by Mark Arundel
Moha glanced back before straightening his legs. He patted the donkey as he passed and under his breath said, ‘I know how you feel, my friend.’ Then Moha ran across the open ground to the sunlit steps, bounded up without stopping and felt the dark, coolness of sanctuary. The big man would not find him now. Inside the mosque, Moha was safe.
After leaving the parked BMW and crossing the street, I quickened my pace towards the café and its outside tables. With a clear view of Benjamin Chase’s covered head, I approached with only one stop to scan the area. Not seeing anything of concern, I continued.
The seat on which Moha had sat was still warm. Chase jerked his head and his widened eyes stuck to my face like burst bubble-gum.
‘Hello, Benjamin,’ I said. ‘What sort of day are you having?’ Chase spun his head anxiously to see whether I was alone and then regained his composure before turning back and giving me a friendly smile.
‘I’m not going to ask how you found me,’ he said, ‘but it’s very impressive.’
‘…dumb luck,’ I explained, but I could tell he thought I was kidding. ‘No, really, I was looking for Moha Hassan.’ The friendly expression that Benjamin Chase had set on his face faltered.
‘Now, look Hayes,’ he said. ‘It really is time you went home.’
‘You work for London, for British Intelligence,’ I said. ‘Whatever’s going on, you’re controlling it this end.’
Chase shook his head slowly and gave me a bemused expression as if he found my behaviour unfathomable. ‘You were hired to do a job,’ Chase said. His voice was low and steady and without blame. ‘That job is complete. It’s a success. Collect your pay and go home.’
‘What about Steven Banks?’ I said.
‘Oh, come on… surely, that goes with the job,’ Chase replied. ‘And do not think London mislead you or betrayed you because they didn’t.’ This was a new Benjamin Chase. No longer was he the junior diplomat, the functionary with an unwanted task to perform, but a confident, capable man in control of events and operating at the highest level of international espionage. I preferred the earlier version.
‘London didn’t tell me everything,’ I said.
‘They told you everything you needed to undertake and successfully complete the job for which they employed you.’ Benjamin Chase took a breath. It almost ended in a sigh. ‘My first overseas posting was in Istanbul,’ he said. ‘On the day I arrived, the man in charge there told me something. He told me to never share information you don’t have to, and expect everyone else to do the same.’
‘Do you know where Magda is?’ I said.
‘…Magda?’ he echoed.
‘Yes, Magda Jbara. Do you know where she is?’
‘Hayes, just go home, please. If you stay here any longer you’re going to start getting in the way and nobody wants that.’
‘Magda Jbara might,’ I said. Benjamin Chase stood up and placed a dinar note under his teacup.
‘London won’t give you a second chance,’ he said. ‘If you mess this up you’ll never work for them again.’ I smiled.
‘Thanks for the career advice,’ I said. He turned and I watched him walk away.
Arriving back at the BMW I found Cakes already there, alone. ‘What do you mean, he got away. He’s half your size. What did he do run through your legs?’ My unhappiness was mainly because without Moha Hassan any hope we had of discovering the whereabouts of Magda was gone. In addition, I wanted to see the reaction on the young man’s face when I told him we had witnessed his friends blowing up his family home with a generous amount of C4. His relationship with Benjamin Chase and the reason for their meeting was another thing he could have shared with us.
‘He ran the moment he saw me,’ Cakes said. ‘He was frightened like a jackrabbit.’
‘Why didn’t you catch him?’
‘I tried, but he disappeared inside the crowds in the market and I lost him.’
‘What did Benjamin Chase say?’ Mick asked.
‘He told me the job was over and that we should go home,’ I said.
‘Well, perhaps he’s right,’ Mick said. His words had the sound of resignation about them.
At that moment, I felt the chance of saving Magda was less than at any time before despite all our efforts, and I, too, was beginning to think our time in Libya had reached its end.
13 The person bringing good news knocks boldly at the door.
Magda Jbara felt the van stop moving and then, finally, the driver switched off the engine. How long was it since they had taken her? Her arms and knees ached from the hard surface and the restraints had rubbed sore her wrists and ankles. She needed to pee.
