Bonfire

by Mark Arundel

  ‘Come inside,’ the man said and opened the door wide and then stood back.

  ‘Thank you,’ Magda said and hurried in gratefully.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said. Magda followed. ‘You can wait in here while I find a telephone for you to use.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Magda said.

  The room was small with a table and chairs. Magda sat and breathed deeply. She wiped away the moisture from her forehead and then she waited. Time passed. Where was he? She stood up, went to the door and tried the handle. The young man had locked the door. She returned to her seat and waited.

  Magda heard someone turn the key in the lock and the apprehension made her breath catch. It was not the young man with a telephone. The man who entered the room was Suleiman Al Bousefi.

  Mahmoud al-Barouni pulled shut the driver’s door of his Mitsubishi 4x4 and an irritated frown deepened the two vertical lines either side of his nose.

  ‘Why did the British soldiers bring Magda Jbara with them?’ he said.

  His son, Moha Hassan, adjusted the air-conditioning and glanced at his father. It was already too hot inside the car and the journey had not yet begun.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘She didn’t tell me. Perhaps, it was to see her father.’ Mahmoud frowned again.

  ‘Yes, perhaps,’ he said. ‘If only we had killed them. Then my worry would be gone.’

  Cut from the finest linen and silk, the clothes of both men befitted the occasion to which they travelled. The journey south was unplanned. The call to Mahmoud from his friend and leader, Suleiman, had been unexpected. “Come at once. I am to marry.” The surprising words were still in Mahmoud’s head and were one more thing about which he worried. Always, his friend had desired the daughter of Nasser Jbara.

  The deal with the British for the life of his son had been simple. It was a life for a life. The double-cross, too, had been simple. Perhaps, too simple, Mahmoud, thought. What was he missing? He looked at his son and frowned.

  ‘Always, you want it cold,’ he said. ‘Today, it is not even hot. Sometimes, I wonder if you are really Libyan.’

  ‘I am Libyan,’ Moha said. ‘I am Libyan, always.’ Mahmoud turned away from his son and accelerated the Mitsubishi. He wanted to get there. The worry was heavy in his stomach like the leg of an old goat.

  Suleiman was rushing the marriage. Mahmoud could guess the reason. They should have declared the marriage publicly. To undertake a marriage in secret was not the custom. Some people, important people, may disapprove. Such irresponsible behaviour by Suleiman was not appropriate for a leader. It was the result of lust and it worried Mahmoud. He prayed to Allah and drove faster.

  ‘Why are you driving fast?’ Moha asked. ‘Usually, you drive too slowly.’

  ‘Was Magda Jbara any different?’ Mahmoud asked. ‘Has the time in England changed her?’

  ‘No, she is the same,’ Moha said. ‘Her eyes are still the eyes of a temptress.’ Mahmoud knew very well the striking eyes of Magda Jbara. He did not need a reminder from his son.

  ‘Do not talk like that,’ Mahmoud said. Silence followed the rebuke. Moha broke it.

  ‘We must stop for fuel,’ he said and pointed at the gauge on the dashboard. Beside it, the red warning light shone brightly.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Mahmoud said. ‘We will soon stop.’

  The bomb had been Suleiman’s idea. Your son, Moha Hassan, is a fugitive… a wanted man. Police and security will be looking for him, and the British, after your betrayal, will be looking for you. They will come to your house. It is your home no more. You cannot live there again, but we, the Brotherhood, can make use of it...

  On the southern edge of the city, Mahmoud pulled off the road into the station and stopped the car beside the pump to refuel.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Mahmoud said. Moha looked back over his shoulder.

  ‘To buy chocolate,’ he said.

  ‘Buy water, also,’ Mahmoud said and then added, ‘get the triangular shaped chocolate.’

  Inside the shop, Moha walked past the counter to the end and then turned along the far aisle between the open sacks of rice and tinned fish. From his pocket, he took a phone, glanced at it, pushed the buttons and then held it to his ear. He looked back along the aisle before he stepped away concealed behind the shelves of colourful spices.

  ‘Yes,’ the man said answering the call in Arabic.

