Bonfire

by Mark Arundel

  Using my knife, I prised open the lid of the end box. Inside, wrapped in clear protective covers was something I recognised immediately. It was C-4 plastic explosive. There were six blocks of the off-white deadly putty. This must have been the explosive used in the car bomb outside the al-Barouni house. It was possible that Moha Hassan had been involved in the destruction of his family home and the deliberate killing of several security officers. If that was true it was not surprising then that Wahbi Muntasser had been so keen to have his firing squad kill the nineteen-year-old.

  I prised open the next box and found the detonators together with the remote devices. The third box contained AKM assault rifle magazines.

  Cakes returned and looked inside the open boxes. ‘Is it Christmas again already?’ he said.

  ‘We’ll take these presents with us,’ I said. ‘Mick, Mick, where are you?’ I said through the CDL.

  ‘Hayes, I’ve just started back,’ Mick said. ‘You were right. He didn’t go far.’

  ‘Have you saved the location on your phone?’ I said. Through the window on the road, movement caught my eye. ‘How far away are you?’ I said and pointed so that Cakes would look through the window.

  ‘Not far,’ Mick said. ‘Five minutes.’

  ‘We’ve cleared the apartment, but we didn’t find Magda,’ I said. ‘We’ve found a box of C-4 and a box of detonators.’

  ‘…makes sense,’ Mick said. ‘They must be planning some more explosions.’

  ‘We might have a problem,’ I said.

  ‘…what problem?’ Mick said.

  ‘Wahbi Muntasser, the state security chief from this morning at the police compound, has just turned up and he’s brought a six-man SWAT team with him.’ If anything, the expression on Wahbi Muntasser’s face had worsened since the last time I saw him. The scowl had found itself a permanent home.

  ‘We have to move,’ Cakes said. ‘These men look like they want to shoot someone and I don’t want it to be me.’

  ‘Mick, approach with caution,’ I said. ‘We’ll see you in five.’ I ended the call. For a moment, I considered speaking to Muntasser but then decided against it.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Cakes said. I grabbed one of the blocks of C-4 and two detonators before following Cakes to the entrance door. Everything else I left for Muntasser to find. After having Moha Hassan snatched from under his nose and then losing his men in the bomb blast outside the al-Barouni residence, he could use a win. Perhaps it would lessen the scowl a little.

  We were too late to exit through the front. The first SWAT team members were already on the stairs.

  ‘How did Muntasser find this apartment?’ I said. It was a rhetorical question.

  ‘He asked a man who knew using a twelve-volt battery, two metal clips and the man’s balls,’ Cakes said.

  We ran with controlled haste to the door at the end of the corridor on the north side of the building. It had a glass panel and one of those automatic closers that all communal doors seem to have.

  The rear staircase was made of concrete with a simple metal handrail and walls that were bare blocks. Cakes led and I followed. He took the steps two at a time and we descended rapidly.

  When the outside door opened, Cakes had just made the turn onto the final flight of steps and I was on his shoulder.

  There were two of them, dressed the same in matching assault gear, carrying AKMS rifles and looking every bit as menacing as they probably hoped.

  Their eyes lifted and they saw Cakes. Dressed as he was in an unusually arranged djellaba with a keffiyeh on his head and holding an LMG they must have readily decided he was a bad man who posed an immediate threat. Despite appearances to the contrary, Cakes was the fastest to react. Perhaps a sound made when the door opened had given him a warning or perhaps his reaction time, which I had witnessed often before was vastly superior. Either way, Cakes fired first.

  Before his bullets struck, I had already made an angle and cradled my LMG tightly within my loving arms.

  The bulky looking body armour saved the front man’s life, but the powerful impact of the striking bullets was enough to take him down.

  The second man was quick. Had I not targeted him instantly through the narrow gap between the stairwell wall and the keffiyeh-wearing head of my friend then the outcome would have been different.

  Without a moment’s doubt, I took the shot. Other than the assault to his eardrum by the deafening noise Cakes was impervious to the closeness of the bullets to his head.

  A direct line from the gun barrel to the second man’s chest was only just possible. My aim was true and another piece of body armour repaid its purchase price.

