by Mark Arundel
I drove. Cakes sat in the front because he was the biggest. It was tight seated on the backseat with the lean Moha squeezed between the brawny might of Banksy and Mick.
‘Is everybody comfortable?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Cakes. ‘Is the air-conditioning on?’
The satellite phone informed me we were 3.3 miles away from our destination.
Up and until now Moha had hardly spoken so it was a surprise when, from his “sardines” position on the backseat, he asked a question.
‘Why did you save me?’ Moha waited, but none of us answered. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. Again, his question went unanswered. He gave up.
A series of narrow streets and alleyways that were barely wide enough for the car to pass through hid the house like a maze. Eventually, we drove into an open area surrounded by high walls and fig trees.
I turned and parked the car pointing the way we had come. ‘Mick and Banksy, stay with the car. Cakes, with me,’ I said.
A low archway led us to the door. Moha rushed ahead. The man who stood in the open doorway had the same features as Moha except they were twenty years older. An expression of such relief and fatherly emotion for the son he thought was lost I had never before seen. They embraced. Cakes and I waited. The father looked up at us and then we followed him inside. Moha’s mother was in the room crying. She grabbed her son and nearly squeezed the life from him. Only after many seconds was Moha able to extract his compressed body from the boa constrictor-like grip and then he stood embarrassed by his mother’s display of love.
Mahmoud al-Barouni saw us waiting and the smile dropped from his dark, emotionally glazed eyes. He spoke assertively to his wife. She glanced at his face and then left the room without speaking. Moha, too, received strong words from his father. Before he left the room, he glanced at Cakes and me. He wanted to say something but decided against it.
Mahmoud al-Barouni stepped closer. When he spoke, his words were soft. ‘God has spared my son,’ he said. In addition, plastic explosive and stun grenades in the hands of highly trained, elite soldiers had something to do with it, but I could see that “God” had already won the argument with Mahmoud so I let it go.
‘Allah Akbar (God is Great),’ Cakes said. Had I not seen the look on Mahmoud’s face I might have laughed.
‘Allah Akbar,’ Mahmoud repeated in earnest. I struggled to maintain my professionalism. Disrespect was not something I wanted to show. What humour Cakes possessed was black. I avoided looking at him.
‘You are the instruments of God and for that I thank you,’ Mahmoud said. I wondered whether Cakes had another suitable response. There followed a silent pause.
‘Mahmoud, we have delivered our side of the bargain,’ I said. ‘We have rescued your son and returned him safely to you.’
‘Allah Akbar (God is Great),’ Mahmoud said.
‘Yes, Allah Akbar,’ I said. Mahmoud took a small scrap of folded paper from his pocket and gave it to me.
‘The man you seek, Suleiman Al Bousefi, is eating today at this restaurant,’ Mahmoud said. ‘You will find him there.’
I unfolded the scrap of paper. In scratchy writing, Mahmoud had written the name of a restaurant and the name of a street. I copied them into the satellite phone and waited. The navigation system found the location and displayed the information. Azzahra restaurant was south-east of the city close to the main road on which we had arrived.
‘What else can you tell us?’ I said.
‘It is a celebration. That is all,’ Mahmoud said. ‘I know only that Suleiman Al Bousefi will arrive by car, a white Mercedes, at midday.’
Whether British SIS, when brokering the deal with Mahmoud al-Barouni, had told him the reason for wanting to know the location of Suleiman Al Bousefi I did not know. However, looking into his eyes now told me he believed he knew the reason.
‘Will he have protection today?’ I asked. Mahmoud’s face remained expressionless.
‘A man like Suleiman Al Bousefi always has protection,’ he said.
Outside, Banksy and Mick were standing by the car waiting.
‘We have a location,’ I said. ‘Cakes, you drive.’ I wanted the first time I saw the place to be distraction-free.
6 Do not resent growing old. Many are denied the privilege.
Driving south took us through an area of battered and rundown city streets. At the main road, we turned east. Every so often, other vehicles appeared on the road, but none of them showed us any interest.