The sound made by the opening rear door was loud and despite the hood, the light reached her eyes. A man grasped her feet and pulled her out. He lowered her to the ground and then pulled off the hood. She narrowed her eyes and blinked against the brightness.
‘Where am I?’ she said.
‘Shut up,’ the man said. There were three of them. Each one had a beard and each wore a black djellaba held at the waist by a cord. Magda’s eyesight quickly adjusted to the afternoon sunlight and then she looked at the place to which they had brought her. A high wall enclosed the space where she stood and the men had already closed the heavy wooden doors through which they must have driven. The air felt warm and she wondered whether they had travelled inland. She glanced at the sun and knew it would be falling to the west. Knowing that did not help. With her ankles tied, it was hard to balance and she toppled over against the van.
‘Cut her loose,’ the man said. Magda realised he was the leader of the three. Probably the eldest as he had the biggest beard, although, none of them looked older than twenty-five.
The leader pushed her roughly towards the arched entrance. Free of her shackles Magda’s arms and legs regained some feeling and she managed to walk without stumbling. Her headscarf had moved and she lifted her hands to reposition the amber silk and retie it under her chin.
‘Get inside,’ the man said and pushed her again.
Behind the tall, studded door was a dark and cool antechamber with marble flooring and a ceiling that rose up through a circular, glass roof all the way to an empty blue sky.
‘Follow me,’ he said. Magda walked behind him along a bare corridor lit only by an occasional low wattage bulb. The other two men followed a few steps back.
Within its thick walls, the building was quiet. It possessed a serene character, Magda thought, like an old woman of wisdom and experience.
‘In here,’ the man said. He unlocked the solid wooden door and they entered a bedroom. It surprised Magda. Did she expect these men to lead her to a bedroom?
‘Why have you brought me here?’ she said. Her voice quivered slightly despite the effort she made to maintain an aloof poise. The leader moved over to the large bed. The cream and white linen was pristine. Magda noticed the wrought iron bars at the windows and fear fluttered through her body and made her muscles tense involuntarily.
‘The bathroom is through there,’ he said and pointed. ‘Clean yourself and then put on these clothes.’ He opened the wardrobe door. ‘Do not think of escape. There is nowhere for you to go. Just do what I say and then wait.’ The men left the bedroom and Magda heard the key turn and knew they had locked the door and made the room her prison cell.
Curiosity, immediately, replaced some of the fear. What clothes did they want her to wear? She went to the wardrobe and examined them. The dress was full and long, a swathe of expensive material, silver, elegant and beautiful. The fingers of angels, Magda thought, must have worked the embroidery such was its intricacy. The matching hijab, too, was exquisite, and the slippers, sewn from the finest silk, drew her touch.
Leaving the clothes, she moved to the open bathroom door and looked inside. Everything was very clean. A folded towel waited expectantly beside the big bath and someone had laid out a selection of toiletries.
Magda adjusted her clothing and sat down on the toilet seat. While she p
eed, she rubbed her sore wrists and thought about the oddness of her situation. Why had these armed men kidnapped her and why did they want her to bathe, change into an exquisite dress and then wait… wait for what?
The inside of the van in which she had spent such an uncomfortable time had smelled of engine oil and fish. Now, Magda realised, so did she.
The barred windows were set high so Magda pulled over a chair. Standing on tiptoes and with a raised chin, she was just able to look out. The view was of an internal courtyard. On two sides, Magda saw walls of blocked stone that made a continuation of the building. The other side was an external wall inset with a double gate. It was high like the building, but over it, just below the blue horizon, Magda saw a long yellow strip. It was uninterrupted. The sand was all Magda could observe. She strained to see further to the west and stretched her body. Her reward was a glimpse of a white building. It was at least a mile away, but it was there.
Running water gushed from the mixed tap and splashed noisily into the white bathtub. Magda undressed and then selected scented oil and poured it from the bottle into the steaming water.
She submerged her head and held her breath, then re-emerged, eyes shut with hot water cascading from her hair and face.