  With both men down neither of us required a written invitation.

  ‘Let’s take their rifles,’ I said. We grabbed both assault rifles on the move and after a brief check burst silently through the door into the shade of the building with the bright early afternoon sunshine ahead turning the ground white.

  We rushed to the corner and then along the alleyway to the front. Keeping the building as cover, I searched the road. I used the CDL. ‘Mick, where are you?’ I said.

  Cakes and I heard Mick’s reply. ‘I’m still about a minute away.’

  ‘We’re going to make our way east from the apartment building along the road,’ I said. ‘Watch out for us.’

  ‘If you see a coffee shop I’m jonesing for a latte,’ Mick said.

  Wahbi Muntasser was not a man who had achieved his high position without possessing the attributes necessary for turning failure into success. His determination was commendable. However, at that particular moment, I could have done without it. As well as the six-man SWAT team inside the building, he had posted men on the perimeter. A large 4x4 and a prowling guard carrying a rifle blocked our escape route east along the road. It was too late to go back. Our only other route was west, but that would take us across the front of the building where Muntasser and another guard waited.

  ‘We need to move,’ Cakes said. I broke cover and ran low keeping the neighbouring apartment building close until I reached the nearest parked car. I signalled to Cakes. He followed the same route and joined me crouching behind a dusty Citroen.

  ‘When we move again he’s going to see us,’ Cakes said. The man was standing in front of the 4x4 watching the building and Muntasser. He appeared anxious and so did Muntasser. They must have heard our gunfire.

  The SWAT team would soon be in the apartment and find the dead men and the two members we downed would be shouting about us. We had to get away before they came out.

  ‘Mick, where are you?’ I said.

  ‘Nearly at the end of the road on the east side,’ he said.

  ‘All right, you’ll see a parked 4x4 in the middle of the road. Drive down to it and then turn around,’ I said. ‘We may need to leave in a hurry.’

  ‘Can we reach him before he can shoot?’ I said to Cakes and indicated the guard standing in front of the 4x4.

  ‘It depends on when he sees us and then how quick he is,’ Cakes said. ‘Why don’t we shoot him?’

  ‘He’s not wearing a vest,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to anger Muntasser any further by killing one of his men.’

  Behind us from the entrance to the alleyway, we heard shouting in Arabic. One of the SWAT team was venting his frustration and from where he stood, we were visible. His appearance took away any decision we may have had. Not wanting to enter into a gun battle with Muntasser’s trained guards escape beyond the 4x4 was our only alternative.

  The widest degree of angle achievable put me at the edge of the man’s peripheral vision so once I broke cover from behind the oleander bushes I had an advantage, but the distance, I judged, was not favourable.

  Cakes tapped my back and together we emerged silently into the open and then burst forward like sprinters from the blocks. The pounding of our running feet gave us away. Arabic shouting from over my shoulder alerted the guard by the 4x4 whose surprise at our appearance was insufficient to slow his reaction
time. It was only when he mishandled the assault rifle in his rush to target us that I eased my trigger finger. Cakes never dropped from my side. Our speed was by no means record-breaking, but with every lengthening stride, the distance shortened rapidly. Subtlety was an unaffordable luxury. I simply turned my upper body, led with a pointed elbow below a braced shoulder and with barely a break to my stride slammed the guard head-on. The strike was hard and solid. Both the man’s feet came off the ground and he went down without a chance to prepare for the jarring contact that followed.

  Cakes barely slowed as he glanced back. We concentrated every effort on getting past the 4x4 knowing the tall, square vehicle would afford us some cover. The prestigious means of transport fared badly as a result because the guard beside Muntasser opened fire. His range was good, but happily, his accuracy was not. The bullets slugged the bodywork and the windscreen shattered. We kept running. Fast.

  Clear of the 4x4, I searched the road for the BMW and Mick, but all I saw was empty tarmac. My eyes hunted and I spoke urgently through the CDL. ‘Mick, where are you?’ We were still running, but our speed had automatically slowed.

