Bonfire

by Mark Arundel

  Watching Cakes had left the two men near to me unattended. Once again, they were on the move. Running together, and firing at the same time. They were trying to hit me, but only succeeding in peppering the wall. Neither of them noticed the catlike movement of Mick over the boot of the Mercedes into a shooting position. The angle allowed for a single burst of fire and produced a two-for-one result.

  We were working through them rapidly. Of the twenty or so men at the start, they were now down to around thirteen.

  It had fallen quiet. For a second, I wondered whether they had decided to withdraw but then I saw two more leave their hiding places and move cautiously up the street towards us.

  The continuous firing came from my right where a determined countermove had successfully cornered Cakes between a wall and a doorway. Protected by the wall he returned fire, but his position was unsustainable. We needed to move.

  ‘It’s time to leave,’ I said. ‘Head for the car.’ Mick darted out from behind the Mercedes and sprinted to the tree trunk nearest the Ford. His FAMAS spat bullets in short volleys that proved enough to stall the advance on Cakes.

  It was my turn. ‘Banksy, I’ll cover and then follow,’ I said.

  ‘Wait,’ Banksy said, ‘I’ve got a shot.’

  I heard the distinctive report from the sniper rifle immediately followed by a second.

  ‘That’s two for two,’ Mick said. ‘Now would be a good time to leave.’

  ‘Okay, I’m coming down,’ Banksy said. ‘Hayes, are you covering the door?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got it,’ I said. It was only then as I checked one more time and turned to look down the street that I saw him. He must have come out from a concealed position.

  He was already set, and although I reacted instantly my accuracy and speed with the LMG were not enough to stop the man from firing.

  It made the same noise it always makes. Imagine an uncontrolled sneeze by an ogre. That is the noise. The RPG [RPG: rocket-propelled grenade] was on its unstoppable path aimed at the window through which Banksy was shooting the sniper rifle.

  The machine gun bullets from my LMG struck in a tight group just below the man’s sternum.

  Before I could shout a warning, the RPG had travelled the short distance to its target.

  Feeding on the air the fire rolled and balled skywards, the shockwave pounded my eardrums and debris scattered and fell.

  My feet had already carried me halfway when Cakes leapt over the wall and sprinted towards the building. ‘Mick, get the car,’ he said.

  I reached the door first. The stairwell ended between the second and third floor. The landing above was gone. Thick smoke funnelled through the gaping hole drawn out like a chimney.

  Banksy was on his back and unconscious. He must have been turned and coming down the steps when the grenade hit. Blood leaked badly from a neck wound. It was a deep slicing cut caused by either flying shrapnel or glass. The blood loss was too much.

  With a tight grip on his clothes, I pulled him up and over my shoulder. Using one hand to steady him and the other to point and fire my LMG I descended the steps and arrived at the open door where Cakes was firing off short, covering bursts. The attacking fire was closer. The advantage had swung against us. If we failed to escape in the next minute then we would never escape.

  The Ford saloon screamed in reverse gear as Mick raced in a tight arc to the doorway. He braked late and hard. The car skidded. Cakes could reach the door handle without taking a step.

  A man jumped out from behind the white Mercedes opposite. The point of his rifle barrel took all my attention. One-handed and aiming from the hip I held in the trigger. The bullets sprayed wildly, but it was enough to dissuade the man from taking a shot.

  Banksy slipped off my shoulder and onto the backseat. A copious amount of blood flowed from the deep slash to his neck.

  Cakes kept low and shot out rapid covering fire. Through the open car window, Mick did the same.

  ‘Get in,’ Mick said.

  It was then that I felt it. All the strength in my legs went and I sat down heavily and then fell backwards. Knowing the importance of remaining conscious, I fought against the blackness that tried hard to fill my eyes. Cakes shouted at me, but they were jumbled words and some were missing. What was he saying? Then his hands were on me and he was pulling me up. I had somehow made it onto my knees.

  ‘Hayes, get up,’ Cakes said.

  ‘Get in the car,’ Mick said. His voice was very loud.

