Exit Strategy

By Adam Ocean

Exit Strategy is a fast-paced financial thriller about money laundering from Libya unofficial oil production.

The novel takes place in London, Libya, Dubai, and around the globe. The main character, a dual national Arab/English, sees his life torn apart by treason of people he cares about, international crisis, loss of control on events, and compromises that transform him into a pawn in the hands of Qaddafi regime and the financial branch of MI6.

By losing control, he evolves into an authentic man, sensitive and ready to fight back.

The book also goes into a rescuing of people stuck in Kaddafis regime as he is being ousted and how the hero gets his workers (in oil rigs) out of the country. There is also a love story, where the main character is tricked, but eventually, his love affair revolves around catching the bad guys.

It is sexy, informative about money laundering, the Arab Spring, and follows a lead character that grow into a successful spy in the financial shadows of the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Feb 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514447192

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by Adam Ocean.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 02/01/2016

Xlibris

800-056-3182

www.Xlibrispublishing.co.uk

728991

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

CHAPTER 1

One Hermes tie, one white Van Laack shirt, one grey Corneliani suit, one Yves Saint Laurent blue suit, three pairs of Marcoliani socks, one pair of marble grey and black Berluti shoes, two tailor-made shirts (both blue), one pair of sports socks, one pair of ASICS running shoes with the shorts and matching sports T-shirt, a Nannini sweat, and iPhone, iPad, and Sony computer chargers, all found their spots in the Tumi luggage. The shoes, chargers, and toiletries bag sat at the bottom of the luggage close to the wheels.

Othman went into the bathroom, the tiles cold under his bare feet, and glanced at the mirror. The gold tinted lights graced him with a tanned skin. The mist of his hot shower was now vanishing; only a few clouds remained in the far top left corner of the mirror. His eyes travelled down over his torso and abs reflection in the mirror, and he instinctively swelled his chest out with a controlled breath, his abs slowly gaining definition. He could see his top four abs and the birth of two further down. No carbs for another month, he thought.

His Mulberry leather toiletries bag sat in front of him, its mouth open, as he picked up and dropped down his grooming accessories like a chief cook at his workstation. Once done, he went into the bedroom, grabbed his BlackBerry on the dark, glossed side table, and clicked on the email titled ‘Travel List’, which he always sent himself to avoid forgetting or wasting too much time. Othman now had all his gear ready for the next leg of his trip, the flight to Tripoli scheduled for 8 a.m. the next day from Gatwick North Terminal.

He looked at his watch. It was 5.45 p.m. He began mental calculations: five minutes to change, ten minutes to get to the sports club, one hour exercise, ten minutes back, and fifteen minutes for another shower and dressing.

He had plenty of time to go to the gym before his 8.30 dinner with three friends and their wives. The TV was on in the living room, and he could hear the host on MSNBC droning on about the worst financial crisis ever: ‘Forget 1929, forget the Second World War. Don’t mention to me Hiroshima. This is the tsunami of all tsunamis, the 200 Richter scale earthquake! People will eat dust for the rest of their lives. Your stock will kiss the floor. Mate with it, marry it, until death tear you apart. There is nowhere to hide. Don’t pray to Jesus, Moses, or Prophet Muhammad because I have one word, one word only: Gold. Gold. Gold.’

The financial crisis had been on every station day and night for months. This was January 2009, where the bankers had played, lied, cheated, and finally failed, and even so, they kept affirming, forecasting, and proclaiming.

Othman expected tonight’s dinner to be déjà-vu. His roster of friends coming this evening were bankers, and he was going to have to listen to them explain all night that it was the politicians who had orchestrated this debacle. It was going to frustrate him. He couldn’t help noticing that since Lehman Brothers had gone bankrupt, all the city bankers had gone through the two first phases of mourning, denial, and anger, and at anger they had remained.

The problem with very intelligent people is that when they don’t understand a situation, they are convinced it is because the situation is wrong. He’d heard it all: ‘The client is too stupid,’ ‘I told them but they did not listen,’ ‘We are too early for the market,’ ‘It’s too complicated for the politicians.’ After a year stuck in the anger phase, he knew they still had bargaining and depression and, for some, acceptance to go through.

Othman felt some empathy for his friends’ fall from the highest rungs of London social life. For years bankers were praised, loved, copied, worshipped in a city where money, success, and foreigners were always welcomed, better when the three were combined.