Lying back, the water covered her body and scented the warm air that fanned her face. She closed her eyes, but relaxation was impossible. The unease clawed at her conscious thought and disquiet from the unknown burdened like a demon. What were they going to do to her?
The generous towel soaked up the water and Magda held it in her hands and rubbed her hair vigorously.
Naked, she padded through to the wardrobe where she took out the clothes and then laid them neatly on the bed.
Magda brushed her hair and while it finished drying, she stretched out on the crisp linen. Mr. Hayes entered her thoughts and she felt under her arm where London had placed the tracker implant. Did they know where she was? Would they send anybody to rescue her?
The dress fitted well. So, too, did the slippers. Magda examined the hijab. It was very lovely. The soft fabric, decorated with swirls of embroidered silk, folded and hung with an easy grace and elegance. She positioned the garment on her head, arranged the folds around her shoulders and then fastened the material across her face. It left only her eyes showing. They were the eyes of a frightened young woman. Magda took a long breath. I will be brave.
Thankfully, the wait was not too long. When she heard the key turn in the lock, Magda stood up and watched the door with anxious curiosity and a sense of dread.
The man who came in was the same one from earlier. He looked at Magda and she sensed he was pleased she had followed his orders. He remained at the door and held it open. Magda watched expectantly. A man entered the bedroom. He stopped and his expression was hard to read and then he said, ‘Hello, Magda. It pleases me to see you again.’ Magda knew the man and recognised his cold countenance instantly. It was Suleiman Al Bousefi.
‘Suleiman…’ Magda said. She fought to keep her voice neutral. The surprise and confusion came in a rush. ‘What… Why have you brought me here?’ He waved the other man away. The door shut and they were alone. Magda could not help noticing the clothes that Suleiman Al Bousefi wore. They complimented hers.
‘I expected you to return one day,’ he said. ‘Being away from your father and brother must have been hard.’ He stepped closer. Slowly, he put out his hand and unfastened the veil. The material fell away from Magda’s face. Suleiman stared at her. ‘You are lovelier than ever.’
‘How did you know I had returned?’ Magda asked.
‘It is not important.’ He waved away the question. ‘If only your father had not rejected my proposal…’
‘Suleiman, it was me not my father. I was the one who did not want…’
‘Do not lie to me to protect your father,’ he said. ‘I have only spared him because I knew one day you would return to see him. And here you are.’ His features almost lightened and Magda felt the chill of a fear not yet formed, but very real. ‘I am an important man, now. Did you hear The Brotherhood have made me their leader? Together, we shall deliver Libya into a fully Islamic state and with it enforce Islamic law.’
‘Suleiman, why are you wearing those clothes?’ Magda said and then in helping answer her own question added, ‘And why did you want me to wear this dress?’
‘I have the imam here. He is waiting for us,’ Suleiman said.
‘…the imam,’ Magda echoed. ‘Why do you have the imam waiting for us?’
Suleiman put out his hand, gripped Magda’s upper arm and pulled her closer. ‘…because, Magda, the imam is going to marry us,’ he said.
14 Your son is your son today, but your daughter is your daughter forever.
Heavy traffic through the centre of Zawiya had slowed and then stopped and now, we were stuck in a jam. The narrow intersection resembled a “bumper cars” track with the electricity turned off. Cakes hit the horn in frustration, but all he achieved was to prompt a volley of horns that only died away once, it seemed, everyone had had a turn.
The main problem, other than the volume of traffic that was trying to pass through a narrow crossroads, was a delivery truck that was blocking one of the exit routes. The snarl-up was going to last until someone moved it.
While we waited, the BMW’s climate control provided a welcome cocoon from the foul air of fumes, heat and dust that must have been building up around us. Pedestrians moved between and alongside the stationary vehicles with an indifference that told me the present situation was far from unique.
‘We should have avoided the city centre,’ Cakes said breaking the silence.
‘You’re driving,’ Mick said and checked his wristwatch before returning to his phone, the screen of which he was studying with great attention.
