The Most Beautiful Place On God's Earth

34 The notebook

Tom, Nikos, Martin and Manos put on their best clothes to look at least approximately like business travelers. They had also borrowed their luggage according to this criterion. They accompanied Manos, the artist, to meetings in Rome, or so their story went, should anyone ask them. An album with photos of his works was their proof.

However, no one asked them. The official at the entrance for private planes took only a cursory glance at their identity cards, and the customs officers paid no attention to them at all. Their plane was a small jet with four comfortable leather seats, owned by a Cypriot charter company. The pilots spoke Greek. They changed course as soon as they were past Athens-controlled airspace.

After nearly two hours, they landed in Benghazi. The Learjet flew back to Cyprus. It would pick them up again in two days, the pilot promised. Mahmoud met them at the airfield, which lay amid harvested fields at the foot of barren hills east of the city, which looked even more dreary from this side, and which was little more than an accumulation of simple mud huts here. At least there was electricity, although the wiring looked adventurous.

At the military academy, they met the chief of military intelligence, to whom they had also given the papers last time, but this time he was in uniform. He kindly explained to them that they would get the money on the day of their departure. Before that, they would not be able to keep it safe, he explained. At lunchtime, they were to meet Colonel Gaddafi at the academy. Mahmoud would bring them back in time.

Tom had an entirely different topic burning on his mind:

"Tell me, who shot our prisoner after we released him?"

"Why shot?" wondered Mahmoud. "My information is that he'll be arriving in Tripolis in a few days by ship."

"He was found dead west of Athens," Tom explained. "His picture was in the newspaper. No doubt about it."

"Excuse me for a moment, please."

Mahmoud left the room. Under the pretext of wanting to get some fresh air, Tom and his friends also went outside to discuss, without witnesses, whether the man was a gifted actor or really clueless. After all, the picture of the murdered man had appeared in the newspaper. Martin thought they would figure it out, namely when Mahmoud asked them for details.

That's exactly what he did. He summarized their answers to his numerous questions:

"So there is only one person besides your driver who knew where he was, and that is the person he called on the phone."

Martin went a step further:

"His superior in Libyan intelligence, Al-Masri, is dead. So there must be someone else in Athens who stood between that person and our burglar, so to speak. And this someone was obviously afraid that he might suffer the same fate as Al-Masri, and he had a witness who could betray him - our man."

Everyone fell silent as the intelligence man looked at Martin for a long time. Then he smiled:

"Now, if you'll just tell me the name of the man in question, you can start with my organisation right away."

"Thanks for the offer," Martin replied sarcastically, "but first, I feel more comfortable in my group, and second, even if I knew the name, which I don't, I wouldn't say it. I don't want to be responsible for the next dead person."

"That's what I thought," said the intelligence officer. "Besides, I guess we're both thinking of the same person."

Martin didn't comment further. It was clear not only to him, but also to Tom and Nikos, who everyone in the room was thinking of – the Libyan shopkeeper in Athens, even if they would never have believed him to have committed murder. Martin fervently hoped that the Libyan trader would be far away by now. Even better, of course, would be in police custody.