‘Free of charge for you, my friend,’ said Mahsoud. He dug into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out two twenty dollar notes. ‘Also,’ he said, holding it out. ‘For your families.’

The second guard took the money and a couple of the T-shirts, smiled, and slapped the roof of the car.

‘You’re good to go,’ he said.

Mahsoud shut the boot, climbed back into the Mercedes, and drove on into Libya.

Chapter 68.

68.

ZEFF MAHSOUD’S local fixer, a fat young man called Tariq, had been waiting for him at a pre-arranged spot a few kilometres the other side of the border.

Mahsoud knew northern Africa well, having spent much of the last five years there – ostensibly on humanitarian aid work, in reality building his network of contacts among the jihadis who’d flocked to the region after the fall of Gaddafi – but it was a dangerous place to go wandering around alone, even for someone like him.

Tariq was monosyllabic, and he smelled strongly of sweat and onions, but the thousand US dollars it was costing Mahsoud to have him alongside for the journey to Sirte was money well spent: his father was a prominent local tribal leader, who also led a sizeable militia, and not much moved in this area without his knowledge.

Even the crazies would think twice about stirring up that hornet’s nest.

As it was, the only dramas they encountered were at a couple of police or military checkpoints – on each occasion, Tariq had a few words, and they were waved through.

Mahsoud was almost grateful for the break in the monotony. The route to Sirte was six hundred kilometres of flat, empty, beige desert, pockmarked by low, green scrub, and interrupted only by the occasional scruffy town, and he had long since ceased to find it interesting.

They broke their mind-numbing journey at Misrata, stopping to eat and rest for a while at a large villa where Tariq was welcomed like a returning king.

The patriarch of the family, a man in his seventies, brought them through into a living room, where a large bowl of rice and goat meat was brought in and placed before them on a circular red carpet.

As Mahsoud sat and ate, he became aware that the man was regarding him with an undisguised suspicion.

The expression vanished as Tariq looked over.

‘You can take that look off your face, you old fool,’ he said, sharply. ‘This is an honoured guest of mine, and my father’s, and that’s all you need to know.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ said the old man, looking away. ‘Please, enjoy the food and ignore me. I get confused. It’s my age.’

Tariq chuntered a little, but let it go.

Back in the Mercedes a couple of hours later, though, he turned to Mahsoud.

‘So what are you here for, my friend?’ he said, casually.

Mahsoud said nothing for some time, his mind turning.