  ‘We must find cover,’ Cakes said. From behind, I could sense Muntasser’s men chasing after us. Cakes was right, we had to get out of sight and soon. It would only take a few seconds for our pursuers to reach a point where they would have a clear view.

  ‘I can see you in the door mirror. You’re right behind me.’ It was Mick’s voice. Where was he? I searched again, this time with even greater scrutiny and then I saw him or, at least, I saw a sliver of BMW at the roadside within a line of parked vehicles.

  ‘You parked,’ I said with astonishment and relief combining both emotions in one voice. Cakes, also, saw the saloon and we sprinted like boys having an impromptu race.

  ‘I had to turn round anyway,’ Mick said, ‘so, I decided to keep out of the way until you showed up.’ He pulled the BMW into the road and Cakes and I jumped gratefully inside.

  ‘Go, go,’ I said. Mick floored the accelerator and we sped off to the sound of fading gunfire chasing us down the road.

  ‘Who parks a getaway car?’ Cakes said.

  ‘You’re still alive, aren’t you?’ Mick said.

  ‘…not because of your driving,’ Cakes said.

  ‘I don’t see you escaping in any other way,’ Mick said.

  ‘All right, that’s enough,’ I said. The fact was that our narrow escape had been my fault and the result of my decision to send Mick after Moha Hassan. In reality, both Cakes and Mick knew that and so they should have been angry not with each other, but with me. In the hope of justifying my unprofessional decision to send Mick away and leave Cakes and me potentially stranded I asked a question. ‘Mick, where did Moha go?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter where he went,’ Cakes said. ‘This job is over and we need to get out of Libya before one or more of us get killed.’ Mick ignored Cakes and responded to my question.

  ‘It’s interesting,’ he said, ‘because Moha went to a café.’

  ‘What’s interesting about that?’ Cakes said. Again, Mick ignored him.

  ‘I watched him and he was trying to look relaxed but I could tell he was anxious. He made a call that wasn’t answered and then he made another call straight away that was.’ Mick was talking while driving and he glanced down at his phone. ‘I bet it was a meeting and a meeting that made him nervous.’

  ‘Did you see him with anyone?’ I said.

  ‘No, I left straight away and rushed back,’ Mick said.

  ‘Perhaps Moha is meeting someone who knows Magda’s location,’ I said. ‘We should go to the café and see if he’s still there. How quickly can we be there?’

  ‘No, we shouldn’t go to the café to see if he’s still there,’ Cakes said. ‘We should call London, arrange the copter lift and get out of here.’ Mick glanced down at his phone again and then back up.

  ‘We’re here,’ he said. ‘There’s the café over there.’ Mick stopped at the side of the road and pointed through the dusty windscreen at a collection of round tables on the street behind a row of palm trees that lined a row of white stone buildings. Mick had stopped a safe distance away and the palm trees provided cover.

  Was Moha Hassan al-Barouni still there? I lifted the Barr and Stroud binoculars to my eyes and scanned the outside tables. Mick did the same. Cakes waited in silence.

  ‘He’s there,’ Mick said, ‘and someone is with him. I knew it was a meeting.’ I stared through the binoculars at the figure seated opposite the nineteen-year-old in disbelief. The man meeting Moha Hassan al-Barouni was unmistakable despite the keffiyeh that covered his wavy styled hair. It was Benjamin Chase.

  Moha Hassan al-Barouni fought hard to keep the fear that threatened to overwhelm his young mind from escaping the prison he had so painstakingly built out of sweat, blood and lies.

  The Englishman seated opposite spoke softly in Arabic and his eyes held a dependable reassurance like those of a doctor giving good news to a worried patient.

  ‘Moha, everything will be all right,’ Benjamin Chase said. ‘All you have to do is follow the plan.’

  …follow the plan. Moha knew the Englishman’s words were hollow. …follow the plan. The words repeated inside Moha’s head. It was blind faith and nothing more. Ten things could go wrong… a hundred things.

  ‘What happens if the plan does not work?’ Moha said. A man walked past the table and Moha glanced up at his face and then looked away. It was nobody he knew.