But he could not really tell them what he truly felt about the ongoing mounting popular hatred against the city boys. Could he tell them that they were disconnected from the real world? Could he tell them that their bonuses were unforgivable, that their cars were too expensive, that their girlfriends were too pretty, that their friends laughed too loud at their own jokes, that their complaints were indecent, and that they had been too lucky, too successful, too ostentatious? –And all of that would do nothing but leave them with no one to share their grief with, understand their feelings, or to comfort them.

For ten years their success in the city had been unprecedented. They had it all, eating in the best restaurants, invited by their brokers to the best concerts in town, the best sports events – Wimbledon, and champions league finals – the Olympics. The brokers even organised weekends in Ibiza for them at the trendiest nightclubs. It was a bizarre scene to see twenty white-shirted math majors with reading glasses, ill at ease with their body movements, seated at the best tables in a fashionable Spanish nightclub, drunk enough to find the courage to ask ‘How much?’ to the Russian prostitutes who had been told to ambush their table by the nightclub manager.

His friends at the table tonight were different. They had not fallen into those traps of success. They lived normal lives and enjoyed relatively simple pleasures, the fifty thousand euro watch and yacht rental aside. But even they had been surprised and gobsmacked by the reaction of the street. They did not see any connection between the street’s anger and their computer screens. The politicians had sacrificed them as scapegoats and fingered them on TV. Othman decided once again not to mention they’d had it easy for years, and one day they eventually would have to pay the bill, not with cash but pride. No, he will be empathetic with them, smile and pat their shoulders, moan with them at this unjust world that had turned against them. He would do so because this is who they expected to see tonight. Then if the wine had some effect, he would make them laugh.

He changed into jogging clothes and jumped into a cab. ‘The Harbour Club, please.’ This was one of the many things he loved about living in Chelsea – he never had to wait too long for a cab. The drive took ten minutes, so he dialled his phone to talk to his sports coach Jack. ‘Hi Jack. It’s Othman. I will be at the club in ten minutes. If you are around, I’d like to have an hour session.’

‘OK, see you there.’

The club’s parking lot was full, and the cab could only drop him at the entrance. He walked by the luxurious cars, lined up one by one like feeding fish. The receptionist recognised him immediately and opened the electronic door without a smile or salute. As he walked down the stairs to the gym, he saw a red-haired sexy woman he did not recognise, dressed in the spa therapeutics white uniform. Their eyes met – hers were green, smiling, daring. She left the smell of massage oil behind her. ‘Hi Jack. Sorry, I am five minutes late. Traffic, you know.’

Jack had been his coach for the last two years. He was Scottish and had been in the army in a previous career. His training was known to be thorough, but all his clients were satisfied because they managed to achieve their goals with him. Othman himself, since he started training with Jack, had reduced his body fat from 14 per cent to 9 per cent, and his general fitness at thirty-four had never been so good. ‘No problem. I’ll give you twenty more chin-ups to pay me back,’ he laughed. Othman laughed too, not wanting to leave him alone with a bad joke.

They started their routine, and after twenty minutes non-stop of hard training, Jack gave Othman three minutes’ rest before a ten-round boxing spar. ‘Tell me, Jack, do you have a new therapist at the spa?’ Othman asked.

‘Haaa! You’ve seen the red-haired one, dirty you?’ he whispered with a smile of complicity. ‘Aye a bonnie no?’

Othman now understood Scottish slang and agreed she was stunning. ‘Yes, she looks gorgeous.’

‘You can’t believe, man, she started a month ago, but she is not friendly. We all tried here – zero success.’ He approached Othman’s ear and whispered in confidence, ‘I think she is depressed. Man, come on, how a girl with a body that great be depressed? She needs to get naked and look at the mirror, right?’

Othman was now stuck with the mental image of her naked but managed a ‘Right’. They pushed for another forty minutes and then he went downstairs to the cardio room.

He chose his treadmill to avoid two pitfalls that could assail him during a good run. The first one is a competitor. If an alpha male came too close, he would react and run faster, broadening his shoulders and trying to look more athletic, his rhythm annihilated. The second one was more embarrassing. If a beautiful woman came and ran by his side – or worse, in front of him – his eyes would be drawn to her body, checking every curve. He would become a self-conscious voyeur, avoid sweating, change his style to more relaxed, elegant, but his eyes would betray him. All the other runners, bikers, cross-trainers, step climbers, and other sweat producers would notice his stare and judge him. He needed to avoid at all costs the wrong spot. Ah… a treadmill was free at the far corner, close to a mirror from which he could stare without being noticed. The room was filled with MILF – not his type, so no concerns yet.

