All the Treasures of Libya

By Yaw Asomaning

It is a huge sack of money with the color of blood. A skilled assassin wants it and will murder his way towards it. A terrorist wants it and will stop at nothing to have it. Libyan Intelligence wants it and torture will be employed in a brutal quest to find it. Armed robbers want it and will not rest until they have it. Out of this lot it is a hapless refugee who has the blood red sack of money. The guns of war roar amidst the birth of a violent revolution. Out of this chaos the hapless refugee attempts to escape from the war with the prized loot. Will he be able to escape from the war with his priceless treasure and perhaps the most precious thing of all, his life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503522763

Yaw Asomaning

The author, Yaw Ohene Asomaning is a member of the United States Navy and a graduate of the University of Science and Technology in Ghana where he majored in Publishing Studies. Yaw Ohene Asomaning is also the author of The Rock of Love, a short story.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Misrata, Libya, 20 December 2010

In the corner of a dimly lit Misratan room, Moses observed his Libyan master and benefactor, Mahmoud Iddrissou, watch television. Moses was quite surprised at the almost-solemn intensity with which Mahmoud watched the events unfolding on the screen. In the eleven years he had lived with him, he had observed that Mahmoud always watched television with a vicious glare on his face and with fists clenched. Yells of Kāfir! Shaitan! Kāfir! always came out of his mouth whenever television was on. It was always Muammar al-Qaddafi who occupied the screens of televisions across Libya, making long and rambling speeches. And Mahmoud hated Qaddafi for a reason and with a passion. Muammar Qaddafi always shook clenched fists when making speeches, and Mahmoud also shook his fists and yelled angrily anytime Qaddafi spoke. Sometimes to Moses, the spectacle of the angry and defiant men yelling and shaking their fists, Qaddafi from the screen and Mahmoud inside the room, looked as if they were about to ram into each other and fight it out to the death.

But today, Mahmoud was silent and attentive, nodding his head slowly as he watched the events unfold on the screen. He trembled with excitement, almost swaying back and forth like a windblown reed. When he turned to look at Moses, his eyes were animated, and his face displayed a happiness that Moses had not seen before. It seemed that the crushing weight of bitterness had suddenly been lifted off his shoulders. The world as we know it will never be the same. The downtrodden of the world have risen, Mahmoud said, pointing to the television.

Across the border in seemingly quiet Tunisia, a twenty-six-year-old fruit-and-vegetable seller, after years of harassment by police, had decided he could take it no longer and immolated himself in a fit of despair, sparking violent protests and even-more-violent efforts to quell it. Moses now knew the reason for Mahmoud’s excitement. Never the same again! Mahmoud shouted, thumping his chest.

Moses did not really agree, but he nodded anyway as if in perfect agreement with his master. To Moses, though Tunisia was just across the border from Libya, they were still far-off events to ever affect him in any way. How did news like this manage to seep out through state television in this tightly censored country? Mahmoud wondered. Are these signs of cracks and fissures in Qaddafi’s Jamāhīrīyah government?

As if Qaddafi could read his mind, within minutes he appeared on the television screen, denouncing the whole protest movement in Tunisia.

Shaitan! Kāfir! Mahmoud hurled the remote at the television, only missing it by inches. It struck the wall and broke into several pieces.

Moses, who had grown accustomed to his master’s tantrums, watched him silently, grateful that he was not the object of his master’s wrath at the moment.

Mahmoud had been raised to be a good Muslim. He had been taught from infancy to defend the weak and the oppressed, so it was natural for him to join the thousands of young Arabs streaming to Afghanistan to join the resistance against Soviet occupation. As a young man, he had avoided women, alcohol, and drugs. His only preoccupation was to do the will of Allah, his maker. One day, he was alone in his room, immersed in the Koran, when his brother, Ahmed, burst in, livid with rage. I am going to Afghanistan! he announced. I will not stay here in safety and security while our brothers in Afghanistan are bombed and killed every day by a horde of infidels!

Mahmoud slipped the Koran inside his robes and followed his brother outside. I am going with you, he said, a trace of emotion unmistakable in his voice.