  ‘It is happening just as you said. I do not know the location but it is one hour’s drive south. We are leaving the city now.’

  ‘Good,’ the man said. ‘Call again when you know what it is we need.’ Moha ended the call and returned the phone to his pocket.

  At the counter, he paid for the water and the chocolate. Outside again the afternoon sunshine made him squint. He walked towards the car. Seated already behind the steering wheel his father watched his son and revved the engine.

  ‘Hurry,’ Mahmoud said. ‘We must make haste with our journey.’

  The tyres lifted dust from the tarmac. A warm breeze carried the dirt cloud high and then it vanished into a pale and empty sky.

  Moha snapped the triangular shaped chocolate bar between his hands and gave his father the smaller piece. They ate the chocolate and drank the water in silence.

  Benjamin Chase heard the connection end and without pause for thought, made the call.

  ‘I’ve just spoken to Rossi. He and his father are leaving the city and driving south,’ Chase said. He could tell from the background echo that London had the call on speakerphone. ‘Their destination is around one hour away.’

  ‘Good, that matches with the tracker signal we have,’ Jerry said. ‘It looks like we have confirmation of our location.’

  ‘Manny,’ the Chief said, ‘I want to be certain, you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Chief,’ Chase replied, ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good,’ the Chief said. ‘Well, Manny, keep us informed.’

  Jerry ended the call and he and the Chief looked at their screens. Both men checked on the location of Magda’s signal and then they checked on the signal of Hayes.

  Every sea was different. Each had its own personality and appearance just like people. Some were aggressive, hostile and cruel. Others, like this one, were easy-going, friendly and considerate.

  Captain Robert Harding looked out from the captain’s seat over the bridge of the Royal Navy assault ship to the Mediterranean’s calm waters and felt at ease. The falling afternoon sun provided a show of dancing white lights on the blue surface that gave comfort to a career sailor. The Royal Navy considers the officer in command of any ship to be the “captain” even if that officer holds a different rank. Robert Harding liked it when people called him “captain”. He would command a ship for as long as they let him. The captain’s seat brought him happiness, much more than senior rank, no matter how senior.

  He answered the call through his digital earpiece. ‘I was beginning to think I wasn’t going to hear from you,’ he said.

  ‘We have an unconfirmed location,’ the Chief said.

  ‘Give me the coordinates,’ the captain replied. The Chief read them out and the captain wrote them down. ‘When will you receive confirmation?’

  ‘It will not be for at least an hour,’ the Chief said.

  ‘All right, I’ll send her up and we’ll carry out a reconnaissance,’ the captain said.

  ‘Good. I’ll be in touch,’ the Chief said.

  Magda saw the anger in Suleiman’s eyes and it made her afraid. He stamped across the room to where she sat, roughly grabbed her upper arm and pulled her to her feet. Only the deflation she felt matched the emotion of fear. Her escape attempt had failed and after all her effort, too. I should not have stopped. I should have just kept going. Suleiman’s strong grip hurt and he shook her like a child.

  ‘Where were you going?’ he said. His harsh voice made her shrink and the scowl, which the man who would be her husband now cast, stung like the cut of a whip. ‘The nearest town is miles away. There is not
hing out there except a dirt road. Guards patrol beyond the next ridge. Trying to flee on foot is impossible.’ His scowl eased but the menace that creased his face remained. ‘This building I use as barracks for the militia, some of who form part of my personal guard. What will they think? They will think I cannot control my woman.’ His heavy shove sent Magda stumbling towards the doorway. It was unexpected. ‘All you have done is to make you wedding dress dirty and cause me unnecessary inconvenience. Guests are arriving.’ Suleiman pushed her again. ‘No one is coming to save you.’ He walked towards her. ‘No one knows you are here.’ He stopped and then took one final step. He was very close. ‘You can never escape.’ Using both hands, he grabbed her throat in an act of throttling. ‘Are you going to make me hurt you?’ His hands tightened against her windpipe. Magda struggled. ‘I will have to break your disobedient spirit.’ Magda gagged involuntarily and her hands tore at his wrists in panic. His strong arms were rigid and fixed. Big hands tightened around her soft neck and the pain felt like she was trying to swallow shards of glass. In desperation, Magda kicked out. A soft, flat wedding slipper was not an ideal weapon, but with purpose and an unyielding big toe, she managed to inflict a measure of pain to Suleiman’s shin. He acted reflexively, freeing Magda’s neck and taking a backwards step. His hand dropped and while he rubbed, he swore crudely and then lifted his face. Why is he smiling? Suleiman’s eyes held Magda’s while he slowly straightened. Run… run… The punch was controlled, fast and very hard. His fist of whitened knuckles and bone like iron sank easily and deeply into Magda’s soft, defenceless stomach. The pain was immediate and intense. Her uncontrolled gasp emptied the air from her lungs in one solid rush. Doubled at the waist she pressed both hands against the hurt and fought to breathe. Like a gulping fish, her distressed attempt to draw breath failed. The desperate heaving finally managed to pull in just enough oxygen to keep her from passing out. Magda’s lungs slowly recovered and the agony subsided. She looked up. In the face of Suleiman, she saw something that terrified her. Causing her pain had given him pleasure.

