by Mark Arundel
‘There’re a 4x4 and two transits still parked outside,’ he said.
‘Are you sure this is going to work?’ Mick asked.
‘Yes, I’m sure, but just in case be ready to leave in a hurry,’ I said. ‘All right, drive down and stop outside the building opposite.’
Mick drove sedately to avoid drawing any unnecessary attention. The rear doors of both transit vans were wide open as was the 4x4’s passenger door. Men wearing guard’s uniforms were carrying out bodies wrapped in bloodstained white sheets. The senior guard, a rangy man with a dark, shaven dome and a long reach that his pointing aptly demonstrated, was directing the unpleasant work. Beside the open apartment door I saw further police guards and around them milled a group of local men, some watching quietly, others debating animatedly.
Mick stopped the car and we each observed the scene. ‘Can you see him?’ Mick said.
‘No,’ I said and stepped out of the car.
‘I’ll leave the door open and keep the engine running,’ Mick said helpfully.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
The direct approach was the only one to use. I had to find out quickly if he was still there. Holding up my open British passport like a police officer displaying his warrant card, I strode confidently towards the rangy senior guard. He was alert. My movement produced a glance and then his narrow eyes settled on me in a glare of undisguised aggression. He shouted at me in Arabic, but I kept walking. He shouted again, stepped towards me and raised a long arm to gesture his annoyance. I stopped a few paces short and waved the passport encouragingly.
‘I’m British,’ I said. ‘My name is Mr. Hayes.’ Whether he understood English was not possible to tell. However, his reaction to my friendly approach was to pull the pistol he carried in a holster around his waist cowboy-style. It was a 9mm Browning HP. The distinctive handle and cold grey barrel of the gun that I now saw levelling at my chest was an unpromising start to a new friendship. Up to then my instinct for knowing the likely actions of a man who pulled a gun was good… up to then. His eyes were angry, but not angry enough to pull the trigger. A very quick glance back at the car and a subtle lift of my open palm was enough to reassure Cakes who I knew would have his light machine gun discreetly aimed through the open rear passenger window at the man’s chest. The reason I felt confident of my position was the name I was about to speak.
‘I want to see Wahbi Muntasser,’ I said and then repeated loudly, ‘…Wahbi Muntasser.’
Unfortunately, my power of prediction vis-à-vis a man, a gun and his likely intention was not working too well. The guard’s angled face shrank in a crumpled crisscross pattern of tan lines and then, like an angry Punch, he attacked.
Having not anticipated an assault his rapid movement, initially, caught me unprepared and I was glad of the few paces I had allowed between us. Although, the unrefined lurch and swinging gun hand were never going to give me too much trouble. Quick feet, as any boxer or footballer will tell you, are the most important attribute for keeping out of trouble and, fortunately, my quick feet were working fine.
The fast moving Browning pistol missed my head as I danced like a Paris can-can girl on her night off. Not willing to give the man any room in which to make a second attempt to connect a blow and improve upon his first poor showing, I stepped sideways moving with his momentum, grasped his extended arm and, relying on experience, used my strength and his weight to take him down.
His body struck the hard ground beneath me and with my unbreakable grip twisting his arm, which was breakable he released the Browning pistol and grunted painfully in quite a high-pitched voice for such a strong man.
Holding him pinned beneath me with his face in the dirt I checked on developments. Cakes had gotten out of the car. He stood beside the open door holding the LMG tight against his body and looked ready to act in a second should the need arise. I had seen the same look many times before. Mick remained in the driver’s seat watching closely. Some of the other police guards and most of the local men were staring, unsure about what was happening. Two of the police guards carrying Beretta M12 submachine guns began to hesitantly approach. I tightened my hold, freed one hand and then picked up the Browning pistol. It was a Mark III with the modified firing mechanism. Using my thumb, I pressed down the safety and made the weapon ready to fire.
‘Get up,’ I said. Pushing the pistol hard into the man’s ribcage, I pulled the sturdy guard to his feet. His two submachine gun carrying colleagues were getting closer. Events had not worked out quite as I had hoped. Deciding that discretion is the better part of valour I began pulling my captive back towards the car. I was about to shout to Cakes and Mick that I thought we should leave, not that they needed me to point it out when a booming voice in Arabic resounded between the buildings like an Italian tenor. Then the voice changed to English, or a version of English, anyway.