Mahmoud felt ashamed of himself for waiting for his brother’s urgings before making up his mind to leave and join the resistance in Afghanistan. Ahmed had a wife and a young child, yet it was him who gave the rallying call. For the cause of Allah, Ahmed was prepared to leave behind his wife and child. Ahmed loves Allah more than I do—he who has reason to love his wife and child more than he does Allah. Mahmoud felt deep shame. But out of that shame rose a resolve to fight ferociously for the cause of Allah’s righteousness. After saying solemn farewells to their friends and loved ones, they set out with not a care about how they would get to Afghanistan or whether they would come back home alive once they joined the fight. Afghanistan and the aftermath were the root causes of his boiling hatred for Qaddafi. Afghanistan—this country has become all too synonymous with hatred, rage, vengeance, and war.

CHAPTER 1

Afghanistan, 1 November 1987

The sun was slowly but surely taking its place yet again in the sky and spreading its influence in the form of rays across the mountains of Afghanistan. It was dawn on the first day of November 1987. The bearded holy warriors of the Afghan resistance were preparing for the coming Soviet offensives. By this time, for all intents and purposes, the communists had lost the war. However, they still craved a symbolic victory to end their nearly nine years of bitter campaign. The victory would not only be symbolic but would also help to facilitate an orderly withdrawal from Afghanistan. By this time, a generation of young Arabs who joined the resistance from other lands had been forged and hardened in the Afghan furnace of brutal fighting and had achieved legendary status. However, it was two men whose names were constantly on the lips of men. After nearly eight years of fighting, Mahmoud Iddrissou and Ahmed Iddrissou came to be known as twin lions from Libya among their admirers. Such was their legend that the Soviets placed huge bounties on their heads. Whole Soviet offensives were launched with the sole purpose of killing or capturing the two Libyan brothers. These offensives resulted in countless losses of men and matériel for the Soviets. During battles, the brothers fought like wild beasts and, when it was time to hide, dove into the caves and holes in the ground like moles. Many a resistance fighter was willing to give their life to protect the lives of Mahmoud and Ahmed, the Libyan brothers, as they were also called. They were not terrorists. They were resistance fighters. There were times that some members of the resistance committed acts of wanton brutality and cruelty against their opponents—blurring the lines between resistance and sheer, naked terrorism—but not so the brothers. Soviet prisoners captured by men commanded by the brothers were treated with utmost compassion, and not a few of them eventually switched sides and joined the mujahideen (holy warriors). Just like Saladin, these two brothers are, most fighters whispered among themselves, drawing a comparison to the great Muslim leader who was brave as well as chivalrous to his enemies. Just as the sun’s influence spread throughout the sky above them, so had the influence of the brothers spread throughout Afghanistan and beyond and all the way into the palace of a certain ruler who did not want to have any Libyan mentioned in more glowing terms than he was. That ruler was none other than Col. Muammar al-Qaddafi. Throughout the night, the fighters slept little. They talked excitedly about their vision for the future world. Even as this war, now touted as the Soviet Vietnam War, was winding down, to most of these warriors, it was just the beginning. The Egyptians in the camp envisioned a new Islamized Egypt without Hosni Mubarak. The Sunni Syrians talked of taking revenge for the brutal government crackdown in the Syrian town of Hama in February 1982. The Tunisians dreamed aloud about ousting Zine el-Abidine Ben Ali from power. The Algerians, hardened and distrustful, did not talk aloud. They whispered their deadly aspirations among themselves while cradling their Kalashnikovs. The Libyan brothers had their Qaddafi, but they refrained from discussing him with a good reason. There was another Libyan in the camp by the name of Khalid. He seemed too aloof and arrogant to the rest of men. Besides, he made his way to the camp in January 1987 when the war was in its dying stages. Mahmoud and Ahmed Iddrissou suspected that he was a spy. Already there were rumors of the despotic governments of Arab nations sending spies to infiltrate the camps. The Saudis, Iraqis, and Somalis did not even talk. They silently waited for word of a certain rich and powerful man they called their emir. In their minds, they dreamed of conquering the Soviet Union and marching across the length and breadth of the European continent with no Charles the Hammer to stop them at the gates of Tours and going all the way to the ends of the world. Dangerous minds.

As if he could sense what was in their minds, Abu got up and asked a mind-boggling question: Why do nations fight occupation but always aspire to conquer and occupy other nations? Let us take a look at history. The people of Spain tenaciously resisted Napoleon’s occupation of their country while at the same time occupying a chunk of South America. He paused and looked at his audience.

