One August morning in 1978 outside the town of Ghadames in Libya near the border with Algeria, a young man wrapped in the indigo robe and turban of the local Tuareg Berber tribes climbed the Ras al-Ghoul, the Haunted Hill. He stood on a mound of sun-bleached mud bricks, among the battered remnants of an ancient Berber fort, and looked back at the red desert he had crossed.  A soft breeze carried the smell of water, palm trees and dates from the town below. He pulled aside the indigo veil covering his mouth and turned toward the town to savor the breeze. 

He saw a group of men and women in shorts, shirts and sneakers struggle up the gravelly hillside, some on all fours, through gaps in the thigh-high brick walls.  Leading them was an Arab woman in a western dress who walked up the hillside with ease and strode over to the mound where the young man was standing.

“Come, come, over here, gather round” the woman shouted in French.  “I want to show you something remarkable.”

The tourists surrounded the mound and gawked up at the man in the indigo robe.

“This is a Tuareg tribesman,” she shouted.  “One of the blue people of the desert I was telling you about. So called, because their faces are stained blue from the veils they wear.  Notice his blue eyes, which are not uncommon among his people. They live in the desert and can go for months on a liter of water.  As infants the males undergo a very painful procedure that results in their having enormous members.” The crowd giggled with their tour guide. 

“You are an idiot,” the man on the mound said in French.  He jumped down from the mound, and the woman backed away.

“You are not a Tuareg,” she said.  “No Tuareg would uncover his face in public, and your face is not blue.”

“How observant of you,” the man said and pushed his way through the crowd and down the hill toward his camel tied up in a sliver of shade below. 

“Pahhh,” a French woman said  as he passed.  “He stinks.  Don’t these desert people bathe at all?”

When he reached the bottom of the hill, Jacques untied his camel and moved down the paved road toward Ghadames.  A truck roared past him spewing diesel fumes in the growing heat of the day.  But Jacques and his camel did not care about anything other than the water they smelled up ahead. 

*                  *                  *

The next morning, Jacques sat on a bench in the cool shadows of a covered street in the old town and smoked a Gauloise.  The closely packed white washed houses on both sides of the street were deserted.  After the weeks spent in the open desert as a servant to a Tuareg tribe, it was comforting to sit in the smoky dark of the alley lit only by a skylight far overhead.  He savored the feel of his new clothes on his skin – he wore the traditional Libyan galabiyya, white linen pants and matching long sleeved shirt that ended at the knees.  He luxuriated in the absence of sand from every crevice of his body and the stench that comes from showering only in sweat and hot sand for weeks – all washed away with the trickle of tepid water from the shower head the night before in the motel room he had rented for an hour with his meager funds.  

The tour guide that Jacques encountered on the hill the day before passed leading another group of Europeans through the alley.  A few minutes later, she ran back to Jacques and sat next to him on the bench in front of the palm wood door of a whitewashed house.  

“So you are the mysterious Tuareg tribesman,” she said in French. 

“I am looking for a place to stay,” Jacques said.  “Do you know anyone who might be willing to take me in while I get back on my feet?”

A broad smile engulfed the woman’s face.  “You will be my guest for lunch today.  I will send my servant here in two hours to take you to my villa.  My name is Fatima al-Malik.  What is yours?”

“Jacques.”

“Just Jacques?”

“Oui,” Jacques smiled and she ran back to her tour group.

*                  *                  *

 

Over bowls of fasoulia, bean soup, in the courtyard of the villa, Fatima introduced Jacques to her wheelchair bound  brother, Ibrahim, his wife Shadiya and their two children.  Ibrahim had inherited his father’s small touring business, but after a near fatal auto accident, Ibrahim had turned the business over to Fatima, and the business had prospered ever since.  Jacques raised his glass of sweet tea and toasted Fatima as the epitome of the modern Arab woman.  By the time the meal was finished Ibrahim and Fatima agreed to hire Jacques and allow him to stay at the family villa until he found a place of his own. 

                                                      *                  *                  *

At work Jacques mastered the patter that Fatima and Ibrahim used when leading groups through the old town or the ruins outside of town, and the young man’s good looks and eagerness to please quickly made him a favorite of tourists.  So when rumors surfaced that Jacques had murdered a Tuareg tribesman in the desert and stolen the man’s camel, clothes and other possessions, no one in the al-Malik family believed them. 