‘We’re still over a mile away from the Jbara house,’ Cakes said. He sat back in the driver’s seat and watched the passing Libyan people through the UV tinted glass. ‘There’s a man walking a goat.’
‘Perhaps the goat is walking the man,’ Mick said without looking up.
‘Banksy would have laughed at that,’ Cakes said.
‘Banksy laughed at anything.’
After a pause, Cakes said, ‘Do you ever think about your own death?’
‘Only when someone’s trying to kill me,’ Mick said.
‘…most of the time, then,’ I said.
‘Yes, but it only seems to happen when I’m with you.’
‘Sometimes I think about all the people I’ve killed,’ Cakes said.
‘Why?’ Mick said. ‘They’re not thinking about you.’
‘Do you remember, in Mali, when we called in that airstrike?’ Cakes said. ‘We killed over a thousand people that day.’
‘No, we didn’t,’ Mick said, ‘the Mirage fired air to ground missiles did.’
‘Do you ever regret leaving the Legion?’ Cakes asked.
‘I will do,’ Mick said, ‘if London doesn’t pay us.’
‘They’ll pay,’ I said. ‘And they’ll give us more work. They always have jobs for men like us. Claudia says that the Chief’s decisive personality is notorious among people inside the intelligence service.’
‘Well, the next time we undertake the Chief’s “decisive action” I hope it doesn’t involve an ambush or it won’t just be Banksy that’s dead.’
The driver of the delivery truck jumped into the cab and pulled shut the door. I watched as the vehicle lurched forward with diesel fumes blowing from the exhaust like a puffing dragon.
‘We’re moving,’ Cakes said and blasted the horn in celebration. A series of horn blasts from everyone else followed while we pulled away slowly like a carnival parade. The road opened up ahead and we drove on.
‘There’s a garage,’ Cakes said. ‘I’m going to stop and refuel.’ He slowed the BMW, steered off the straight road, bumped over the slip lane, and parked on the forecourt.
‘I’ll do it,’ I said. ‘Stay in the driver’s seat and keep t
he engine running.’
‘Why? Aren’t you going to pay?’ Cakes said.
‘Open the fuel cap,’ I said.
‘Where’s the lever on these cars?’
I fitted the nozzle and squeezed tight the handle. The pump whirred into life. A teenager wearing a dirty shirt and with a head of thick, unruly hair appeared in front of me. After watching me for a second, he spoke in Arabic. I think he was telling me I was doing him out of a job. After checking the numbers on the display, I gave the redundant pump attendant more than enough cash and then passed him the nozzle to put back. He took it and then spoke to me again in Arabic. As before, he received only silence in return.
The passenger door closed solidly behind me and then Cakes drove us away from the garage and back onto the straight road. On the backseat, the screen of Mick’s phone continued to occupy all his attention. I was going to ask him a question but decided to leave him uninterrupted. Cakes, I noticed, was frowning in what I supposed was a troubled reflection.
‘What’s wrong?’ I said.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘We’re almost at the Jbara house.’ Actually, we still had over a quarter of a mile to go, but I desisted from saying so. I had my own thoughts. What was the relationship between Benjamin Chase and Moha Hassan al-Barouni?
I was still considering the possibilities to that perplexing question when Cakes stopped the car on the street outside the Jbara house.
‘Mick, with me; Cakes, stay with the car,’ I said.
‘I’ll stay with the car,’ Mick said. ‘I want to carry on with this.’ His concentration remained fixed on the screen of his phone.
‘All right, but keep alert,’ I said. ‘Cakes, let’s go.’
The intercom buzzer on the wall beside the gate produced an Arabic response. ‘It’s Hayes,’ I said. The entrance unlocked and Cakes and I went inside. Father and son, Nasser and Jamaal Jbara, were already standing apprehensively at the open door of their family home.
Nobody had anything to gain from not facing the cold, hard truth. I walked up to them and said, ‘We haven’t been able to find Magda. I’m sorry.’ It was tough for them. Their stoic faces tightened and I could see the pain beneath as the despair from my pronouncement settled like a gravestone.