He put his earplugs in, switched to a 50 cents album ‘Get rich or die tryin’,’ set the speed to ten kph, and started to run. The first few minutes he checked his breathing and the right balance of his hips to not hurt himself. This is why he did not like to run outdoors; outdoors he needed to be aware of the traffic lights, dog shit, suicidal bikers, children playing ball. Here in the gym he was alone on the rail. One kilometre appeared on the console, he felt the mechanical movement of his legs without directing them. Now the real run could start. He increased the speed to twelve kph and the volume of his iPod to maximum and let the music lead him on a daydream.

He recapitulated all the dream possibilities he had created after years of practice. He could be a boxer fighting for the world championship against all odds and win by a knockout at the last round to an amazed crowd. Or better, a war hero who saved a village and returned to civilisation, adored and wooed by the media and all sexy girls. He chose at the end his usual, a businessman who gets awards, is single and irresistible to women. He let his mind build his imaginative projection through interviews with Rose on Bloomberg, speeches in crowded hangars, private jets with the perfect light on his inspired stare, a one-to-one with Obama. That was good! He increased the speed of the run, his blood filled with an adrenaline rush, as his scenario got more intricate, unfair government decisions, banished from the community to come back as a wise hero unaware of his power of attraction, thanked by all the world leaders in a finale worthy of a George Lucas ceremony. That’s it… 12 kilometre, great run, great dream. Now let’s face the rest of the world, at home.

His wife, Soraya, was on the phone, already dressed in a red short dress and high heels. She was in her early thirties and had not changed a bit since they began their relationship seven years ago. She had small blue eyes, was five foot seven, with generous breasts and an inviting smile. At the start of their relationship, her teasing demeanour made him jealous, but time had changed him – he just did not look at her that much anymore.

It took him fifteen minutes to take his shower and get dressed. They left the flat, jumped in a cab, and halfway to the restaurant his wife ended her telephone conversation. ‘You’re wearing jeans?’ she asked, gesturing with her Swarovski-covered iPhone at his pants.

‘Yep, why?’

‘I don’t know. Your choice,’ she said, plunging her eyes to a frenetic tapping on her iPhone. It had been now two years since their relationship had deteriorated for no reason in particular – no events, no scandals, no incidents, no disagreement, and probably just no passion. They were living apart. They exercised at the same sports club but not at the same time. They would both go to see movies but agreed that they did not share the same taste. They would go to dinner with common friends but sit at opposite sides of the table – he with the men, she with the women. They would go to the office but in different towers. They lived parallel lives. They did not discuss but jabbed, which did not hurt them but kept them at bay. He guessed that his wife wanted more, but she did not want to make the first step towards mending the gap, afraid of being seen as weak and unappealing to him. He had made himself content with the status quo.

Othman turned his eyes to the street and wondered about the red-haired woman back at the gym. He had not been in love with another woman since he’d met his wife but could not help feeling the physical desire, when not appeased, evolving into a craving. His friends had advised him to hire a hooker on one of his trips, but he had not been able to take that step, yet.

They arrived at the restaurant, and his wife perfunctorily took his hand just before pushing the entrance door. He looked at her small fingers, tiny and sweaty. She clenched her teeth to hide her awkwardness.

Their friends were already seated, the men on one side and the women on the other. ‘Another Taliban night!’ Othman shouted. They all cheered his entrance. ‘Hey guys, let’s throw some stones at the evilly dressed impure females,’ he added.

The men shouted, ‘Stones, stones…’

The most daring of their friends stood, her hands on her hips, one hip twisted up to one side, and said in a defiant, provocative tone, ‘Stones, sex toys, bring it all on. I am all for it, baby.’

The girls echoed, ‘Stones, stones…’

Othman sat down and kissed the air towards the ‘female side’ to say hi. They waved back.

The night passed as he expected. Wine flowed, and the discussion went from the financial crisis, dumb politicians, F1 prognostication, a disappointing Arsenal Football Club, to end with a complete recitation of everybody’s future holiday plans – Maldives, Costa Rica, St. Barths, and Miami.

He played his role: made them laugh, faked disgust and amazement at every detail in the latest news of their financial idol’s fall.

As he and Soraya got into the cab that would drive them back to their house, he felt more relaxed and noticed Soraya had had a couple of drinks. She seemed playful. ‘So did you have a good time?’ he asked.

‘Yes, the food was delicious.’

‘Really? I didn’t find it very different than usual.’

