Fastia had arranged for an official-looking town car, black and polished. Conley took the wheel, with Morgan and Fastia in the backseat, and they arrived in the city in about an hour. Tripoli was abuzz with its annual International Fair, which attracted thousands of people. The heavy traffic was exacerbated by military checkpoints, and security forces patrolled along every major street. They would have been stuck for hours if they hadn’t been in a military car. Instead, they passed the barricades unchallenged as the checkpoint guards snapped to attention and saluted. Still, Morgan held his breath every time, and Conley tried to hide his face as much as possible.
“This, all this security, is for him. Colonel Gaddafi.” The name sounded like a swearword coming from Fastia’s mouth. “It will not save his life today.”
The traffic grew heavier and the barricades more frequent as they approached the square where Gaddafi was going to address the throng of businessmen and tourists who were in town for the fair. When they were within view of their destination, Fastia had Conley turn into a side street and park the car.
“This is it,” he told them. They were parked in front of a tan five-story office building. The glass front door, built into an arch, led to a modest lobby. There was a guard posted on the sidewalk, a mere ten feet from it. “The building has a clear view of the plaza, and it has been emptied out for the event. There will be another guard inside.”
Conley got out and opened the door for Morgan and Fastia. The guard approached them, motioning for them to leave, but when he caught sight of Fastia’s uniform, he snapped to attention and saluted them. Fastia spoke to him authoritatively in Arabic, and, with a final salute, the guard returned to his post. Conley took the duffel bag from the trunk. He sagged slightly from the weight.
Fastia led Morgan and Conley to the entrance and tapped on the glass door with his ring to get the attention of the guard inside. The guard looked up, surprised, and Fastia motioned for him to open the door. He walked over, fumbled with the keys at the lock, and then swung the door open to admit them.
Once inside, Fastia exchanged a few words with the guard, walking slowly farther into the building’s lobby until they were no longer visible from the street. Morgan, meanwhile, walked a little ahead of them, pretending to head toward the elevator door. Fastia pointed to something in a corner, and at his signal, Morgan pulled out a knife concealed in his boot and, in a flash, pulled the guard’s head back and slit his throat. The guard dropped to his knees and fell to the floor gurgling, blood pooling around his head in a macabre halo. Fastia walked to the door and, knocking against the glass again, motioned for the other guard to come in. This time, Morgan was waiting by the door, and he pounced just as the guard walked through, dispatching him in the same way. They dragged the bodies into the elevator with them. There would be no witnesses to their presence.
They got off on the third floor, and Morgan checked his watch: 11:09. According to Fastia’s intel, Gaddafi’s motorcade would arrive in twenty-one minutes. There were three windows on the floor that faced the stage where Gaddafi would make his appearance. Morgan chose the best vantage point, took the duffel from Conley, and dropped it next to the window. He took the leather shooter’s gloves from the bag and slipped them on. Then he removed the dismantled weapon and assembled it, slowly and deliberately.
The Dragunov semiautomatic sniper rifle, also known as an SVD, was ideal for the job. Named for the Soviet weapons designer who’d created it, the SVD was built for extreme accuracy and power, with an effective range of over 2,500 feet. The magazine held ten 7N1 special precision loads. The rifle was fitted with a muzzle flash suppressor and a custom silencer, so that no one could figure out where the shot had come from until they made a sweep of the buildings. When they did locate the source, all they would find would be two dead guards and an abandoned Soviet weapon, with nothing to tie the operation back to two American assassins.
Morgan attached the telescopic sight to the barrel of the rifle and secured it onto the tripod, then placed the gun at the window ledge. Conley took his position next to him, scanning the area through high-powered binoculars, while Morgan looked through the scope, sweeping the crowd for guards who might spot them. Conley checked the billowing flags for wind speed and direction.
“Looks like you have a steady wind, about five miles per, coming across your path on the right.”
Morgan acknowledged this and cracked open the window just enough so that he had an unobstructed view of the podium where Gaddafi would be standing. The noise of the crowd filtered into the room, a cacophony competing with a rousing military march that was being played by a brass band.