  16 It is not a delay to stop and sharpen the scythe.

  The tyres of the BMW saloon let out a disapproving snarl as Cakes spun the steering wheel and swung us around in a tight arc to face the way we had come. A van driver blew his horn in an unappreciative response to the unexpected manoeuvre.

  ‘Why didn’t London tell us Magda and Al Bousefi knew each other?’ Mick said.

  ‘…because London didn’t want us to know,’ Cakes replied.

  ‘Then, why tell us now?’

  ‘They’re not. Claudia is telling her boyfriend. It’s different.’

  ‘Is it?’ Mick said. There was a pause. ‘Do you think he’s taken her?’

  The tyres let out another disapproving snarl as Cakes applied the brakes and brought us to a stop outside the Jbara house.

  ‘Mick, stay with the car,’ I said. ‘Cakes, you’re with me.’

  ‘It’s Hayes,’ I said into the wall-mounted intercom. I heard Nasser’s voice lift in surprise and hope.

  ‘What is it? What has changed?’ he asked.

  We entered through the gate and saw Nasser and Jamaal Jbara hurrying to discover the reason for our return.

  ‘London has provided us with new information,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, yes… what is it?’

  ‘Do you know a man named Suleiman Al Bousefi?’ I asked. The line of Nasser’s mouth turned uncharacteristically thin and his expression took on the look of a glove puppet when the puppeteer makes a fist.

  ‘Yes, I know Suleiman Al Bousefi,’ he said. For a second, I thought Nasser might spit.

  ‘How do you know him?’ I asked.

  ‘He is from Zawiya,’ Nasser said. ‘I know him from my mosque… for many years… at Friday prayers…’

  ‘Does he know Magda?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, he knows her… since she was a young girl,’ Nasser said.

  ‘Did he propose marriage?’ I asked. Nasser’s grimace returned. He nodded.

  ‘Yes, before Magda fled to England.’

  ‘How did he take the refusal?’

  ‘He was very unhappy. He did not expect Magda to refuse him. He believes he is an important man, a man who deserves respect and Magda’s rejection was not what he wanted.’

  ‘Nasser, do you know that Suleiman Al Bousefi is now the leader of a large extremist group?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course, at the mosque men talk of such things. They speak of Islam and politics. We know about the extremists and we know what they want,’ Nasser said. ‘Yes, I have heard it said that Suleiman Al Bousefi is now the leader, but I hoped it was not true.’

  ‘Well, it is true,’ I said. My eyes left Nasser’s face and went to Jamaal. His action mirrored my own. ‘What do you know of this?’ I asked.

  ‘The extremists are violent and dangerous men,’ Jamaal said. ‘They want a strict Islamic state. They want power and they enjoy cruelty. The liberal views, like Magda’s, about women and society, they despise. They are not men of tolerance.’

  A clever man it did not need. Even my level of intelligence was enough to know that Magda’s abductors had acted on the instructions of their group’s leader, Suleiman Al Bousefi. As Claudia had said, a man like Suleiman Al Bousefi is probably used to getting what he wants even if it means he has to take it by force.