There were smirks on the faces of those who were beginning to see the point he was trying to make.

Ignoring them, he continued. The French resisted the Nazi occupation while at the same time holding Algeria in their grip.

The Algerians nodded.

And now the Soviets. After resisting Hitler’s occupation in their great patriotic war, they flood here to occupy this place. Why?

Abu was from Morocco; his soft demeanor and the glasses he wore gave him a scholarly look. For his grasp and knowledge of history and world affairs, he was always called Abu the Historian. Everybody remembered the day in 1983 when Abu arrived at the camp. One rugged Afghan fighter grabbed his hands and asked to the roar of laughter, My friend, are you here in Afghanistan to write war poems or to fight? The men had hardly stopped laughing when Abu got his hands on the man’s neck and pushed him down with all his might. At the same moment, a bullet whizzed over them and smashed into a pot, breaking it into a thousand pieces. Within minutes of arriving, he had saved a fighter’s life. From that time on, his respect among the fighters was earned, and anytime he spoke, they listened. That same night, Yuri sat, huddled in a corner. Yuri was a deserter from the Soviet Army. He knew his chance of returning to the Soviet Union was nil, nor was he willing to be taken alive. He knew the fate of World War II collaborator Vlasov to even consider the latter. He was not excited like the others, and he felt no sense of victory.

When it was fully daytime, there were pats on the packs, exhortations to be brave, and readying of the weapons of war. One of the Algerians sidled up to Mahmoud and whispered into his ears, You must watch Khalid very carefully. Never trust him.

I know. Mahmoud nodded.

Allahu akbar! one Afghan fighter shouted and punched the air with his fist.

As if his shout was an invitation to the Soviets, the shrill and harsh noise of the rotor blade of an Mi-24 shattered the quiet of the morning, and without warning, a rocket fired by this monster of the sky slammed into the command tent of the camp. Abu the Historian recalled that Khalid was placing a black flag on top of the hit tent two days ago. But it was too late to think. Already the deafening explosion and the fumes had sent men scattering in so many directions. At the same time, three Soviet tanks rumbled down the hill, which had been their cover for so long. Behind them followed hundreds of soldiers. Another shot, this time from a tank, tore straight into a group of fighters. Ahmed and Mahmoud ran from fighter to fighter, trying to rally them. Crawling on his belly, Abu inched closer and closer to a stinger missile lying idly on the ground and cursed himself for not grabbing it earlier. Another burst of machine-gun fire from the chopper slowed him down. The Soviet cries of Davai! Davai! meaning Faster! Faster! grew louder. Ahmed dived into a defile, barely avoiding being hit. Tired of not being able to do anything other than duck and run, he lifted himself slightly and fired toward three overzealous soldiers who, in their haste, had gotten in front of their tanks. All three dropped dead. At the same time, Abu finally got hold of the coveted Stinger missile, and with shouts of thanks to Allah, he fired it at the Soviet chopper that was mowing down men like a scythe. The chopper exploded in a massive fireball, scattering debris everywhere. Mahmoud, again inspired by his brother’s bravery and initiative, fired wildly into the advancing Soviets. More tank shells were fired into the camp, and Ahmed, clutching a hand grenade, ran toward one of the tanks. Khalid aimed his pistol and fired just one shot. A tank shell exploded, injuring one fighter and killing another. Ahmed fell facedown, still clutching his grenade. Abu rushed at Khalid, hurled himself at him, and pinned him on the ground. He drove a knife through the back of Khalid.

Ahmed! Mahmoud screamed as he rushed to his fallen brother. However, it was not the sight of his fallen brother that shocked him but the sight of Abu pulling out his bloodied knife from Khalid’s back. What’s going on? Mahmoud cried hoarsely as he wildly shook Ahmed in a desperate bid to rouse him.

I told you to watch Khalid. He is a traitor! The Algerian who had earlier warned Mahmoud about Khalid cried bitterly.

The Soviet tanks wheeled away as did the foot soldiers.

Your wife, Aisha, your son, Moustapha, they wait for you, Mahmoud said as he shook Ahmed desperately.

No response.