One night after dinner, while sharing a water pipe of tobacco, Fatima asked Jacques how he had come to be wearing Tuareg robes when he first appeared outside Ghadames.

“I found them out there,” Jacques said.  They sat in the cool evening shadows of the villa’s roofed veranda overlooking the red desert.

“Was anyone wearing them when you found them?” Fatima said.

“He was dead,” Jacques said and stood to admire the fading sunlight on the red dunes.  “He did not need his clothing anymore.  Or his camel.  I took them in order to survive.  Who would not have done the same?”

“Who indeed,” Fatima said and sipped a glass of mint tea.  Jacques held a glass of  the brandy that a French client had given him that day. How the client had gotten the bottle into the country was a mystery.  In deference to the state religion, alcohol was strictly prohibited in Libya, but Jacques was not a religious man and gratefully accepted the bottle. 

“What were you doing in the desert, Jacques, and where are you from?” Fatima  said. 

Jacques smiled and knelt before her.  “Where would I be without you?” Jacques said and rested his head on Fatima’s lap. 

                                                      *                  *                  *

The next day, the local Revolutionary Council announced that the Leader of the nation, Colonel Mu’ammar al-Qadhafi, would be coming to visit Ghadames, a great honor for the town.  A platform was to be erected in the new town square outside the post office for the Leader to address the masses.

At dinner that night Ibrahim al-Malik shared his views on Libya’s leader in his nasal high pitched voice.  “This great leader of ours should spend some of the oil money for the benefit of the people.  Instead, he pisses it away on his army.  It is a disgrace.  He has invaded our peaceful neighbor, Chad.  He fights with our fellow Arabs, the Egyptians, in the desert.  Over what?  Where to draw the border line in the sand?  Ridiculous.  Worst of all he spends our money to support that cannibal dictator from Uganda, Idi Amin.  He should use some of it to promote tourism.  Perhaps, I will tell him that when he visits,” Ibrahim said, and all at the table, including Ibrahim, laughed at the thought of the rotund middle aged tour guide trying to tell the Leader how to run the country.    

*                  *                  *

The next day, Abdussalam Jalloud, a member of the Revolutionary Council, walked into the al-Malik office and demanded that the new man come with him.  Jalloud had an AK-47 strapped on his back, and when he spoke Jacques heard the clipped tones of someone who expected people to do what he told them to do without question.

 “What do you want with him, Abdussalam Jalloud?” Fatima said and tried to get between Jalloud and the door.

“You would do well to keep your mouth shut, woman,” Jalloud said and pushed her aside.  “And do not think that the Revolutionary Council ignores your brother’s seditious comments.  We hear of the insults he hurls at the Leader.  It is common knowledge.  Do he think that he can hide behind you because you are so skilled at sucking at the teats of the foreigners?”

“No, I have -- “ Fatima said before Jalloud slapped her across the mouth.

“Do not even talk to me, dissident,” Jalloud shouted.  “Your family’s time is coming, I can assure you of that.”

When Jalloud turned to leave, Jacques scrambled ahead of him to open the door, and when the large man passed, Jacques bowed his head.

On the walk to the council, Jacques knew enough not to speak.  He stayed a respectful step behind Jalloud, and when Jalloud looked at him, Jacques put his head down.

“Wait here,” Jalloud told him when they reached a small building near the center of the new town.  Jacques waited outside with his head bowed. Seconds later, Jalloud returned and grabbing his arm dragged him into a larger room where four men sat at a folding table.

“Who are you?” one of the men at the table said.

“The al-Maliks insist that I use the name Jacques, but my real name is Mu’ammar.  Mu’ammar Hamat.”

“What do you mean?  Who forces you to use a foreign name?”  Why?” three of the men said at the same time.

“I beg your forgiveness if through my stupidity I did not make myself clear to this most honored group,” Jacques said.  “The al-Maliks do not want anyone to know that I am related to General Hamat and demand that I use a French name to better attract infidel tourists.”

“How can you be related to General Hamat?” Jalloud said.  “Surely such an important man would not allow his relative to work as a servant to these decadent al-Maliks.  And how is that a member of the Hamat clan could have such blue eyes?”   