We exited along a slip road and entered a built-up area. People clustered around two rows of market stalls and vehicles drove past slowly. We joined the snarl-up and came to a stop.
‘The restaurant is on the next street,’ I said. Cakes tapped the steering wheel, Mick sipped from his water bottle and Banksy watched two women through the window arguing about… well, it was hard to tell what they were arguing about, but whatever it was, it was important to them.
The vehicle ahead moved off and Cakes drove us past the market and crossed at the junction onto the next street.
‘Drive slowly,’ I said.
Azzahra restaurant was not easy to spot. Italian style buildings gave out an air of romance with clean white facades, slatted window shutters and balconies with balustrades. Such architecture was a legacy from Italian occupation and rule during the first half of the 20th century. The grey air-conditioning unit bolted to the wall above the single opening gave it away. Next to it, the Arabic sign with pictures of food was badly sun faded and well camouflaged. Cakes drove past at walking pace and we all looked. Hanging over the first-floor balcony was a line of washing and from the pavement below a North African tree of some kind grew tall and unchecked. After a short distance, Cakes pulled the car over and stopped.
‘A traditional restaurant serving traditional dishes at reasonable prices,’ Banksy said. ‘Nothing fancy just good, honest Libyan food.’
‘What do you think?’ Mick asked. We all ignored Banksy.
‘It’s either as he arrives or leaves,’ I said. ‘Going inside is too risky.’
‘An old-fashioned Mafia-style hit,’ Cakes said. ‘Outside a restaurant is the time-honoured way.’
‘What’s this guy’s protection like?’ Mick asked.
‘We don’t know for sure,’ I said, ‘but it’s likely to be a number of armed bodyguards.’
‘What’s the number?’
‘My guess is four,’ I said.
‘It’s a straight fight, then,’ Banksy said.
‘One option is for us to all stay in the car and attempt a drive by…’
‘No, that’s too limited,’ Mick said. ‘We should park the car just up from the entrance, engine running, with one of us as the getaway driver and the other three on foot and wait for him to arrive. Then we hit him before he gets inside and then retreat to the car and drive away.’
‘We’re dressed for it,’ Banksy said. ‘I can hide my LMG under my… What are these called?’
‘What about a sniper shot? Cakes said. Banksy pretended to think about it.
‘Getting a clear shot is very unlikely,’ he said. ‘With a short timeframe, other people around and the target on the move…’
‘Maybe the best option is a combination of things,’ I said. ‘I think we should have the car parked close to the entrance with the engine running and a getaway driver. Perhaps Banksy can find a workable sniper position. That leaves two of us waiting outside with a light machine gun hidden under our djellaba.’
‘…djellaba, that’s what it’s called,’ Banksy said.
While deliberation of the task ahead occupied our thoughts, I made the call. The satellite phone found the London number and then I pushed the button.
‘Hello,’ the man answered. Jerry Lombroso had a distinctive voice. Despite the unfamiliarity, I recognised the intelligent resonance and reassuringly confident tone just from one word.
‘We have a location,’ I said. ‘Are we clear to proceed?’
‘All-clear,’ Jer
ry Lombroso replied. ‘Light the bonfire.’ I ended the call without the need to hear any further comments.
‘It’s a go,’ I said. ‘Right, everyone, re-familiarize yourself with the target.’ We brought up the pictures of Suleiman Al Bousefi on our phones and studied them. They were few in number, but each was a clear headshot showing a different angle. ‘He’s thirty-eight, five foot nine and described as “fleshy”, whatever that means.’
‘He should be easy to spot,’ Cakes said sardonically.
‘He dresses either traditionally, which will mean his head is covered, or in a military style tunic, and he often wears sunglasses,’ I said.
‘Arriving by car doesn’t give us much time,’ Mick said. ‘It can stop outside the entrance and then it’s only a few steps before he’s inside.’ Mick was right.
‘He’s going to be the principal so positive identification should be possible and immediate. We should plan to take out the bodyguards. They’re likely to be flanking him and, anyway, it makes our exit easier. ’
As well as the restaurant, the street had shops, cafes and residential apartments. A regular supply of people, both pedestrian and in vehicles, made it busy enough so that we could prepare unobserved.