‘Mr. Hayes, do not kill him, please.’ The deep voice belonged to Wahbi Muntasser. In Arabic, he spoke reassuringly to the two advancing guards and they both lowered their Beretta M12 submachine guns, which made me feel instantly better. Muntasser continued his advance towards me and I saw that in his hands he carried a box. With the awkward situation diffused, at least for now, I removed the Browning from my captive’s ribs and pushed him away. He stumbled, glared back at me and then looked at Muntasser for guidance. Muntasser spoke to him in Arabic and then the man moved unhappily away.
‘Mr. Hayes,’ Muntasser said, ‘I wondered if we might not see each other again.’ The expression on Wahbi Muntasser’s face was hard to read. The deep scowl I had seen earlier was gone, but in its place, I saw strain to his confident manner and unease as if the events of the day were providing a future vision that made the security chief wish he was off fishing or, simply, living in easier times. Whether he was pleased to see me was difficult to say. The fact that he had wondered if I might show up again I took as a good sign. However, the reason for my reappearance was going to test his resolve, but in the end, it would be to his advantage. I hoped our mutual advantage.
The first question he asked was not the one I expected. ‘Do you know what this is?’ he said and showed me the contents of the box he carried.
‘It’s C-4 plastic explosive,’ I said. ‘I saw it when I was here earlier.’ The brazen admission caused Muntasser to fix my face with round eyes that were the colour of dark chocolate and use them to process the information like a man used to dealing with subterfuge and confessions. Before he had a chance to make any decisions that might ruin our burgeoning friendship I said, ‘Muntasser, I need your help.’ This made his eyes widen further and then a smile that began with the parting of his lips travelled to his forehead and produced furrowed lines like a newly ploughed field.
‘What help do you need from me?’ he said. His question was noncommittal.
‘I need you, your SWAT team and any other available men,’ I said. He frowned and his eyes narrowed and then vanished behind two black lines.
‘What is a SWAT team?’ he asked.
‘SWAT stands for “special weapons and tactics”,’ I said. ‘I need the six-man team that you deployed here earlier.’
‘Why? Why do you need these men?’ he asked.
‘…because me and my two friends,’ I said and motioned towards the car, ‘need help to kill the men responsible for the bomb outside the al-Barouni house that killed your police officers.’
‘Two of the SWAT team are injured. They have bruised chests where gunmen shot them. If it was not for their protective vests they would be dead.’
‘I know. We were the men who shot them,’ I said. Again, Muntasser’s eyes grew round and big.
‘You shot them. It was you. You were the men running away,’ he said. His expression turned reflective. Fortunately for me, Wahbi Muntasser was clever enough to know that action before information and without reason was the preserve of the fool. ‘What is happening?’
‘Let’s sit in the car and I’ll tell you everything I know,’ I said. Expe
rience had given Muntasser two very useful skills. One was the ability to know the truth when he heard it and the other was not to trust anyone without good reason.
‘You tell me the truth,’ he said, ‘but how can I trust you?’
‘He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse's health, a boy's love or a whore's oath,’ I quoted. Muntasser looked at me quizzically. ‘Are you mad?’ I asked. He shook his head.
‘No, I am not mad.’ he said.
‘Then you can trust me,’ I said. ‘Now, let’s sit in the car.’
Muntasser signalled to his men carrying the submachine guns and they ran over. They listened carefully to his Arabic words. I glanced at Cakes who had repositioned his LMG. ‘The tameness of a wolf…’ Muntasser said. ‘I like that. All right, I will sit in your car and you can tell me everything you know.’
We sat side-by-side in the backseat. Muntasser kept his door wide open and the eyes of his men never strayed far. Cakes remained outside. He stood next to the open passenger door with his LMG held across his chest gripped in both hands. It was the best position for him to hear what we said and, at the same time, watch the Beretta M12 submachine guns. Mick listened from the driver’s seat.
‘Wahbi Muntasser, this is Mick and Cakes,’ I said. There followed nods and grunts. With the polite introductions successfully completed and the bond of friendship certain to follow, I made a start.