“I am but a poor relation, believe me,” Jacques said. “And I have the misfortune of inheriting my eyes from some distant Tuareg ancestor.  But I do what I can to maintain the family honor – so long as it does not interfere with my unconditional support of the Leader, our great nation and the revolutionary councils that the Leader has designated to protect the masses.”

“Why should we believe this dog?” Hussein, the fourth man at the table, said speaking for the first time. “Show us your papers that we may see for ourselves who you are.”

“My uncle forbade me to take my papers with me.  He sent me here on a mission and said that I am only to reveal that mission to his most trusted servant, Abdussalam Jalloud, and, if he so wishes, the members of the Ghadames Revolutionary Council.” 

The men at the table glared at Jalloud.  “What communications have you had with General Hamat,” Hussein said.

“My private communications are none of your business, Hussein.  We are all equals here, are we not?  If General Hamat chooses to take me and not you into his confidence that is not your concern.” 

“Tell them your mission, Mu’ammar,” Jalloud said as though he knew what it was.

“The General is concerned by the growing wealth and influence of the al-Malik family,” Jacques said.  “He is concerned in particular that they are conspiring with the Zionists and the European imperialists to attack the Jamahiriya from across the Algerian border. For that reason, he had me make a reconnaissance of the desert to the northwest of us.  I infiltrated a Tuareg tribe.  My blue eyes were why I was selected for the mission.  I discovered that the al-Malik clan has hired a group of Tuareg thugs to assassinate the Leader when he arrives here next week. Once I confirmed this, I killed the Tuaregs involved and escaped across the desert to report to the General, which I have done.”

“Then why are you working for these al-Malik people who are no better than infidels?” Hussein said slowly and fixed Jacques with a stare that was known to break the spirit of even an honest man.

“I was charged with infiltrating their household to determine what their role will be in the assassination attempt. I am a poor dissembler, but I was able to convince them that the Tuaregs sent me to them as their messenger.  They have confessed everything to me.  There is no choice but to execute Ibrahim and his sister Fatima. If you like, I will go to them now and kill them immediately.  Just say the word.  I am your obedient servant.”

“That is not the way things are done here, Mu’ammar,” Jalloud said. “The al-Malik may be enemies of the masses, but they are well liked by many in this community.  We cannot just kill them without a trial.”

“Jalloud is right,” Hussein said to the others.  “If this firebrand shoots them in cold blood, there will be repercussions for us all.  You must get evidence of their  treachery.  Evidence that we can present to the people.  Then we can make this traitor pay for his crimes.”

Jacques jumped to his feet and swore a solemn oath that he would get the evidence they needed within a week’s time. He turned to leave and then made a dramatic about face. “I beg you to indulge me,” he said.  “But my uncle insisted I advise you that what I have told you here must not leave this room.  If any of you should contact my uncle or anyone else in Tripoli about this matter, he will be very upset.”  Without waiting for a reaction, Jacques left the building.

                  *                  *                  *

When Jacques returned to the family villa that evening, he announced that he was to be addressed as Mu’ammar from then on but would not say what had happened during his visit to the Revolutionary Council.  Despite the name change, he continued to treat his hosts with the utmost respect and worked long hard hours bringing foreign tourists on walking tours of the ancient town and archeological sites in the area.

The night before the Leader was scheduled to speak in the town square, Jacques left work early to spend some time alone with Ibrahim.  While they shared a  water pipe of tobacco and mint tea, Jacques casually asked Ibrahim why he was treated so poorly by this savage, Jalloud and the Revolutionary Council. 

“Why they are no better than common criminals,” Ibrahim said.  “They were appointed by thugs who were appointed by the great thug, Qadhafi.  Would that a true leader would arise in this country that we may free ourselves of this petty tyrant.”

Later that night, Jacques consummated his seduction of Fatima and afterwards, just for fun as lovers will do, asked her to imitate one of her brother’s diatribes against Qadhafi.  

The next day, Jacques told the family at breakfast that he expected them to wait on the main road into town to wave at the Leader’s motorcade.

“What,” Ibrahim shouted. “Have you lost your mind?  My family will not welcome this thug, I can assure you.  And how dare you presume to give orders to me and my family.  You are no longer welcome in this house.”

