by Mark Arundel
‘What happened with the man you caught, the man I spoke to?’ Jamaal asked. His words were fast and desperate.
‘He took us to the place,’ I said, ‘but Magda wasn’t there.’
‘He may have lied. Let me speak to him again.’
‘Jamaal, the man is dead.’
They both struggled with the emotional pain of their plight and fought back unnecessary words. The silence of both father and son was harder to face than anger or tears. The responsibility for Magda’s abduction was difficult to apportion. Blame is not always a simple matter. Perhaps it was the fault of London, but Magda did return to Libya without coercion. She knew the risk. Nevertheless, knowing of the involvement of British Intelligence and the organisations reputation for deceitfulness I decided to reserve judgement. Anyway, blame was only one-step away from vengeance and as a clever man once said, “An eye for an eye leaves everybody blind.”
Having already made our decision we wanted to collect Banksy and leave immediately.
‘We’ll get the body of our friend and then we must go,’ I said.
‘Is there nothing more you can do for us?’ Nasser asked. I shook my head.
‘Mr. Hayes, please, there must be something you can do,’ Jamaal said.
‘We don’t know where Magda is and we don’t have any way of finding out,’ I said.
‘London,’ Nasser said, ‘cannot London help?’ Telling them it was likely London was directly preventing us from locating Magda and that our contact was adamant we pull out of Libya and return home was not going to help.
‘London cannot help,’ I said.
‘Have you spoken to Moha Hassan al-Barouni?’ Nasser asked.
‘Why do you think he can help?’ Cakes said. Up until then Cakes had remained silent. His frown, if anything, had deepened and appeared set like a gargoyle, a gorgon or something horrible beginning with “g”.
‘He is young and foolish in his beliefs,’ Nasser said. ‘The extremists can always make use of such men. They get them to spill blood, many times, their own. He may know where they have taken Magda.’
‘We tried to speak to him,’ I said, ‘but he ran off and we lost him.’ I glanced at Cakes whose eyes almost disappeared beneath the heavy overhang of his stony brow. ‘We don’t know where he is.’
‘Is he not at his family home?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘he’s definitely not there.’
‘But you freed him. Why did you do that?’ For a second, I considered not answering Jamaal’s question, but only for a second.
‘Saving him from the firing squad and returning him safely to his father was our primary objective,’ I said.
‘He must have told the extremists that Magda had returned home,’ Jamaal said. ‘What other objectives did you have?’
‘…to bring Magda here to her father.’
‘Did not London realise the danger for Magda of Moha Hassan al-Barouni knowing she had returned?’ Nasser said. It was an interesting question.
‘Do you know where your daughter might be?’ Cakes said.
A forlorn expression turned to brave despair and then resignation. ‘No, I do not,’ Nasser said. The silence that followed was empty acceptance.
‘We must get our friend’s body,’ I said.
Nasser led us along the corridor, through the closed door and then down the narrow stone steps that turned back on themselves. The cellar was cool and dark. On a wooden bench lay the shrouded corpse of our friend.
‘I have washed his body and wrapped it in cloth. It is the Muslim custom,’ Nasser said. ‘I did not know if you would return. He is ready for burial.’ It was a kind act and not one Nasser had had to do. The selfless humanity lifted the frown and Cakes, I could see, had respect for Nasser’s deed.
All true professional soldiers show honour towards the dead no matter what. The Legion’s honour code is strong and every legionnaire learns it so they can recite it from memory. One of the seven articles of the code reads, Au combat, tu agis sans passion et sans haine, tu respectes les ennemis vaincus, tu n'abandonnes jamais ni tes morts, ni tes blessés, ni tes armes (In combat, you act without passion and without hate, you respect defeated enemies, and you never abandon your dead, your wounded or your arms.) Just like every legionnaire, Cakes had great respect for the Legion’s code of honour.
Cakes and I carried Banksy back up the stone steps, along the corridor and out through the open front door. Nasser and Jamal followed us into the brightness of the courtyard.
