Several skinny, mangy dogs slept in the shade created by a broken-down transport truck. “Soviet make,” Mancini reported. “A KrAZ, I believe they called it. Remember, boss, Afghanistan in 2000?”
“Didn’t we drive one of these through the Panjshir Valley?”
“Correct.”
It had been a CIA-led mission to assassinate Bin Laden that was aborted by President Clinton. They were stationed in the Panjshir, working with the Afghan Northern Alliance, particularly its leader, the charismatic Ahmad Shah Massoud. He and his small force of Tajik tribesmen had held off the Soviets for ten years. Back in late 2000 they were resisting the Taliban and al-Qaeda and seeking American help, but Washington was more interested in the come stains on Monica Lewinsky’s dress.
Massoud was assassinated by al-Qaeda on September 9, 2001—two days before the World Trade Center attack. The memory still produced a pain at the pit of Crocker’s stomach. Sometimes political leaders and policymakers in Washington didn’t understand, because they were too far removed from the realities on the ground.
The van bounced up and down as Jabril directed the driver down a road mostly obscured with sand. It wound around a several-hundred-foot-high mountain of dirt and loose rock to a second fence and a gate posted with warning signs in Arabic.
After Ritchie cut through the lock with a battery-operated saw, they entered and drove past a fifty-foot mound of dirt and boulders to an opening between two even higher mounds of barren sand and rock.
This was another unlikely place to find anything, especially the modern refinery-type plant that occupied the three-hundred-by-hundred-yard space. White metal, glass, and aluminum all sparkled in the sun like a mirage.
“Where’d this come from?” Ritchie mumbled as they stepped out of the parked vehicle. “Mars?”
They walked under the cloudless pale blue sky as Jabril pointed out the plant’s features—the long production shed that had once housed his office, the storage and distillation tanks, drying facilities, and cylinder filling station. Unlike the plant at Toummo, this one hadn’t been inspected in recent years.
“This is where we manufactured mustard gas and sarin in the nineties,” the Libyan scientist said.
“How much?” Crocker asked.
“Roughly two hundred tons until I defected in 2003.”
“Two hundred tons? That’s a hell of a lot.”
Jabril explained that the plant had been built in the nineties with the help of a German company and Japanese engineers.
“Where are the chemical weapons now?” Crocker asked.
Jabril said, “You’re about to find out.” He stopped to adjust his sunglasses and mop the sweat off his brow. Then he continued toward the opposite two-hundred-foot mountain of dirt and rock. The sun was impossibly hot.
Following twenty feet behind with Lasher and Akil, Crocker didn’t notice the indentation in the mountain until Jabril disappeared.
“Where’d you go?” he called.
“I’m over here,” the doctor shouted, his voice echoing through the mounds of sand.
When they joined him, he pointed to a pile of boulders positioned against the side of the mountain. “There’s an entrance somewhere behind there,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Unless the whole chamber was destroyed.”
It took almost an hour for Crocker, Davis, Akil, Ritchie, and Mancini to clear away the rocks. Behind them stood a metal door tall and wide enough to accommodate a truck and painted to blend in with the terrain.
“Clever, yes?” Jabril asked.
“Very clever,” Crocker answered. The hard work had made him sweat through his clothes.
“This must have cost a shitload to build,” Akil said.
“Hundreds of millions,” Lasher offered.
“What for?”
“To produce chemical weapons.”
“I know that already,” Akil answered. “My question is, What did Gaddafi want them for?”
“Back in the nineties, he had a vision of creating a united Africa. He called it the African union and saw himself as its godfather. Planned to lead a united continent that would rival the United States or the Soviet union in military and economic strength.”
“The man had ambition.”
“So did Hitler,” Mancini added.
The door had an internal lock that Mancini managed to pick—which was convenient, because the next option would have been to use explosives, and they didn’t know what was housed inside.
It took three men to push the door open. The awful screeching sound reverberated up Crocker’s spine. Hundreds of little black birds took flight and circled overhead.
Crocker, Lasher, Jabril, and Mancini were selected to wear the hazmat suits.