Jacques left immediately to play for Jalloud and Hussein the tape recordings of the al-Maliks’ treasonous remarks.  He returned within an hour with Jalloud and several other men armed with AK-47s.  They battered down the door to the al-Malik villa and dragged Ibrahim and Fatima to the town square and up the steps of the platform that had been erected for the Leader’s visit. There, in front of a group of bored men waiting for the Leader to come make his speech so that they could get back to work, Jacques played the recordings he had made of “Ibrahim and Fatima al-Malik’s treasonous blood slanders against the great Leader, Mu’ammar al-Qadhafi.”

The members of the revolutionary committee agreed that the al-Maliks were counter-revolutionaries.  The people talked quietly among themselves.  Fatima struggled to get near the microphone so that she could defend herself but Jacques insisted she and her brother be tied and gagged so she could not give signals to her co-conspirators.

“These monsters are a disgrace to Islam,” Jacques shouted when he was sure the al-Maliks could not contradict him.  “I can assure you that the most shameful sexual depredations are practiced in their obscene villa.  They gorge on pork and swill wine, in violation of the holy laws of this land, which they eat from golden plates and drink from silver goblets while you, the faithful servants of Allah and His Prophet, Mohammed, may praise be upon his name, starve and struggle to survive outside.”

Jacques asked for the privilege of executing them, but the Council decided to wait to let the Leader decide his fate.  At that moment, men on the edge of the square shouted that the Leader’s motorcade was coming. Jacques said to the backs of the crowd from the platform: “You have heard, my friends, what these vipers in our midst have said and done.  How they heaped bloody slanders on the great Leader of our glorious revolution.  What is the will of the masses for these miscreants?  Do they not deserve to die?”

The crowd dutifully faced the approaching motorcade; few heard Mu’ammar and none reacted.  Mu’ammar walked over to Ibrahim and Fatima and slit their throats one after the other.  When the motorcade reached the square, the crowd shouted “Allah Akhbar,” waved their hands in the air and surged around the motorcade like wind-driven sand around desert rocks.  But the Leader did not appear.  Instead a grey haired man wearing the uniform of a Libyan Army general fought his way from the first limousine to the platform and climbed up to join Jacques in front of the microphone. When the man introduced himself as General Hamat, Jacques’ heart skipped a beat.  He had no idea that the famous general would be accompanying the Leader to Ghadames that day.  But Jacques was not a man given to panic.  He introduced General Hamat to the cheering crowd. 

“Great events crucial to the very existence of this nation have arisen that require our Leader’s attention,” General Hamat told the crowd and then covered the microphone with his hand while he listened to Jacques explain why there were two dead bodies on the platform.    

“But,” the general said, “I will tell the great Leader of the brave deeds you have done here this day to protect our Libyan Jamahiriya, this state ruled by the masses, from its enemies who, I have just been advised by your representative, were preparing to assassinate our great Leader, Colonel Mu’ammar Qadhafi, before they were stopped by this hero standing beside me.  In fact,” General Hamat said and hugged Jacques to his side, “your own hero, the great hero of Ghadames, will tell him personally because I will take him with me this day to Tripoli to meet the Leader.”

The joy of the masses of Ghadames knew no bounds, although they did not know what enemies Mu’ammar had stopped.  Except for the members of the revolutionary committee who were too stunned as yet to react, no one in the mob was aware that Ibrahim and Fatima al-Malik had been murdered. 

General Hamat took Jacques by the hand and led him to his limousine.  Once inside he told him to keep his mouth shut if he valued his life.  The caravan stopped once a few miles outside of town, and the general told Jacques to stay in the back of the limousine while he conferred with his fellow officers outside.  While they were talking, a military helicopter landed in a field beside the road.  General Hamat and several other officers climbed into the helicopter which then lifted itself up from the desert and roared north toward Tripoli.

A uniformed officer who did not introduce himself joined Jacques in the back of the limousine as the motorcade got back on the road to Tripoli.

“So you are the hero of Ghadames,” the officer said.  “It has already been arranged for to appear on national television tonight.  The great leader wants to use you as an example for his gullible supporters.”

Jacques’ smile hardened into a rictus.  Was this officer being sarcastic?

“But your name is a problem,” the officer continued.  “You must change it.”

“You mean ‘Jacques’?  I have changed that already.”

“Jacques?” the officer said.  He flipped on the intercom and ordered the driver to stop the car and open the back door.  “You must be French.  I should have known when I saw your blue eyes.”  The general motioned for Jacques to get out. They were on a two lane highway in the middle of a desert, and the mid-day heat blasted into the air conditioned limousine like a flamethrower.