We walked the street in pairs. I teamed with Banksy. Near to the restaurant, under a tree, we stopped.
‘The ground is too flat,’ Banksy said. ‘The only way to get enough elevation for a worthwhile shot is to use one of those buildings.’ He was looking across the street and his eyes lifted to the higher floors of the apartment building opposite.
A car drove past and then I crossed the street and went to the dirty, recessed entrance. Although it had a row of named buttons used to gain access, the door latch was broken and with one push, it opened.
Banksy followed me inside. We climbed the steps to the third floor and then stopped on the landing beside the narrow window that looked out onto the street below. It had a catch, which was turned and pushed to create a vertical six-inch opening for the purpose of ventilation. Banksy examined the opening and then the view to the restaurant entrance below. I stood next to him. Both the elevation and angle looked good to me.
‘It’s perfect,’ Banksy said.
We regrouped back at the car where we exchanged our findings and began our preparations.
‘There’s a sniper’s nest on the third floor of the apartment building opposite,’ I said. Banksy already had the L115A3 sniper rifle in his hands.
‘Good,’ Cakes said.
We all performed our weapons checks. The methodical ritual performed by a soldier before he enters battle is personal to each. Some people say it is ceremonial. I just want to make sure that when I pull the trigger bullets are going to come out and go where I want them to go.
My wristwatch told me it was time for us to get into position. I had to decide who would remain in the car as the getaway driver. My decision was between Mick and Cakes. I chose Cakes. Mick was surprised. The reason for my decision was that if anything went wrong I wanted Cakes in control of our only means of escape. Someone once told me an Italian proverb, which for some reason had come back to me now. The proverb was Beware of one who has nothing to lose.
‘Strength and honour,’ said Banksy. Apparently, it was a line in a film. He wanted us to say it back. None of us did.
Mick, Banksy and I left the car separately. We had our weapons concealed under our clothing. Cakes moved the car into the planned position close to the restaurant and then stopped. Banksy entered the apartment building to take up his position on the third floor. Mick sat on a stone seat under the tree next to the restaurant. I went the farthest away from the car to beyond the restaurant door and waited on the corner. A wooden post against the building just inside the alleyway gave me somewhere to prop myself.
I checked my wristwatch as the minutes past. The sun was behind me. It shone on the ground in front of the restaurant and through the treetops. The dappling effect fell on Mick and the roof of the car.
In the third floor window across the street, the shape of Banksy was just visible behind the protruding barrel of the L115A3 sniper rifle.
We all watched and waited.
A white Mercedes came into view at the end of the street and slowly drove towards us.
‘The target vehicle is approaching,’ I said. Mick stood up casually under the tree and glanced in my direction.
As the Mercedes drove past I had already turned and was nonchalantly facing into the alleyway. I turned back into the street as the heavy, white saloon braked to a stop. The light machine gun came easily from under the djellaba and into my hands. I held the weapon concealed at my side and advanced.
The driver’s door opened.
Mick was approaching from the front with his FAMAS held low in the same way as my LMG.
A young man stepped out, went to the rear and opened the door. An elderly woman put out her hand and he took it. Carefully, he helped her out. Then he did the same for an elderly man. The man was not our target. He was not Suleiman Al Bousefi.
I stopped and so did Mick.
‘It’s not him,’ I said. ‘It’s not our target.’
The V8 petrol engines roared at both ends of the street and made me turn my head to look. Two pairs of 4x4s, travelling fast, had entered the road at either end and were headed towards us. Tyres squealed under heavy braking as the four vehicles stopped. The doors flew open and men with their faces covered jumped out. They had assault rifles gripped tightly in both hands.
It was an ambush. Someone had set us up.
‘We’re under attack,’ I said. ‘They’re coming at us from both sides.’ My voice must have conveyed the level of concern I felt because Cakes responded immediately.