  ‘Do you know where Al Bousefi is holding my daughter?’ Nasser said. A question I did not want to answer. To give false hope was unkind.

  ‘Where is Suleiman Al Bousefi?’ I said. Nasser shook his head.

  ‘The leaders of the Brotherhood have a meeting place,’ Jamaal said.

  ‘Where is it?’ I asked. Jamaal’s expression was less than convincing.

  ‘South,’ he said, ‘near the mountains… on the way to Zintan.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ his father asked.

  ‘I hear men speak of it at the mosque and at the university.’

  ‘Can you find this place?’ Nasser asked. His red and blue face, which was now swollen and lopsided, showed he already knew the answer. At least he thought he did. I turned to Cakes and gave him the opportunity to answer.

  ‘We can ask London if they know the location,’ he said. It sounded strange because Cakes did not look like a diplomat.

  ‘If London knows the location of this place will you go there?’ Jamaal asked. Again, I waited for Cakes to answer.

  ‘We might take a look,’ he said.

  Back outside, Mick motioned his head at me through the open driver’s door window. ‘We’re going to put Banksy back in the cellar,’ I said. A knowing grin brought animation that was easy to read.

  Cakes and I carried the wrapped body of our friend into the Jbara house and, once again, we manoeuvred the narrow steps and placed Banksy down in the cool, dark cellar.

  ‘If we don’t come back you’ll bury him,’ Cakes said. Nasser nodded.

  ‘Yes, of course, I will,’ he said reaffirming his promise.

  ‘Nasser, I asked you before about Mahmoud al-Barouni,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ Nasser replied.

  ‘I asked you whether he was an extremist and whether he belonged to an extremist group. This time, tell me the truth. It’s important.’

  ‘I did not lie to you,’ Nasser said. He held out his hands in supplication.

  ‘Just tell me what you know.’

  ‘It is true. Mahmoud al-Barouni is a member of the Muslim Brotherhood of Libya,’ Nasser said. ‘He and Suleiman Al Bousefi know each other well. Together they work hard, determined to bring about a strict Islamic state.’

  ‘…and is Moha Hassan involved?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, of course, he obeys his father. If his father tells him to shoot at a politician in Tripoli then he does it.’ Nasser made a gesture with his hands and a sound with his tongue to convey his view that such behaviour was incomprehensible.

  Outside again, Nasser and Jamaal stared at me expectantly. ‘I’ll call you,’ I said. Saying a
nything else was pointless. Cakes remained silent.

  ‘If you need me to translate…,’ Jamaal said. ‘You can call me… you have my number.’ I thought Nasser was going to remain silent, but as we turned away to leave he said, ‘God will protect you.’

  Cakes and I left through the gate. Mick was in the driver’s seat waiting for us. ‘Has he got her?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘Are we going after him? The tracker’s still working.’

  ‘Let’s talk about it inside the car,’ I said. Cakes and I got into the BMW and I could tell we were all thinking the same thing. Cakes spoke first.

  ‘Without a realistic plan of operation it’s suicide,’ he said. He was right.

  ‘I agree,’ I said.

  ‘Then we need a realistic plan of operation,’ Mick said. ‘It’s our chance to complete the mission. We can take out Al Bousefi and free Magda at the same time.’

  ‘You’ve been watching too many Hollywood movies,’ Cakes said.

  ‘Mick’s right. We do have a chance to complete the mission,’ I said.

  ‘All right… how?’

  ‘There is a plan that might work,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, yes, what is it?’

  ‘Have you heard the saying: The enemy of my enemy is my friend?’

  The roads were wide and straight, the traffic was light and we were there in less than five minutes.

  Returning to the place where we had last seen him was our only hope of finding him without involving a third party, which I was keen to avoid. Despite my limited knowledge of espionage “trust” was something I did know had the same value as life.

  ‘Stop here,’ I said. Mick rolled the car to a halt and I lifted the binoculars. Through the open passenger seat window, I focused down the street at the apartment building behind the oleander bushes.

  ‘Is he there?’ Mick asked. From behind us, on the backseat, Cakes, too, was looking through his binoculars.