‘These are your friend’s clothes and the things he had in his pockets and on his body,’ Nasser said and held up a large plastic bag.
Jamaal opened the gate and we went through. Mick had moved into the driver’s seat and the screen of his phone still held all his attention.
‘Mick, open the boot,’ I said. He pulled the catch making the boot lid spring obediently upwards. Cakes and I placed Banksy inside between the kit and the equipment. Cakes took the plastic bag from Nasser’s hand and fitted it along the side by forcibly pushing it into the tight available space. I shut the boot lid and then looked at Nasser and Jamal Jbara. Words did not come easily.
The new Libyan constitution, which London and Magda wanted Nasser to write and present in Tripoli came to mind, but I decided to leave it unmentioned. London could deal with it, I thought. It was their problem.
Nasser held out his hand and Cakes and I shook it. Jamal followed his father and we shook his hand, as well. ‘God is with you,’ Nasser said.
I nodded and said, ‘Goodbye.’ Mick had moved over onto the passenger seat from where he could continue with whatever it was he was doing. Cakes got into the driver’s seat and I sat in the back.
‘Cakes, take us away from here,’ I said. He glanced at me in the rear-view mirror and then drove us away. Nasser and Jamal Jbara watched us leave. It was pointless for me to look back. We reached the end of the street and Cakes braked for the junction.
‘Shall I head towards the rendezvous point?’ he said.
‘Yes, I’ll call London, speak to Jerry Lombroso and set up the copter lift,’ I said. With the phone in my hand and Jerry’s number on the screen, Mick looked up with an odd expression that made me pause.
‘I’ve done it,’ he said.
‘…done what?’
‘I’ve found a piece of antivirus coding on the internet that’s located the bug and disabled it.’ Mick looked at me and grinned.
‘What does that mean? Cakes asked.
‘It means,’ Mick said, ‘that the tracker software on my phone is working again.’
Claudia Casta-Locke realised her mouth was dry and looked down at her coffee cup. It was empty. ‘Can I have another cup of coffee, please?’ she asked.
‘That’s a good idea,’ the Chief said. ‘Espionage is thirsty work.’ He lifted the crystal cut decanter and splashed a measure of scotch whisky into his empty glass. ‘Jerry, can you fire up the percolator for Claudia. Her mouth is dry.’
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Jerry said standing up. ‘I’d quite like another cup myself.’ While Jerry made the coffee, Claudia studied the Chief’s face. She watched him take a sip of whisky and was certain his right eye twinkled. The overhead light must have caused a reflection, she thought.
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ the Chief said. Claudia swallowed drily. Where was that coffee? The Chief’s phone rang. He lifted it from the table and read the display and then he took the call. ‘Manny, how nice to hear from you,’ he said and then listened intently. ‘Did he, did he really? Well, well… I did tell you he was tenacious and capable.’ The Chief was silent while Manny spoke again. ‘Are you certain he got away?’ the Chief asked. He listened again. ‘Yes, well, that’s as expected. As long as he goes through with it…’ the Chief paused. ‘Yes, I know… I have every faith in you, Manny.’ The Chief listened once more. ‘All right, we’ll talk then.’ The Chief ended the call and replaced his phone on the table. Claudia was watching him expectantly. Jerry returned to his chair carr
ying full coffee cups balanced on a silver tray. Lifting the cup Claudia blew through pursed lips before taking a delicate sip. Then she took another.
‘What did Manny say?’ Jerry asked.
‘Well, Claudia,’ the Chief said.
‘You seem to have it all worked out,’ Claudia said.
The Chief turned away from Claudia’s Gallic charm and looked at Jerry.
‘Manny called to say that Hayes had unexpectedly appeared. He sat down opposite him at a café and asked what sort of a day he was having.’
‘How did he find him?’
‘Manny doesn’t know.’
‘Uh, uh,’ Jerry said. ‘Does it change anything?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ the Chief said.
‘Why do you call Benjamin Chase “Manny”?’ Claudia asked.
‘Manny is his codename,’ the Chief said. ‘You know that.’
‘…yes, but why Manny?’