The Algerian sobbed silently, and Abu, his face a mask of grief, wiped the blood off his knife. The facts slowly dawned upon Mahmoud. Ahmed was dead not by the bombs and bullets of the Soviets but by a single shot fired by another Libyan, a spy and a traitor. All the fighters crowded around Mahmoud, who was still bent over his brother. The hardened fighters sobbed as they recalled the bravery of Ahmed. Charred debris littered the camp, and small fires burned everywhere.

What’s the count? Abu asked.

Twenty dead, ten wounded, Ali Mohammed, a Saudi who had the grim job of counting the dead, answered.

They will be back, Abu said. We move camp in a week.

Lying in front of a burned-out truck was Yuri. He still clutched the gun that he had fired to the last cartridge.

The dead were collected and buried that same day, and Mahmoud, watching his beloved brother lowered to the ground, resolved to take good care of his widow and young child. The words of Ahmed two nights before this day played in his mind: If I fall, take care of my little Moustapha. Raise him to be a good man. If he chooses the path of good, fine with him. If he chooses the path of evil, take your hands off him. Let him go his doomed way.

You will not fall, and your son will be like you.

Mahmoud remembered his answer. He had been a poor prophet in the first part because Ahmed was dead. But in the second part, he had no doubt that Moustapha would grow up to be like his father. He himself will make sure of that.

CHAPTER 2

Afghanistan, 2 November 1987

Spetsnaz Kiriakin lay flat on his belly, watching the valley below from the mountain that camouflaged him. Behind him were ten of his Spetsnaz men crouched and waiting for that quick arm-waving signal from their leader to attack. At a distance below them, a full-bearded man of slender build walked speedily with a curious-looking red burlap sack slung over his shoulder. The man nervously looked to both sides and up the mountain every fifteen seconds but never stopped. Occasionally, he took a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure that he was not being followed.

Kiriakin had sharp eyes. His men joked that God fixed a permanent pair of binoculars to his eyes when he created him. Judging from the curious look of the sack and how tightly the man gripped the edge of the sack, Kiriakin deduced for sure that it held something very important—perhaps a large sum of money or gold. Kiriakin trembled lightly with excitement. This is not a hapless refugee running away from war. This is a courier carrying money in a sack. Money. This time, there will be no sharing. I will have it all, he thought. For once, Kiriakin abandoned his communist ethos. Wait here, he ordered his men. Ruthless and ferocious in battle and severe with subordinates who disobeyed his commands, his men dared not protest his order. Never taking his eyes off the sack-carrying man he was stalking, Kiriakin crawled on his elbows and belly until he was parallel to his target, and his arms ached. He now sought a favorable meeting point where he could pounce on his victim and relieve him of his precious cargo. For a long time, it had been said that parallel lines never meet. Recently, it has been said that parallel lines meet after all at infinity. Kiriakin at this moment would have none of those theories. He wanted that meeting place and now. He did not want to fire a weapon, which would attract unnecessary attention. He wanted to kill this person with his bare hands. Maybe one swing of his fist would be all that was needed. He was a muscular giant compared to the man who walked in the valley below. He could tell that the steps of his walking target were beginning to falter. Perhaps he was growing tired. Maybe he was about to sit down and rest a little while. With his arms stretched before him, he dived upon his human prey, and both of them tumbled onto the ground. The man quickly freed himself and drew a dagger from his tunic. He lunged at Kiriakin, swinging wildly. Kiriakin jumped back each time, and the knife cut through thin air. If Kiriakin thought his little Afghan job was going to be a cakewalk, then he was mistaken. This was about as complicated and difficult as the whole war his country was fighting now. The two combatants circled slowly, watching each other and looking for any unguarded moment of the opponent—any weakness. The red sack was now on the ground between them. The man whose name was Abdul Rahim glanced momentarily at the sack and violated one cardinal rule: never take your eyes off your opponent in a fight even for a second. With a sharp kick, Kiriakin knocked the knife from Abdul’s hand. Abdul Rahim rushed at Kiriakin in desperation, fists balled, only to be knocked down by the deadly fist of Kiriakin. He spun around, sank to his knees, and fell. It had taken a little more than just one punch, but Kiriakin could now claim his prized loot. He opened up the sack and rummaged through quickly. Money—American dollars in hundred-dollar bills and tied in so many bundles, which would take several hours to count! And a letter. Kiriakin opened the letter and read. The letter was written in Arabic, but Kiriakin was fluent in many languages including Arabic.