  ‘You’re a clever, resourceful young man,’ Chase said. ‘I believe in you. Believe in yourself. What has happened to the brave man who, only a few hours ago, faced a firing squad?’ Moha remembered, and the agonising dread that lived inside his stomach moved like a lizard caught in the noonday sun. ‘I got you out of that and I’ll get you out of this.’ Moha swallowed. His throat was dry. He lifted the teacup to his lips and drank.

  ‘How… how can you get me out of this? It is not the same thing.’ Moha knew the promise was hollow. Could he escape? Did he want to escape?

  Another man walked past and again Moha looked up at the man’s face. The man looked back but he did not know him. He was safe. He was still safe… for now.

  Could he stay and follow the plan? He was clever, resourceful and brave. Perhaps he could make the plan work just as the Englishman said.

  ‘Here are the things you will need.’ Benjamin Chase passed across the table a brown bag. Moha pulled it onto his lap and then cautiously looked inside. ‘Do you remember the instructions?’ Chase asked. Moha looked up and nodded. ‘It’s almost over. You must keep strong.’ Moha thought the Englishman’s smile had all the comfort of the hungry stare from a desert viper. He swallowed and realised his throat was dry again. He looked down but his teacup was empty.

  ‘I must go,’ he said. The Englishman nodded and held his eyes. Moha thought again of the desert viper. He put the brown bag into his pocket and stood up. For a moment, the silence between them was louder than the Ghibli that blows from the south and brings sandstorms in the spring. Then Moha left.

  ‘Moha’s leaving,’ Mick said.

  Through the binoculars, as he walked away and left Benjamin Chase seated at the table I thought the nineteen-year-old looked despondent.

  ‘Cakes, follow Moha, bring him back to the car, but do it quietly, don’t attract any attention. Mick stay in the driver’s seat,’ I said.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m going to have a word with Benjamin Chase,’ I said.

  Moha, head down, walked back slowly to his scooter. Despite the uneasiness that came in waves and threatened to debilitate all movement in his body, he remained watchful. He lifted his head and scanned the street. The constant thought of danger and threat had heightened the senses of the nineteen-year-old and elevated his reactions to a superhuman level.

  The bustling, crowded avenue of palm trees forced Moha to stay agile while he threaded a route between the bodies towards his parked scoote
r on the edge of the square. The afternoon sunlight lifted the white buildings and fell across the ground beyond the narrow shade from the trees and walls lining the entrance to the piazza. Moha turned and cut the corner between the market stalls to where his scooter waited chained to a metal post.

  Away from the bustle and noise, the young man slowed his steps and breathed deeply. After several breaths, his head dropped. Relaxation was impossible he decided. Caution was routine and he checked up and down. He was safe. For a second, he felt someone watching. He looked again but saw nobody other than an old woman carrying a chicken. He was jumpy that was all. It was understandable. His hand felt the bag inside his pocket and then he bent down to unlock the chain that held his scooter. The presence of someone close behind was immediate. Moha spun his head and looked up. The big man blocked out the sunlight.

  ‘Hello, Moha,’ the man said. It was Cakes. He was one of the men who had helped save him. Seeing him again was a shock. How had he found him? What did he want? Fear came to Moha in a rush. The unexpected appearance and casual greeting of the big man spooked the nineteen-year-old and his instinct to flee was overwhelming. Cakes saw it in his eyes, but Moha was too quick for the big grabbing hand. Cakes swore loudly, spun on his heels and ran after the fleeing jackrabbit.

  Moha sprinted away from the wall with the sun on his back and then turned with hardly a brake to his stride into the square. He dodged past the woman carrying the chicken and took cover between the first two rows of market stalls. After a moment’s deliberation, he ran to the end and then turned diagonally and cut through the crowded bazaar. The mass of bodies slowed his progress, but he jostled and weaved a creative path, which led to an open piece of land, brightly lit and hazy with dust. Ahead, he had sight of his goal.

  Stopping to scan the area Moha kept low in the shadow beside a man selling fresh fish from an open cart pulled by a donkey. The animal brayed and then moved and strained against its harness, which rocked the cart. The man made a clicking sound with his tongue and spoke gently until the donkey settled.