  My hearing had returned and then so to my focus. The blackness lifted and I saw the open car door. Cakes pushed me and I scrambled inside.

  The car accelerated rapidly and then gunfire drowned out the sound of the revving engine. We turned sharply and the car dipped heavily on its suspension before it swung back and then levelled.

  The noise of the racing engine replaced the fading gunfire. Mick was driving fast. I sat up. Through the side window, I saw the buildings flash past. We were clear. We had gotten away.

  Cakes turned in his seat to look at me. I was looking down at Banksy. My hand was on his neck. His blood had made it red. His blood had made everything red.

  ‘Hayes, are you okay?’ Cakes asked. I turned my face and looked into his eyes.

  ‘Banksy is dead,’ I said.

  7 There is many a ship lost within sight of harbour.

  Magda Jbara drank the tea her father had made for her and it tasted better than any she had ever drunk before. They sat together in the sunny room with the outside door open. It was the room her mother had loved so much and in which she had died.

  ‘Where is Jamaal?’

  ‘Your brother is at the university, of course,’ her father said. ‘He studies hard. The law fascinates him. He is like you. He has great passion.’

  ‘Will I see him? When does he return?’

  ‘I have sent him a message. For you, he may stop studying and come home. When do you leave?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly,’ Magda said. ‘It will be sometime later today when those men return for me.’

  ‘Who are those men?’

  ‘They are soldiers, father.’

  ‘Why did they come?’ he asked.

  ‘Mr. Hayes told you, father. They represent the British government. They have come to ask you in person to write a constitution for our country and they have brought me with them as a show of trust and respect.’

  ‘What other purpose do they have for coming? They are unusual representatives of the British government. Why did they free Moha Hassan al-Barouni? Where are they now?’ her father said. Magda paused in thought. She, too, would like to know the answers to those questions.

  ‘Father, I do not know,’ she said.

  Magda sipped her tea and her father watched her. She looked up and smiled.

  ‘Will you include the right of every woman to an education, to employment, to vote?’ she asked. Magda was excited. Nasser, her father, smiled.

  ‘I will include everything that is important and necessary,’ he said. ‘Yes, and everything you campaigned and fought for.’

  ‘A constitution must benefit all and bestow freedom equally,’ Magda said. Seriousness had replaced excitement. ‘Will you use the American constitution as a guide…as a place to start?’

  ‘I have already begun my preparations,’ he said.

  ‘Please, father, tell me about it,’ she said.

  While Magda listened to her father talk about his constitutional vision for the future of Libya, she found her mind wandered to thoughts of Mr. Hayes. Why had he really come to Libya?

  While growing up political discussions with her father were regular occurrences. Often, they had discussed the merits of federalism and the benefits they believed it would bring. Always a debate ensued about extremists. Would they ever accept a federalist state? Her father was a clever man, but intelligent reasoning cannot change the mind of those unwilling to hear.

  On the journey back to Britain Magda determined to speak more with Mr. Hayes. Even pe
rhaps to ask him some questions. Although, she doubted he would answer them.

  Her father had stopped talking. They heard the sound of someone entering the house.

  ‘It will be Jamaal,’ Nasser said. ‘He has returned quickly to see his beloved sister.’

  Both Magda and her father watched for Jamaal with smiles. A noise from the open, outside doorway made them both turn their heads to look.

  A man stood in the entrance. His face was covered and he held an assault rifle. The smiles vanished. Magda screamed. The man rushed inside and Nasser stood up to confront him. Magda stood, too. She was frightened. Then a second man entered the room. He hurried through the internal door. His face was also covered. Nasser struggled with the first man who pushed him away and then raised the rifle butt. Using both hands, he struck Nasser in the face. It was a powerful blow and Nasser fell to the floor. Magda screamed again. The second intruder pulled a hood over her head and then together the two men manhandled her outside to a waiting van. Magda struggled, but without vision, the disorientation hampered her efforts and the two men were young and strong. They lifted her into the van and Magda heard the doors bang shut. Immediately, the van drove away.