“No, no, no,” Jacques said.  “My name is Mu’ammar.  That is what I was telling you. I am an Arab. But I was raised by the Berbers.  I am a son of the desert, I swear to you.”

“And I am telling you that Mu’ammar will not do,” the officer said and slammed the door shut.  “The wonderful Leader does not like to have others around him with the same name as his.  It is confusing and irritates the great man no end.” 

“Fine,” Jacques said.  “How about Suliman?”

“No, that sounds too much like a Sultan.  Do you think you are better than the great Leader? “

“No, of course not.   It’s just another name to me.”

“Be quiet.  Let me give you a word of advice.  You talk too much for your own good. It will get you in trouble some day.  A man needs to be quiet until he is ready to act and then he can let his actions speak for him.  Do you understand me, bumpkin?” 

Before Jacques could reply, the officer continued.

“Of course you do not understand me.  You are a gullible man, aren’t you?  You swallow everything they feed you.  And you will fight to the death for your Leader, won’t you?”

The officer reached into a small refrigerator in front of his seat and pulled out a can of Coca Cola. 

“I will tell you what you will do, Yusef.  That is your new name, by the way.  It works, doesn’t it?  You are now Yusef -- what is your last name?”

“Al-Malik,” Yusef said.  “Yusef al-Malik.”

“Yes, that is fine.  But you need to lose the son of the desert business.  The Leader fancies himself the son of the desert.  Why do you make this so complicated?”

“I apologize,” Jacques said.  “I was only trying to help.”

“And you can’t be raised by Berbers.  That would never do.  The Leader has taken that one already.  Besides he is focusing on the modern Libyan this month, not desert nomads.”

“What if you make me an academic?” Yusef said.   “I always wanted to be a professor.”

“You, a professor?” the officer said.  “Don’t make me laugh.  You look nothing like a professor, and we don’t have time to shop for new clothes.  No, I think you are better off as a simple farmer who thwarted a plot by foreign capitalist reactionaries to assassinate the Leader. Are we clear on that?”

“Can the ones I killed be Zionist lackeys too?” Yusef suggested.  “I’ve always liked the sound of that.”

“Let’s not get carried away, here” the officer said.  “Keep it simple.  It doesn’t matter anyway because after tonight no one will remember or care what you have done for the Leader.  And that is a good thing for you.  Are you listening to what I am saying?   When the Leader finishes his remarks and turns to you -- he may shake your hand; he may even hug you.  But when he turns to you, you must shout ‘Allah Akhbar, death to the tyrant’ and waive this dagger.  That will be the signal for the nation to rise against this monster.  Do you understand?”

“No,” Jacques said and saw the face of Ibrahim settle briefly over the officer’s face.  “Why should I do – why do you want me to do that.  I do not understand.”

“You have a very high opinion of yourself, don’t you?  But your pride is more than matched by your stupidity. You dare to ask me, Lieutenant General Qaramanli, the commander of the Libyan Fifth Army, why he is ordering you to do this.  Are you aware how easy it would be for me to stop the car and have you dragged into the desert and shot?  You will do as I say because I have ordered you to do it,” the lieutenant general said.  “That is all you need to know.  Now take this dagger and sit up front with the driver.  I need to sleep.  There will be no sleep for Libya tonight, I can assure you.”

The car stopped again, and Jacques hopped out to move into the driver’s compartment.  He thought briefly of making a run for it but did not dare trust his fate to the desert a second time. 

“So I see you are a sergeant,” Jacques said to the driver hoping to pass the time with conversation and perhaps learn something that would help him survive.  

“Do not speak to me again if you know what is good for you,” the driver said. 

                                                      *                  *                  *

They reached Tripoli after dark. The driver put a flashing light on the top of the car, turned on a siren and raced through the streets and back allies of the city, whipping up a cloud of plastic bags in the car’s wake.  The limousine arrived at the Leader’s compound in the Aziziyah Barracks on the far side of Tripoli, and Jacques was ushered into a cool bare room in the basement of a large building.  Jacques sat on the floor and waited.  He dozed off and woke with a start in the dark.  He sensed a menacing presence in the room with him and fought to still the rising panic.  He hoped it was merely the ghost of Ibrahim al-Malik.