‘Ah! Ah, of course! Othman, you always order the same thing in every restaurant.’ Imitating the voice of a man, she added, ‘I will have the rib-eye medium-rare,’ leaning her shoulder towards his.

‘No, sometimes I order tuna,’ he smiled.

‘Yes, at Japanese restaurants. It’s your backup plan.’ She winked at him.

She’d had maybe a bit more than three glasses, he thought. ‘So what did you girls talk about? I am sure it was more exciting than our discussion on financial chaos.’

‘Oh yes, it was. Ily told us about her last trip to Tokyo. It sounded amazing, but those Japanese are a bit strange.’

‘Really? Why?’

‘She told me that they sell used panties to some old men, who keep them in their office drawers.’

‘For what?’

‘They like to smell them from time to time,’ she said, with her mouth frozen as if a big O was stuck there.

‘Did she try to sell some of hers?’ he asked.

She gently hit him on the shoulder. ‘You naughty. I would love to return to Tokyo. You remember the cherry blossoms in April? It was beautiful.’

‘Yes, I remember. It was a long time ago.’

‘Too long…’ She turned to face Othman ready to say something, then she smiled and sat back, looking sadly at the street. Othman knew what she wanted to say. She wanted to go back to that time at the beginning of their relationship, when they travelled, just the two of them, without any friends; when they went to the cinema together, planned their life together, talked for hours, but that time had stopped somewhere between the cherry blossoms and now. And tonight like most nights, they’d take their showers in separate bathrooms and sleep in uncoupled dreams.

Early the next morning he arrived at his second home, the airport. As soon as he walked into the business lounge, he was another man. He felt strong and important. He was recognised by the reception staff, his CEO stare creating a veil of self-importance.

The receptionist smiled and said, ‘Hello, sir, travelling again?’

‘Yes indeed. Libya.’

‘I hope they gave you your favourite seat 2C, is it correct?’

‘Yes, you have a good memory.’

‘Only for good passengers, sir.’

He immediately inserted his earplugs; he did not like noise and avoided the surrounding hubbub as much as possible. Between his work, his iPad, and his books, he had more than enough to keep him entertained without interacting with anyone.

He looked through this trip’s agenda. He knew he had some meetings with employees who were unhappy, a manager appraisal and a meeting with a client for an extension of a contract.

It was time now to board, his favourite seat being one without a neighbour. The business class was three quarters empty. The hostess came to him offering beverages. He looked up at her intensely. He immediately took in she was over-made-up, her uniform one size too small, her breasts stretching her stained white shirt to bursting. He refused the beverages with a prolonged smile that she echoed with an intentional extra second of her own. It was she he would think about when he went to the loo.

He closed the door, unzipped his trousers and grabbed his sex, and frenetically masturbated, using his left hand to grip a hand bar to stand. He placed the hostess at the centre of a porn scenario of prostitution and domination, but suddenly he wondered if a camera might have been placed in the toilet. Since 9/11 the security probably placed cameras everywhere, and he slowed down his movement and looked around to check if he could spot an obvious hiding place. Then he thought, Let them look at me, and he climbed on his tiptoe and showed the mirror his sex proudly. The looping effect of the mirror made it bigger, more defiant than ever. Look at this, he thought, with a provocative smirk on his face like De Niro in Taxi Driver. He went back to his masturbation with even more energy, and at last he came, holding a piece of toilet paper with his other hand as a receptacle for his sperm. He let go with a sigh of contentment.

He reopened his eyes and looked at the mirror – the light was dull, his face was distorted with stressed pleasure, his eyes sadistic, sad and guilty. He hated himself for having done this again.

It was happening more and more, in the shower thinking of a woman he saw in the metro, late at night watching a free porn promotion TV channel, in the toilet of his office, even the Starbuck’s once. He washed his hands three times and went back to his seat, his eyes glued to the floor all the way.

He took out his reading glasses and the Financial Times and placed a few excel sheets on his table, regaining a bit of composure after the shaken masturbation session. But he kept staring at the stewardess with her dominatrix flare, replaying his porn scenario over and over. He tried to notice all the details of this woman – her earrings, the colour of her shirt, the side zip on her trousers, and the relief on her butt of her underwear. He knew tonight, alone in his hotel room, he would undress her step by step and make love to her. That’s why he needed to remember all the details to create the perfect scenario. Tonight I’ll fuck you, he said to himself while smiling at her.