Brother Mahmoud,

Allah will surely reward your valor and sacrifice. But before he does, I reward you with this gift. I mourn with you concerning the death of your brother, Ahmed, killed by an assassin. However, I stay consoled that he is in the arms of Allah and in a better place. Please accept my gift. Use it in whatever way you want. You can give it to Ahmed’s son if he grows up to be a good Muslim. If he follows the path of virtue, give it to him as an inheritance. If not, use it as you please. It is all yours now—a gift from one lion to another lion. Asalam Walaykum.

The Lion of Panjshir

Kiriakin grinned as he read the letter. Spasibo. Thank you, he whispered triumphantly.

Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through his head and exploded in his brain. The letter flew out of his hand, and he collapsed upon the sack. Abdul Rahim, now revived but still visibly dazed and holding a thick tree branch, stood over Kiriakin. While Kiriakin stood, lost in the words of the letter, Abdul had come out of his reverie and struck him a vicious blow to his head with all his might. Quickly he rolled over the fallen Kiriakin, retrieved his cargo, and ran off. He no longer dared to walk. This time he ran. He tripped and fell. Rocks cut his arms and legs, but each time he fell, he got back up and ran.

CHAPTER 3

Afghanistan, 2 November 1987

After waiting for nearly two hours, Kiriakin’s men could wait no longer.

Let us go into the valley and see if we can find him, Suovorov said.

I guess Rasputin got drowned in the Neva, Sadkov said absentmindedly and then chuckled at his own words. Sadkov was the most sarcastic and cynical of all of Kiriakin’s men. He intensely disliked Kiriakin and did not hesitate to show it at the slightest opportunity.

Just as his men got nearer, Kiriakin stirred. He abruptly tried to get on his feet, but he fell down. It was Suovorov who saw him first. He rushed to him and pressed a bottle of water to his lips. Sadkov watched, torn between amusement and despair. He would have been much happier if Kiriakin was dead and gone, he knew. He felt like a slimy traitor inside, but contempt and dislike for Kiriakin overwhelmed him much of the time. He knew that Kiriakin also had the same feelings for him. At the instigation of Kiriakin, he had been fined a month’s wages for defeatist comments when, after a hard and bitterly frustrating battle, he remarked that the Russian monarchy defeated the great Napoleon while the great Soviet Army was being bled by a bunch of ragtag fighters.

Red sack, Sadkov heard Kiriakin say hoarsely.

Red sack—what about a red sack? Suorovov asked.

Full of money … plenty, Kiriakin said, pointing forward.

I see nothing, Suorovov said.

But Kiriakin barely heard him. He fainted again, much to the relief of the puzzled Sadkov.

Red sack, Sadkov said through barely suppressed laughter.

My life depends on it. I swore to give this to him—a gift from one lion to another lion, Abdul Rahim said as he neared the bombed-out camp of Mahmoud and his friends. Abdul placed the sack on the ground, and with face touching the ground, he said a short prayer of thanks to Allah. It was night, just a night after the tragic battle against the Soviets, and the bowed figure silhouetted against the moonlight did not know that he was being watched.

You think he is up to any good? Abu the Historian asked Mahmoud, who was scanning the intruder and his sack.

I say we kill him, Mahmoud, his feelings numbed by the murder of his brother by an infiltrator, replied.

And what does he have with him? Abu asked.

A filled sack, it seems, Mahmoud said as he passed the binoculars to Abu. I say we kill him, he repeated.

I am ready for your order, Samir, who had the intruder within his gun-sights, said icily.

My brothers, I am a humble messenger sent with a gift! Abdul Rahim shouted.

Wait, Abu placed his hands on Samir’s shoulder, he is saying something.

I come bearing gifts from the Lion of Panjshir—a gift for the lion from Libya! He mentioned my title—that he has a gift for me. Mahmoud had an expression of shock on his face.

A gift? Abu asked.

Mahmoud nodded in the affirmative.

Samir, send out two men to bring him inside the camp, Abu commanded.

Abdul Rahim was only relieved when he saw his two escorts come out of the camp. The grim looks on their faces did not scare him nor did the hands that meanly fingered Kalashnikovs. He mumbled another prayer