It’s too late to run,’ he said. His own growly voice mirrored my concern. ‘We’re going to have to fight.’ He was right. Mick had already taken cover behind the white Mercedes as the unmistakable metallic sound reverberated along the street and the first bullets blasted chips of plaster from the wall above my head.
Instinctively, my body and head lowered and the corner building, along which the alleyway ran, became my very close friend.
The old woman screamed and rushed into the restaurant much faster than I would have thought possible. The old man was not far behind. More screams rang shrilly along the street and people scattered.
The attacking men hurried to take positions and then cautiously advanced. They had us pinned down.
Cakes had exited the car, leaving the driver’s door fully open and taken nearby cover behind a tree trunk at the far end of a line of parked cars. A man carrying an assault rifle ducked out from a doorway and ran across the street. Cakes saw him. He targeted quickly, the LMG barked and I watched the man fall heavily onto the tarmac.
Loud, uneasy voices bounced between the buildings. Shouts voiced in Arabic. We were in a gun battle and we all knew more men were going to die before it was over. In those voices, I heard fear.
Getting away in the car was our best option, but before we could attempt it, we had to make the escape route safe.
Bullets from another assault rifle slammed the outside corner near my head. Masonry dust blew across my face. I dropped lower.
Grizzled and hardened by warzones, elite combat soldiers perform at the outer limit of human endurance and ability. Our opposition were bold men with a cause. Bullets fired from an assault rifle can kill a professional soldier just as easily as they can kill anyone else. The bold men firing those assault rifles outnumbered us by at least five to one. Before we could escape with our lives, many of them were going to have to lose theirs.
Keeping low, all the way down on my haunches, I saw five men with covered faces and tightly held rifles approaching my position from the west. They darted intermittently using the buildings as cover.
‘Mick, watch my back,’ I said. He swung round.
‘Okay, go,’ he said.
I dropped onto my side beyond the protection of the wall with the LMG held up and rea
dy. The first two men were on the move in the open. Neither saw me. Two short bursts were all it took. The sound blended into one. The sight of them dying was a sight I knew well. The third man tried to check his run, but he had given me enough time. His body turned desperately and fear pumped his legs. An inch of the trigger was all it needed. My aim was clinical. The bullets thumped into his ribcage and through his breastplate and he went down.
The other two men held their positions and yelled Arabic words that were not in my vocabulary. Their voices were loud and anxious. I backtracked and stood up with my body pressed tight against the wall.
‘Banksy, have you got a shot?’ Cakes said. ‘Can you see them?’ I turned and saw Cakes crouching behind a van higher up the street. The head and torso of one man followed by another appeared from behind a low wall, fired briefly and then disappeared. They were like the cuckoos in a Swiss clock. Their haste ruined any shooting capability they may have had. Desperate to avoid taking a bullet, their own bullets were firing high and hitting the buildings. By moving, Cakes had lured them out and was now inviting Banksy to shoot them.
‘It’s a tight angle,’ Banksy said. ‘I can’t get a clear shot.’
‘Hold on,’ Cakes said. ‘Keep your sights on them. I’ll draw them out. Mick, watch my back.’
Mick rapidly scanned the street and the doorways. ‘Okay, but make it quick,’ he said.
Cakes stepped out from behind the van and stood in plain view. He held his LMG at his waist. One of the men jumped out and fired. His bullets went high. He hesitated, surprised by what he saw. He disappeared and then the other man appeared. He watched Cakes for a second and then taking more considered aim walked a few paces onto the pathway.
Even though I knew it was coming, the impact was dramatic. It was if a punch from a giant, invisible fist had struck the man in the chest.
Then Cakes did something unexpected. He sprinted diagonally across the road with the LMG pulled in tight and ready. His running feet pounded on the hard surface. “John Wayne” actions were not generally something Cakes did. He was angry that someone had set us up. Making Cakes angry was never a good idea. The other man lifted his head above the wall. It was the last thing he did. The LMG barked so fast that I doubt the man even had time to focus. Without checking his run, Cakes leapt over the wall and then dropped out of sight.