The Exchange: After The Firm

There were no direct flights from New York to Tripoli. The marathon began in New York with an eight-hour trip through the night on Air Italia to Milan, then a two-hour layover before boarding an Egyptair flight to Cairo that was delayed for two hours, no excuses given. Cancellations and rebookings followed at a languid pace, and Mitch spent thirteen hours catnapping and reading in the Cairo airport while someone somewhere sorted out the mess. Or did they? The only bright spot was the fact that his time was not completely wasted. Lannak would eventually get billed for his hours.

When he left New York, at least half of the passengers seemed to be “Westerners,” or, in other words, people who could generally be described as looking, dressing, speaking, and acting sort of like him. Most of those got off in Italy, and by the time Mitch boarded an Air Tunisia flight for the final leg, the plane was packed with people who were definitely not “Westerners.”

He was not bothered by the fact that he was now in a distinct minority. Libya promoted its tourism and attracted half a million visitors a year. Tripoli was a bustling city of two million with business districts filled with domestic banks and corporations. Dozens of foreign companies were registered in the country, and in some sections of Tripoli and Benghazi there were vibrant international communities with British and French schools for the children of visiting executives and diplomats.

As he often did while traveling on the far side of the world, Mitch smiled at the thought that he was undoubtedly the only boy from Kentucky on the flight. And though he would never mention this, he was proud of his accomplishments and wanted more. He was as hungry as ever.

Almost thirty hours after leaving New York, he stepped off the plane at Mitiga International Airport in Tripoli, and shuffled along with the crowd in the general direction of Passport Control. Signs were primarily in Arabic, but there were enough in English and French to keep the traffic moving. Under the iron hand of Colonel Gaddafi, Libya had been a military state for thirty-five years, and like most countries ruled by intimidation, it was important to impress upon new arrivals the presence of heavily armed soldiers. They roamed the concourses of the modern airport in their smart uniforms, guarded the checkpoints, and with unpleasant scowls inspected every Westerner who walked by.

Mitch hid behind his sunglasses and tried to ignore them. Never make eye contact if possible. The same routine he’d learned long ago in the New York subway.

The lines at Passport Control were long and slow. The vast room was hot and unventilated. When a guard nodded at an empty booth, Mitch walked forward and presented his passport and visa. The customs officer never smiled; indeed, upon seeing that Mitch was an American, he managed to frown even harder. A minute passed, then another. Customs could be nerve-wracking enough for any citizen returning to his own country. Maybe there’s a glitch in the passport. In a place like Libya, there was always the flash of horror that an American could be suddenly on the floor, handcuffed, then hauled away and detained for life. Mitch loved the thrill of the unknown.

The officer kept shaking his head as he picked up the phone. Mitch, without the sunglasses, glanced back at the hundreds of weary travelers behind him.

“Over there,” the officer said rudely, jerking his head to the right. Mitch looked and saw a gentleman in a nice suit approaching them. He stuck out a hand, smiled, and said, “Mr. McDeere, I’m Samir Jamblad. I work with Lannak and also with Luca, an old friend.”

Mitch felt like kissing him, which, in the sudden embracing and grappling that followed, seemed likely. Once properly hugged, Samir asked, “How was your flight?”

“Wonderful. I think I’ve been to at least thirteen countries since leaving New York.”

They were walking away from the booths and crowds and security guards. “This way,” Samir said, nodding to officers as they went. Luca had told Mitch not to worry about entry. He would take care of things.

Samir used the restricted doors, away from the crowds, and within minutes they were outside. His Mercedes sedan was parked near the crowded terminal and in a lane reserved for the police. Two officers leaned on a marked car, smoking, loitering, and appearing to guard nothing but Samir’s fine sedan. He thanked them and tossed Mitch’s bag in the rear seat.

“First time in Tripoli?” he asked as they left the airport.

“Yes, it is. How long have you known Luca?”

Samir smiled easily and said, “Oh, many years. I’ve worked for Scully and Pershing and other law firms. Companies like your Exxon and Texaco. British Petroleum, Dutch Shell. Plus some of the Turkish companies, Lannak being one.”

“You’re a lawyer?”