The Exchange: After The Firm

“Oh no. An American client once referred to me as a ‘security consultant.’ Sort of a facilitator, a corporate handyman, the go-to guy in Libya. I was born and raised here, all my life in Tripoli. I know the people, there’s only six million of us.” He laughed at his own effort at humor and Mitch felt compelled to join in.

Samir continued, “I know the leaders, the military, the politicians, and the government workers who get things done. I know the chief of customs back there at the airport. One word from me and they leave you alone. Another word from me, and you might spend a few days in jail. I know the restaurants, bars, good neighborhoods and bad ones. I know the opium dens and the brothels, good and bad.”

“I’m not in the market.”

Samir laughed again and said, “Yes, that’s what they all say.”

From the first impression — the handsome suit, polished black leather shoes, shiny sedan — it was apparent that Samir did indeed know his stuff and was paid well for it.

Mitch glanced at his watch and asked, “What time is it here?”

“Almost eleven. I suggest you check in, get settled, and let’s meet for lunch around one in the hotel. Giovanna’s already here. You’ve met her?”

“Yes, in New York, a few years back.”

“She’s lovely, yes?”

“Yes, as I recall. And after lunch?”

“All plans are tentative and subject to your approval. In Luca’s absence, you are in charge. We have a meeting with the Turks at four P.M. at the hotel. You’ll meet your security team and discuss the visit to the bridge.”

“An obvious question. Lannak is suing the Libyan government for almost half a billion dollars, a claim that certainly looks legitimate. How much friction is there between the company and government?”

Samir took a deep breath, cracked a window, and lit a cigarette. The traffic had stopped and they were sitting bumper-to-bumper. “I would say not much. The Turkish construction companies have been in Libya for a long time, and they are very good. Much better than the Libyans. The military needs the Turks, the Turks like the money. Sure they fight and squabble all the time, but in the end business prevails and life goes on.”

“Okay, second obvious question. Why do we need a security detail?”

Samir laughed again and said, “Because this is Libya. A terrorist state, haven’t you heard? Your own government says so.”

“But that’s international terrorism. What about here, within the country? Why are we taking Turkish bodyguards to visit a Turkish construction site?”

“Because the government doesn’t control everything, Mitch. Libya has a lot of territory but ninety percent of it is Sahara, the desert. It’s vast, wild, sometimes uncontrolled. Tribes fight each other. Outlaws are hard to catch. There are still warlords out there, always looking for trouble.”

“Would you feel safe going where we’re going tomorrow?”

“Of course. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, Mitch. You’re safe, or as safe as a foreigner can be.”

“That’s what Luca says.”

“Luca knows the country. Would he allow his daughter to be here if he was worried?”

The Corinthia Hotel was ground zero for Western businessmen, diplomats, and government functionaries, and the ornate lobby was hopping with corporate types in expensive suits. As Mitch waited to check in he heard English, French, Italian, German, and some tongues he couldn’t identify.

His corner room was on the fifth floor with a splendid view of the Mediterranean. To the northeast he looked down on the ancient walls of the Old City, but he didn’t gaze for long. After a hot shower he fell across his bed, slept hard for an hour, and woke up only with the aid of an alarm clock. He showered again to knock off the cobwebs, dressed for business but without a necktie, and went to find lunch.

Samir was waiting in the restaurant off the hotel lobby. Mitch found him at a dark corner table, and they had just been handed menus when Giovanna Sandroni arrived. They went through the rituals of hugging and pecking and when everyone was properly greeted they settled in and plunged into the small talk. She asked about Abby and the boys, and with some effort they agreed that their first meeting had been about six years earlier for dinner in New York. She’d spent a summer in New York as an intern in a rival firm. Luca was in town, and they met at, not surprisingly, an Italian restaurant in Tribeca where Abby knew the chef and there was talk of a cookbook.

Giovanna was full-blooded Roman, with the dark sad eyes and classic features, but she had spent half of her life abroad. Elite boarding schools in Switzerland and Scotland, an undergraduate degree from Trinity in Dublin, one law school diploma from Queen Mary in London, and another from the University of Virginia. She spoke English without a trace of an accent and Italian like a native, which, of course, she was. Luca said she was “picking up” Mandarin, her fifth language, which for Mitch was too frustrating to think about. He and Abby were still clinging to their Italian and often worried that it was slipping away.