As soon as he left the airport, his usual driver, Amar, was waiting with a large folder with ‘HSC,’ the name of his company, printed on the leather cover. Amar was short and muscular, every movement expressing physical power. He had spent his childhood on a farm helping his family. His body and face were marked by the hardship of his teen years. He was in his late forties now and did not have one grey hair.

Othman took the folder with all the supporting documents for the meetings to come – financial reports, marketing research, engineering estimations, as well as some new recruit evaluations. He also saw the separate post-it messages left for him. Amongst the usual offer of services from local companies to partner or work with his company, one of those messages intrigued him. There was a simple note: Mr Nasser, a mobile number, and a message ‘343’. He mentally went through the three or four Nassers he knew, and none seemed to match the number. He jumped into the front seat of the car.

The car left the airport parking lot, which was usually the calm part of his business trip. The drive from the airport to his office took less than forty minutes, and he used this time to gain a feel of the general situation in the country. He noticed the government had only recently improved the roads with exits every few kilometres and built larger highways. This was partly intended to reduce the death toll on the roads. Tripoli’s streets were amongst the most deadly in the world for car accidents.

There were farms right and left of the highway, small houses planted in the middle of fruit shrub rows, crossing a land of sand and dust. He knew somewhere in the East was the famous tent where Qaddafi lived on a farm with his camel and female bodyguards. They passed a green billboard with a small quote from The Green Book, Qaddafi’s political bible that he wrote in his first years of power.

Othman was not able to read it, but saw Amar smile at it. He asked him what it meant. ‘It means freedom of expression is the right of every natural person, even if a person chooses to behave irrationally, to express his or her insanity.’ Amar waited a few seconds and added with a conniving smile, ‘This one must be from his biography.’

Suddenly a black Mercedes, one of the government cars, recognisable by its red plate, drove past them very closely at twice their speed. Othman turned to Amar. ‘They are in a hurry.’ Othman was very cautious when it involved commenting on government officials, even if Amar was more open-minded than other Libyans.

‘They are kids!’ Amar was referring to the many ‘kids,’ teenage sons or nephews of powerful military and secret police officials, who took advantage of their family names to do whatever they wanted. ‘They learned to drive on PlayStation,’ Amar added with a sad smile.

Othman knew Amar’s story. His daughter had been courted a bit too aggressively by one of the ‘kids’. He did not know what to do to help. ‘How is your daughter?’

‘Oh, she is at home, moaning and moaning all day. Sometimes she is so tiring to listen to, I should let her go out.’

‘And you don’t?’

‘No, it is too dangerous. If he sees her in the street, even covered head to toe, he will try everything, and if she says no, he will…’ he lost his voice, his face tense.

‘You are afraid he could force her?’

‘Of course, he will, and not just him, all his friends too. You think those scumbags would hesitate? They know they can do whatever they want to my daughter, and we will have only our eyes to cry.’

‘But he could be in love?’

Amar turned to face Othman, and his face was a touch, defeated. ‘They know nothing of love. They learn romance watching dirty movies. They see my little daughter as one of those Arabic singers on TV, like an object to get, to use, to hurt.’ His voice was full of hatred and shame – the shame of a powerless father in the wrong country with the right daughter.

‘When will she go to university?’

‘Next year, but I want to send her to our family in the desert instead. It is more safe.’

‘What about a university in a foreign country?’

‘Which foreign country? A Muslim country?’

‘Yes. What about Malaysia? It is a nice country.’

‘Nice, yes, and expensive.’

‘You know we have a grant programme in the company. You should enlist her. I’ll make sure she gets it.’

Amar gripped the steering wheel with both hands with all his strength. It was always difficult to help a Libyan without hurting his ego. But for his daughter, a father anywhere in the world always sees past his pride. ‘Thank you, sir. She needs to leave this place.’ He turned to Othman and added, ‘She is too beautiful!’

‘I know, Amar. I know.’

As soon as he arrived at his office, he walked down the corridor leading to Alan’s office. All the employees always seemed to manage to find a way to be in his path when he visited. Today there were four by the copy machine on his right, three standing in the corridor, each with an A4 page in their hands. This was one of their opportunities to put on a show, to be noticed. They were all eager for improvement in their careers.

This eagerness was new in Libya. Ten years ago, the Libyans had a law that capped their salaries in a futile effort to comply to the idealism of the socialist mirage. Qaddafi wanted all Libyans to have the same salary, thus the watchman and the CEO’s salary of an oil production company were very close, which created more reasons for corruption and incompetence. They had since relaxed this law, and the salaries were increasing faster