the Libyans were being even more careful about whom they allowed to roam freely around their country.
For that, he didn’t blame them. With rumors that the CIA had been involved in fomenting much of the unrest, Duckey found himself surprised that they’d allowed him in the country at all. True, his file said he was retired, but the Libyans wouldn’t buy that.
Duckey suspected he would be picked up by another tail—maybe more—as soon as he stepped off the plane and hoped he’d be able to spot them as effortlessly as he’d picked up the one sitting not far behind him. Beyond that, he suspected there wasn’t much he could do about it—although he couldn’t help but wonder what his shadows would make of the investigation Duckey had come to their country to perform. That elicited a smile as Duckey thought of how Jack could vex even the Libyan intelligence establishment.
Thirty minutes later the wheels were on the ground and Duckey grabbed his bag from the overhead compartment and exited. Because the Buraq was a domestic flight, he wasn’t held up in customs. Within minutes of landing he stepped out into a comfortable day, the temperature around sixty degrees. As he hailed a cab, he scanned the area for either his original agent or the man’s replacement but saw no one who stood out, which didn’t necessarily mean anything.
The cab covered the ten kilometers from La Abraq to Al Bayda in good time, despite the heavy traffic, and as the ancient city rose up before him the thought of being followed drifted from his mind.
Duckey’s service had taken him to a great many parts of the world, but he’d spent the bulk of it in eastern Europe, which meant a sprawling north African city still made him feel as if he were a tourist. And in stepping onto the streets of a city like Al Bayda, a visitor often found himself unsure of his footing, unable to get a feel for the ebb and flow of the culture. On one corner he saw a collection of buildings as modern as any he might see in the States—a coffee shop, movie theater, high-end clothing stores. At the next corner he saw a line of rickety market stalls, with merchants offering fruit, linens, even live animals, all within a few blocks of a thriving business district.
They entered Al Bayda on Msah, the main road that bisected the city, the driver slowing as traffic funneled in from Aldayn and Kufra. Duckey’s destination was in the modern part of Al Bayda, the part that had been hit hard by the unrest the previous year. The police station had been burned to the ground; he remembered watching on television the protesters dancing and cheering as the fires consumed the symbol of an oppressive regime.
When the cab driver pulled off Msah onto a side street, Duckey looked at the buildings surrounding the car, taking in the enormity of the reconstruction that had brought one of the main administrative parts of the city back from the dead. The cab pulled to a stop in front of a new-looking building, the razed police station restored.
Duckey paid the man and stepped out with his bag, half considering asking the driver to wait but suspecting he would quickly be able to locate a ride in this part of the city. If not, the system of small buses that cut the city into sections would take him wherever he needed to go. He glanced at his watch and hoped he’d have time to do what he needed to given how late in the day it was.
Entering the police station, he stepped into an air-conditioned lobby that included a reception window and a security line. He proceeded to the window.
“Do you speak English?” he asked after he’d gotten the attention of the man behind the glass.
When the clerk raised his eyes, he gave Duckey a once-over, conveying annoyance for what Duckey could only presume was due to his being addressed in a language other than Arabic or Greek. Still, the man managed something like a smile. “Can I help you?”
“I need to speak to someone about a car you towed a week ago,” Duckey said.
The clerk said, “Second floor, room 212,” then gestured to the security checkpoint.
Duckey made it through the gauntlet unscathed and then, avoiding the elevator at the far end of the lobby, headed for the stairs.
The second floor was no busier than the first, leading Duckey to wonder if the