Libya, Tripoli.
"Corinthia Hotel" near Mitiga International Airport.
This hotel, once known as the most luxurious in Libya, couldn't escape the fate of decline during the chaotic tis. Its dazzling exterior is filled with bullet marks and stains, and most of the massive glass wall is shattered, clumsily patched with wooden boards, resembling patched-up underwear.
Yet, this hotel and its surrounding central complex remain the main gathering place for Western diplomats and intelligence personnel.
The top floor of this hotel houses the presidential suite, which now serves as Sayif's temporary residence, his last symbol of power.
The room is filled with the dense sll of cigars and a desperate decaying atmosphere.
Expensive Persian Carpets are strewn with bottles, leftovers, and crumpled docunts.
Sayif, like a trapped beast, paces anxiously behind the large desk covered with thick velvet carpet.
His eyes are bloodshot, hair disheveled, the collar of his expensive silk shirt unbuttoned, exposing his tense neck.
Sawinu has fallen!
Benghazi has changed hands!
Southern cities are surrendering one after another!
Bad news arrives like snowflakes, each hitting his heart like a sledgehamr.
Haftar and Song Heping's forces, like an unstoppable sandstorm from the southern Sahara Desert, are quickly approaching Tripoli's last line of defense!
After the Marlin Fish sank, the Aricans vanished as if into thin air, promises of aid turned into illusions.
He made countless calls to his forr Arican contacts, but they seed to understand his intentions and hung up without even answering.
In just half a month, the available forces under his command dwindled, ammunition stocks grew emptier, soldier morale plumted, and deserters increased by the day.
Despair, like a cold tide, is slowly engulfing him and his army.
Worries cloud Sayif's mind.
He seems to guess the Aricans' little sches.
He's already lost his value.
They're cutting ties, abandoning him.
Especially with their mid-term elections approaching, the ruling Donkey Party is overwheld with the Marlin Fish affair, unable to risk another political gamble to aid a North African warlord like him.
"Aricans can't be relied upon... "
He sighed inwardly.
A warlord like him may seem impressive in Libya, but in reality, he's surviving by the skin of his teeth.
Initially, he believed that getting close to the powerful Aricans would stabilize his power, but fate turned against him with the appearance of Song Heping.
He once thought he was a favorite in the Aricans' eyes, even if just a dog, at least a valuable one.
Unexpectedly, the Aricans abandoned him at the first sign of trouble, treating him like discarded trash.
Despair...
Sayif felt like his head was about to explode.
Suddenly, a flicker of light crossed his mind.
If there's no place for him here, there will be elsewhere!
Without the Aricans, aren't there still the British and French?
Yes!
To seek them!
There's no room left for loyalty to the Aricans now.
To hell with loyalty!
They betrayed him first!
If one of the British or French offers help, he will still have the strength to fight!
Then, he'll concede where necessary!
Oil fields, ports, air routes.
Whatever needs to be given will be given!
As long as he remains in power, nothing is off-limits!
He fiercely grabbed the encrypted satellite phone on the table, his fingers trembling slightly from exertion.
He must seize the lifeline—the French!
The French were the spearhead in overthrowing Colonel Ka back in the day, they have huge interests here; they won't just stand by and let Song Heping and Haftar control all of Libya!
"Please connect to the French envoy in Libya, Mr. Philip! Tell him that Sayif Mohamd Azhari has urgent matters to discuss! Concerning the future of Libya! Concerning France's core interests in Libya!"
Sayif spoke into the receiver, his tone both pleading and anxious, almost like shouting.
The voice of the French secretary on the other end was formal and cold: "Sorry, Mr. Sayif. Mr. Philip is very busy, I just checked his schedule, and no new etings can be arranged. If you have urgent matters, you can leave a ssage and we will..."
"Leave a ssage?! I need to see him now! Lives are at stake! Concerning your French interests!"
Sayif shouted uncontrollably, veins bulging on his forehead.
"Tell him! I am Sayif! I am the ruler of the Libyan Interim Governnt! He must see !"
"Very sorry, Mr. Sayif."
The secretary's voice was emotionless, even carrying a hint of subdued detachnt.
"The envoy truly cannot schedule a eting. Goodbye."
The phone went dead, the busy tone cold and heartless.
Sayif stood frozen, gripping the receiver in disbelief.
He had dealt with the French before.
Even often interacted with the secretary he just spoke to.
They weren't like this before!
They treated him with respect and courtesy!
Spoke like gentlen!
What?!
Today, they treated him like a beggar, not willing to talk to him, slamd the door on him?!
SHIT!
Those bloody French!
An overwhelming sense of humiliation and deeper fear seized him.
After a long minute, like a gambler who had lost it all, he furiously dialed again, this ti seeking the British Embassy in Libya.
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