. If you get lost, head for it.”
Brian said, “Damn, man, you make it sound like we’re walking into the lion’s den.”
“Not a bad analogy. All in all, the Medina’s safe at night, but word’ll spread if you stand out. Two more things: Dump the car if you have to. I’ll report it stolen. Second, there’s a brown paper bag under the tire in the boot with some goodies inside.”
Dominic said, “I assume you’re not talking about snacks.”
“That I’m not, mate.”
64
NAYOAN LEFT THE EMBASSY at five p.m., took the bus to a park-and-ride lot off Columbus, and got into a blue Toyota Camry. With Clark at the wheel, they followed him to a first-floor apartment on the southwestern edge of San Francisco’s famous Tenderloin district, between the City Hall and Market Street. It was arguably the city’s worst neighborhood, with more than its fair share of poverty, crime, homelessness, ethnic restaurants, dive hotels, and fringe clubs and art galleries. There could be only one reason Nayoan had chosen this area in which to live, Clark and the others decided: The Tenderloin had a fairly healthy Asian-American population, which would allow him to move about in relative anonymity.
After a couple of hours at home, Nayoan emerged from the apartment in a somber black suit and got back in the Camry. This time with Jack in the driver’s seat, they followed him back downtown to the Holiday Inn. They watched him enter the lobby, waited ten minutes, and headed back to the Tenderloin.
“Why’s it called the Tenderloin?” Chavez asked as Clark turned off Hayes Street and started looking for a parking spot. The car’s headlights skimmed over tipped-over garbage cans and shadowed figures sitting on front stoops.
“Nobody knows for sure,” Jack said. “Sort of an urban legend. Stories range from it being the soft underbelly of the city to it once being a hazardous-pay neighborhood for cops, who could buy better cuts of meat with the extra money.”
“Been reading the Frommer’s, Jack?”
“That and a little Sun Tzu. Know thine enemy, right?”
“The place has got character, that’s for damned sure.”
Clark found a spot under a tree between two streetlamps and pulled in. He doused the headlights and shut off the engine. Nayoan’s apartment building was one block down and across the street.
Clark checked his watch. “Eight o’clock. Nayoan should be at the reception. Change,” Clark said.
They traded their downtown garb-khaki pants, sweaters, windbreakers-for the Tenderloin attire they’d picked up earlier at a secondhand shop: sweatshirts, flannel shirts, ball caps, and knit beanies.
“Twenty minutes, then back here,” Clark said. “Three-block radius. Same drill as before. It’s a shitty neighborhood, so look the part.”
“Which is?” Jack said.
Chavez answered, “You don’t fuck with me, I don’t fuck with you.”
They met back at the car, then walked south half a block and stood together beside an empty stoop. Chavez