  The fear made it hard for Magda to breathe.

  8 Both your friend and your enemy think you will never die.

  The reason I went down and almost lost consciousness was that a bullet had struck my torso on the left side below the breastplate and bottom rib. Despite the ballistics vest, which undoubtedly saved my life, it felt like someone had hit me with a hard-faced ball-peen hammer. I wished I could manage without breathing for a few hours. I swallowed three painkillers and hoped they would quickly take effect.

  After driving fast through the city for several miles, Mick found a secure place that seemed deserted. He stopped behind an unused warehouse.

  All three of us looked at the dead body of our friend. He must have died from cardiac arrest caused by the massive blood loss. The flying object that struck his neck had obviously severed an artery. Without immediate medical treatment by a surgeon or a doctor who knew how to stop the bleeding Banksy was never going to survive. We had all seen comrades die. I had seen many. For a while, none of us spoke. Cakes broke the silence.

  ‘As covert missions go this one stinks,’ he said. He was right. ‘Who set us up?’ None of us knew the answer.

  ‘I’ll call London,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, call London,’ Cakes said and then gave a personal message that he wanted me to pass on. He voiced how we each felt.

  Jerry Lombroso answered the call in his confident, dependable manner. I fought to keep my temper.

  ‘Suleiman Al Bousefi didn’t show,’ I said, ‘but twenty guys with assault rifles did.’

  ‘What happened?’ Jerry asked.

  ‘We got away, but Banks is dead,’ I said. Jerry took a deep breath and then fell silent. ‘You told me the intelligence was good and that the operation was secured.’

  ‘Yes, that was my belief,’ he said. ‘Through our Libyan network, their connections assured us…’ I interrupted him.

  ‘Well, assurances or not something went wrong,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, so it would seem. It’s unfortunate. We really wanted the “Al Bousefi” problem to go away.’ Jerry paused. ‘I’m sorry about Banks,’ he said.

  ‘We’re going to bring him back with us,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Jerry replied.

  ‘We can rendezvous with the helicopter at the agreed point in forty-five minutes,’ I said. ‘Can you have it there in forty-five minutes?’

  ‘The Wildcat is sitting on the ship awaiting instructions,’ Jerry said. ‘Forty-five minutes is not a problem.’

  ‘We’ll collect Magda on the way,’ I said.

  ‘At least that part of the mission was a success,’ Jerry said. I ended the call.

  ‘It’s all set. Let’s get Magda and then get to the rendezvous point,’ I said.

  Mick continued to drive. Cakes sat in the front and navigated. Banksy and I were together in the back. It gave me a chance to remember and to say goodbye. It gave me time, also, to question whether I could have seen the man with the RPG sooner. Could I have prevented him from firing? Conjecture, I realised, was pointless. It always is. So, too, is remorse.

  I began to wonder how Suleiman Al Bousefi had found out about us. Someone must have told him. I wondered who that someone was. As the mission was over and that in under an hour a Wildcat helicopter would be flying us over the Med away from Libya to an awaiting ship I decided not to think any more about it.

  ‘How far out are we?’ I said.

  ‘…less than a mile,’ Cakes said.

  ‘Hayes, even though we didn’t get this Al Bousefi character we still get paid, right?’ Mick asked.

  ‘…right. Provided we returned Moha alive to his father and got Magda to her father’s house the deal was payment with or without killing Al Bousefi.’

  ‘Good,’ Cakes said and then paused. ‘What happens to Banksy’s share?’

  ‘You know the code,’ I said. ‘We divide his share equally between the three of us.’

  ‘What are we going to do with his body?’

  ‘We’ll take it with us to the ship. They’ll give him a naval burial-at-sea,’ I said.

  ‘This is the street,’ Mick said. It was easy to recognise from the trees and the walls. They had a distinctive North African charm. Mick pulled up outside the house.

  ‘Wait here while I get her,’ I said.

  Nobody inside the house responded to the intercom buzzer on the wall and then I noticed the heavy wooden gate was ajar. Mick and Cakes were watching me through the open driver’s door window.