‘Oh, well, he had to have a codename and I thought Manny suited him.’
‘Is that the same reason Moha Hassan al-Barouni has the codename “Rossi”… because you thought it suited him?’
‘In the pictures I’ve seen of him he reminds me of that Italian footballer, you know, the one who scored the goals.’
‘No, I don’t know,’ Claudia said and sipped her coffee.
‘Manny said that Hayes told him he was following Rossi, which was how he came to be in the same place at the same time,’ the Chief said.
‘How did he find Rossi?’
‘That’s a good question.’
‘Did Hayes speak to Rossi?’ Jerry asked.
‘No, Manny said that Rossi got away.’ The Chief took a sip of whisky. ‘Manny said that he told Hayes again to go home.’
‘Do you think he will go home?’ Claudia asked. The Chief turned to her.
‘I very much doubt it,’ he said. ‘If my reading of Mr. Hayes is correct he’ll free Magda Jbara and get her safely out of Libya or die trying.’
Jerry Lombroso put his coffee cup back down on its saucer and an inquisitive shadow crossed his face. ‘Earlier you said that Hayes was a mercenary who was only interested in the money.’
‘Yes, that’s right, I did,’ the Chief said. ‘However, Mr. Hayes has only been a mercenary for a few hours. He was a legionnaire for much longer.’
‘What do you mean?’ Claudia asked.
‘When Mr. Hayes left the French Foreign Legion to pursue his new career he held the rank, as you know, of senior sergeant in the elite commando unit of the Legion’s second parachute regiment,’ the Chief said. ‘The Legion may not call it a Special Forces unit, but ask anyone who knows and they’ll tell you that it’s equal to any fighting force anywhere in the world. For an orphan boy from Belfast to achieve such a position he must have learnt well.’ The Chief paused and took another sip of whisky. ‘The Legion instils a particular code of honour and it’s that which makes me confident in my prediction of how Mr. Hayes will behave.’
‘What’s this code of honour?’ Claudia asked.
‘It has seven parts. I believe it is number six that states your mission is sacred. It is carried out until the end, if need be, at the risk of your own life.’
‘…but saving Magda Jbara is not his mission,’ Claudia said.
‘Isn’t it?’ the Chief said. Claudia thought she saw his eye twinkle again.
‘Have you told me everything?’
‘Now, why would I tell you everything?’ the Chief said. ‘You’re an intelligent, beautiful young woman. Telling you everything would be the work of a fool.’
‘Is that why I’m here… because you think I’m beautiful?’
‘No, you’re here because I think you’re intelligent.’
‘Why get me to ask him to leave Libya if you really want him to stay?’
‘Our psychological testing of Mr. Hayes provided some interesting results. That he is competitive is not a surprise. However, this trait creates a need to complete something once started. He finds it almost impossible to leave anything unfinished.’
‘If you want him to rescue Magda Jbara why don’t you just tell him?’ Claudia asked.
‘I think it only fair,’ the Chief said, ‘that if a man is going to his almost certain death then he should make that decision for himself.’
‘…his almost certain death,’ Claudia echoed. ‘What haven’t you told me?’
‘I intend to have a successful outcome,’ the Chief said. ‘Operation Bonfire will not fail.’
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ Claudia said. The Chief held her eyes. He resisted the temptation to smile.
‘Perhaps you should call him again—if you’re worried—and insist he goes home.’
‘Is she still alive?’ I asked. My surprise that Mick had somehow managed to find a piece of antivirus coding on the internet that could locate and disable the tracker bug was only surpassed by my need to know the answer to the only question that mattered.
‘Yes, she is,’ Mick said.
‘Save her location coordinates in case we lose the tracker again,’ I said. ‘Where is she?’
‘She’s fifty-two miles away, almost due south,’ Mick said.
‘Fifty-two miles due south,’ I repeated. ‘There isn’t anything fifty-two miles due south. Is she moving?’
‘No, she’s stationary.’ My geographical knowledge of Libya was reasonably strong. Her captors were holding Magda somewhere isolated.
