Andy McNab - Brute force

A minute later, I spotted the big, T-shaped hotel and brought it to Lynn's attention by tapping him on the shoulder again. He gave me a thumbs-up and chopped the throttle.

As we slowed, the engine ticking over to mask our approach, I clocked the lights of a ship approaching the harbour to the east – nothing for us to worry about, but a reminder that there were vessels in the vicinity. Behind us, the horizon was black and empty. Only in front, just above the bow of the tender, was there any kind of definition – a skyline dotted with lights, rising and falling gently in the swell.

Beneath and to the right of the hotel, I could see a long dark expanse – an area devoid of lights that I knew must be the beach.

When we were around 500 metres from the shore, I told Lynn to kill the engine altogether.

There were two paddles in the side compartment of the tender. The headland masked the worst of the incoming swell, but as we came within a hundred metres of the shoreline, I could hear the steady crash of surf on shingle. I paddled from the front and Lynn from the rear. We worked hard to keep the dinghy steady as the water got choppier and the waves and the back-pull more pronounced.

A large wave hit us amidships and I thought we were going to tip over. We both leant hard to our right and the tender steadied.

A second or two later, I felt the propeller scrape some rocks. I jumped over the side, grabbed the rope and pulled us onto the shingle.

I yanked Lynn into a squat beside me and looked left and right along the beach. Fifty metres or so above us, at the top of the cliff, I could just make out the red neon sign on the roof of the hotel.

Lynn leant forward and whispered in my ear. 'Al Funduq Al Bahr Al Magrib. It means the Hotel of the Western Sea. Definitely wasn't here in my day.'

We'd had to leave the tender on the beach; there had been no other options. There was nothing to link it to the Predator, and I was counting on it getting nicked long before it was reported. We crept forward to the base of the cliff. I told Lynn to swap his wet clothes for the dry set in his bag while I recce'd for one of the pathways I'd spotted on the Google map.

It didn't take me long to find a flight of steps that led up to the hotel car park. Lynn had changed and was ready to go. It took me a couple of minutes to do the same. I removed the day sack from the plastic bag, opened it up and shoved everything inside – waterproofs, wet clothes, plastic bag, the lot. Lynn did the same.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost a quarter to six – first light in half an hour, perhaps less. I motioned at Lynn to follow me.

The steps had been dug into the cliff face and reinforced with concrete. The safety rail was so corroded that it had parted company in places with its stanchions. I told Lynn to stay as far away from it as possible and to watch his step.

At the top I dropped behind a wall and scanned the car park for any sign of activity. Ten or twelve vehicles stood in line, slick with rainwater. The red neon sign reflected off the puddles left by the storm.

The main entrance to the hotel – about forty metres away – was protected from the elements by a flat, overhanging roof. A doorman sheltered beneath it, smoking a cigarette. A policeman stood next to him holding a clipboard. Garish lights shone through the glass doors from the lobby behind them. There were people moving around inside.

I scanned left and found what I was looking for: a side exit leading from a ground-floor corridor into the car park.

I tugged at Lynn's sweater and pulled him close. 'Remember, you have to convince yourself…'

I headed for the door with Lynn close behind. I knew it was too dark for anyone in the bright lights of the lobby or the entranceway to notice us, but I checked over my shoulder just to make sure. No one, as far as I could tell, was behind us. It was going to be a different story in daylight.

The doorman and the policeman were too busy waffling to each other to pay any attention to us.

I still had one of the kitchen knives with me in case we had a drama. I thought I might need it to work the catch, but the side door was open. I pulled it back and pushed Lynn inside.

Lynn strode down the corridor as if he owned the place, and kept going until he reached the lobby. He manoeuvred between the guests and the bags and nodded imperiously to a concierge at the reception as he made his way to the main entrance. He pushed open the double doors and stepped outside, sniffing the morning air appreciatively. I kept a few steps behind him, hoping we looked like everybody else – a couple of tourists with backpacks setting off for a day's sightseeing.

The doorman dropped his cigarette and the policeman straightened.

'Sabah al-kheer.' Lynn's voice echoed in the still air.

The doorman touched his cap and bowed. 'Sabah al-noor, ya rayis.' He whistled and a white Peugeot pulled away from the rank to our left. It drew up alongside us, brakes squealing.

The doorman did his thing, opening the door and bowing several times as Lynn and I climbed in the back.

Libya's answer to Tom Jones, backed by an orchestra comprised entirely of reedy, high-pitched wind instruments, blasted from a couple of speakers sitting on the rear parcel shelf. Lynn slipped a dollar into the doorman's outstretched hand. It disappeared into his pocket with the fluidity of a conjuring trick. The door slammed. Lynn spoke to the driver and I waited for the taxi to go, but it just sat there, engine idling.

I glanced up. The policeman was standing next to the window, clipboard at the ready. He tapped the window with the end of his biro.

Lynn wound it down and examined the man's aggressive bloodshot eyes.

'Taruh fein?' A waft of onion breath filled the back of the car. The policeman's teeth looked as if he'd been chewing tar.

Lynn held the stare, smiled and gave him a bit of hubba-hubba.

The policeman glared back, eyes narrowing into slits.

I moved my hand onto the door handle, ready to do a runner back down to the beach and hope the tender was still there. If it wasn't, I'd just keep running.

'Taruh fein?' the policeman asked again.

Lynn jabbered a bit more then reached into his pocket, produced a five-dollar bill and nodded as Abraham Lincoln disappeared under the top sheet of the policeman's clipboard.

'Shukran, ya effendi.' He banged the roof of the cab and we set off in the direction of the Medina, just as the sun began to rise over Tripoli's myriad roofs and minarets.

'He wanted to know about our "tourist guide". I said we'd arranged to meet him at the Medina.'

'He believed you?'

'He believed President Lincoln – and that's all that matters.'

The taxi pulled up beneath the thick defensive walls of a castle.

'The old citadel.' Lynn looked up at it like a kid admiring a Christmas tree. 'Tripoli's most famous landmark. Riddled inside with a maze of alleyways.' He tapped the driver on the shoulder and gave him a burst of hubba-hubba.

The driver's face registered some alarm until Lynn dug a small wad of dollars out of his pocket. He held them under the driver's nose before slapping a ten-dollar bill down on the front seat. The driver picked it up, held it to his eye and appeared to sniff it. He nodded, satisfied, and we stepped out onto the cracked and crumbling pavement.

Traffic hurtled in every direction. Vast portraits of Colonel Gaddafi, inscrutable behind his Aviators, stared down at us from every corner. The Great Leader was represented in a variety of roles and poses: in military uniform, in tribal robes, and even in a blue nylon suit with lapels you could land a plane on.

Lynn gestured around us. 'This used to be Martyrs' Square until Gaddafi cleared it so his people could hold mass rallies in praise of his genius.' He pointed to a gap in the walls. 'We're headed in there, into the Medina. Most of the buildings are sixteenth to eighteenth century, the heyday of Libya's Turkish occupation, but a lot pre-date…'