  ‘Mick, stay with the car. Cakes, you take a look round the back, see if you can get in that way.’

  The Glock pistol was in my waistband beneath the djellaba, which now sported an eye-catching bullet hole. The blood of my dead friend completed the look. I fitted the suppressor, chambered a round and then went carefully through the open gate.

  Ahead, the front door was open. I walked up to it, looked inside and listened… silence. Carrying the Glock two-handed and raised, I entered slowly. The rooms were quiet and empty. At the back, I found a room bright with natural light. Through the open, outside door the sun’s rays fell across a chair like an honoured guest.

  Seated in one of the other chairs was Nasser Jbara, Magda’s father. A young man stood close beside him.

  Aiming the Glock, I stepped forward. My feet were soundless. Nevertheless, the young man turned his head. He was fast. Two or three rapid steps and he had reached me. His speed was fortunate or I might have shot him. Using both hands, he tried to grab my arms. With one-step, I turned away and using my free hand grasped his closest wrist and pulled hard. To the sound of Nasser’s voice saying, ‘Jamaal, no,’ I sent him tumbling to the floor. He was just as fast to get up. Nasser shouted again. The young man stopped and stared.

  ‘Jamaal, this is one of the men that brought your sister,’ Nasser said.

  Cakes appeared in the open doorway. I motioned with my hand and he lowered the LMG.

  Nasser had an injury to his face. A solid object had connected painfully with his cheek, nose and eye. His bruised and swollen features stared back at me. The gash below his eye was going to scar.

  ‘Where’s Magda?’ I said. Despite the misshapen face, Nasser’s expression was easy to read.

  ‘Two men came…’ Nasser said. I interrupted him.

  ‘…when?’

  ‘…twenty minutes ago, perhaps longer,’ he said.

  ‘Did you recognise them?’

  ‘No, they covered their faces. It happened before I could…’ He stopped unable to speak the words. Jamaal went to his father and put an arm around him.

  The emotion I felt was anger. Not only had someone set us up, but someone had set up Magda, too.

  ‘Who’s taken her? Do you know?’

  ‘Extremists, fanatics… I don’t know,’ Nasser said.
His face contorted with desperation and despair. ‘Can you find her? Can you save her?’ He lifted his head and focused. ‘You are hurt,’ he said.

  ‘No, it’s not my blood,’ I said.

  Earlier, in the car, I had not thought it necessary to discover who had betrayed us. I had considered the mission over. Making the rendezvous with the Wildcat was my only concern. Now, with the desperate face of Nasser Jbara waiting for an answer to the question of whether I could save the life of his daughter, I was not so sure. Nasser and Jamaal would have to wait. Using the satellite phone, I called Jerry Lombroso.

  ‘We’ve got a problem,’ I said. ‘Two men came to the Jbara house. They’ve taken Magda.’ Jerry breathed in and then went quiet.

  ‘Oh,’ he said eventually. ‘I see.’

  To avoid Nasser and Jamaal hearing I walked past Cakes and went outside.

  ‘What intelligence do you have?’ I said. ‘I didn’t push it before because I thought the mission was over, but now if you want her back you’re going to have to come up with something good.’

  ‘…want her back,’ Jerry said repeating my words.

  ‘Yes. Nasser is not going to write a constitution and help you get a political agreement with all the tribal groups if the extremists murder his daughter and then stick it on YouTube,’ I said.

  ‘Well, he may do. Grief can sometimes produce unlikely behaviour,’ Jerry said. ‘Perhaps it could make him more determined to effect change inside in his broken country.’ Having seen the expression on Nasser Jbara’s face only seconds earlier, I thought Jerry’s hope was not very likely.

  ‘Distant hills look green,’ I said.

  ‘What?’ Jerry said.

  ‘I don’t know if you’re a gambler or an optimist,’ I said.

  ‘I’m neither,’ Jerry replied. If losing Magda concerned Jerry Lombroso, his voice hid it well.