‘The closest big town is Bir al-Ghanam,’ Mick said. ‘It’s this side of the Nafusa Mountains. It wouldn’t take us long to get there.’ His eyes lifted from the screen and settled on Cakes who remained silent.
‘Mick, will London know straightaway that we have the tracker system working again?’ I asked. He shrugged.
‘It depends on whether their system is set to automatically spot it. If not then someone will need to manually look for it.’
‘Read out the coordinates,’ I said. Mick read them out and I keyed them into my phone. After a few seconds delay, the overhead satellite imagery appeared. As I had thought, it was an isolated location in the foothills of the Nafusa Mountains. I zoomed in.
‘I’ve sent the antivirus programme to your phones,’ Mick said. ‘Just open it and select “run”. When it’s finished you can restart the tracker software.’ Cakes had still not spoken. I studied the aerial image of the building.
‘Cakes, what do you make of this building?’ I asked and passed him my phone. He studied the image for a moment and then passed it back. He maintained his silence. ‘Magda is in that building. We can be there in an hour.’
‘In an hour she may be dead,’ Cakes said. There was a pause while Mick and I waited. ‘What do we do with Banksy?’ I considered the question before I answered.
‘Returning to the Jbara house will only give them unnecessary hope,’ I said. ‘We’ll take Banksy with us.’
‘The building has an enclosure, which is probably an outer wall,’ Cakes said. ‘And the roof has a walkway that guards probably use as a barricade.’ He was right. I had seen the same features and drawn the same conclusion, which was that the building was a fortress. It meant that a hostage-rescue attempt was high-risk. In fact, without any intelligence, it was most likely impossible.
Mick was studying the satellite imagery on his phone. He looked up with an unhappy expression. ‘The building’s footprint is over two thousand square metres,’ he said. ‘Without knowing the layout or Magda’s location…’
‘…or anything else like how many men there are waiting to shoot at us with assault rifles,’ Cakes said interrupting Mick and summarising what we were each thinking.
‘…it looks like mission impossible,’ Mick said.
‘We should still take a look,’ I said. Before either Mick or Cakes could voice an opinion on “take a look”, an incoming call on my phone interrupted us. It was Claudia.
‘They’ve let me leave,’ she said.
‘Who have?’ I asked.
�
��…the Chief and Jerry,’ she replied.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’ve just arrived at the cocktail bar at the Ritz,’ she said. ‘Did you know it was a favourite place of the legendary World War II double-agent, Dušan Popov?’
‘No, I didn’t know that. Why are you there?’
‘I needed a drink and a relaxing place from which to call you. I have some information that might help.’ Helpful information was an uplifting prospect. It was not an offer I could afford to refuse despite the faint voice in my head that questioned its authenticity. Could I trust Claudia Casta-Locke? Deciding not to answer that question, I put any doubt aside and prepared expectantly.
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Helpful information is just what we need.’ I wondered if she knew our tracker system was working again. Sharing that information with Claudia was, I decided, not necessary.
‘Benjamin Chase is an MI6 field officer who reports directly to London,’ she said. This was something I had already guessed. The news was hardly revolutionary. ‘His codename is Manny.’
‘Claudia, I’m not sure that information makes any difference,’ I said. She ignored me.
‘Moha Hassan al-Barouni is an agent… a spy… he spies for London. Benjamin Chase is his handler. His MI6 codename is Rossi. Together, Manny and Rossi have been gathering primary intelligence on the Islamic extremist group led by Suleiman Al Bousefi.’
That made sense. It explained why we had seen them together meeting at the café. In addition, it helped explain why London had hired us to save Moha from the firing squad. He was an intelligence asset. However, it made me wonder. How had Suleiman Al Bousefi known about us? Had Mahmoud al-Barouni, Moha’s father, set us up on his own or was there more to it?
‘Claudia, what was London’s objective for this mission?’ I said. ‘Was it to save Moha from the firing squad or was it to kill Al Bousefi?’
‘It was both,’ she said. ‘The two objectives were connected. You know that.’