‘We’re searching for the leader of an extremist Islamic group,’ I said. ‘His name is Suleiman Al Bousefi.’ I watched Muntasser closely for his reaction. If he ever took up gambling then poker is the game he should choose. The silence that followed told me I had to give him more. ‘We brought a Libyan woman with us,’ I said, ‘Extremists have abducted her from her father’s house. We believe, on the orders of Al Bousefi. The woman’s name is Magda Jbara.’
‘These men, did they free Moha al-Barouni?’ How much information I should reveal was hard to know. I wanted Muntasser’s help. I risked his wrath.
‘It’s possible,’ I said. Well, people often say that all things are possible.
‘Why were you here?’ Muntasser asked. ‘Did you kill these men?’ An afternoon breeze had come up. The unpleasant odour of transported corpses wafted through the open car with little mercy.
‘These men were responsible for the al-Barouni house bomb that killed your police officers,’ I said.
‘How did you know about this apartment?’ Muntasser asked.
‘How did you?’
‘Evil exists,’ Muntasser said as if stating a universal truth. ‘My job is to find it.’
‘We followed the man who set off the bomb,’ I said. ‘We killed him, too. His body is in that space between the buildings.’ I pointed so that Muntasser would know which side. He called out to his men. The long-limbed man with who I had fought came over. He bent down to hear Muntasser’s words and I could see that his unattractive face was no less jolly.
‘Aksil will bring out the body,’ Muntasser said. ‘Do not mind his unfriendly ways, Mr. Hayes. He comes from a Berber tribe. I have never known him when he was not surly. But he is loyal and trustworthy… perhaps the best officer I have, particularly, for this type of work.’ I decided not to ask the reason. ‘Why were you at the al-Barouni house when the bomb exploded?’
‘We were watching for Moha Hassan,’ I said. ‘We thought he might return there.’ Telling Muntasser the whole truth was not an option. I needed him on my side. We had to have his assistance. Muntasser nodded, thoughtfully.
‘Who do you work for, Mr. Hayes?’ he asked.
‘…British Intelligence,’ I said. Muntasser would not have believed any other answer. He studied my face and then looked at Cakes and Mick.
‘You are military men?’ he said.
‘Are we not all military men?’ I replied. I had to win him over. To save Magda, Muntasser was a necessary ally, and one I had to trust. ‘We’re on the same side,’ I said. ‘Together, we can defeat the evil.’ Muntasser considered my words. I watched his unrevealing features and waited, but before he could tell me what he thought, Aksil returned. The rangy Berber spoke softly to Muntasser who listened without moving his head.
‘The dead man between the buildings is known to us,’ Muntasser said. ‘He is from a militia group. They are violent and criminal, but not Islamic extremists.’
‘Perhaps the extremists paid him. It was a “wait and see” job. He only detonated the bomb once your men showed up,’ I said. Muntasser considered my words.
‘It is possible,’ he said. ‘This man and such work are a good match.’ Aksil had remained. Muntasser paused expecting further information from his loyal officer. However, Aksil looked past Muntasser and fixed me with eyes the colour of coal dust.
‘Did you kill this man?’ he asked. It was an unexpected question and not just because Aksil spoke English, albeit with an accent worse than Muntasser’s, but because he asked it seemingly without emotion. I nodded.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I killed him.’ Aksil stared at me expressionless. His charcoal complexion matched his eyes. Then, the faintest of smiles altered his appearance and for a second he was less ugly.
‘You are a good shot,’ he said. ‘Your bullet went here.’ Aksil clenched his fist and pressed it against his chest. ‘In the heart… one shot… dead.’ He turned away and left without saying anything more.
‘One of the men killed by the bomb was the cousin of Aksil,’ Muntasser explained. ‘It is his way of thanking you for killing the man.’
‘That man only set off the bomb, and these others helped,’ I said, ‘but the man behind it is still alive and free, and I know where we can find him.’ Muntasser watched my face and breathed heavily.
‘…where?’ he asked. ‘Where are this man and this woman?’ Using my phone, I showed Muntasser the satellite images.
‘South, less than an hour’s drive, in the shadow of the Nafusa Mountains, not far from Bir al-Ghanam,’ I said.
‘It looks like a fortress,’ Muntasser said.
‘If it was easy I wouldn’t need your help,’ I replied.
‘How do you know Suleiman Al Bousefi is there?’
‘…because the woman, Magda Jbara, is there,’ I said. ‘He proposed marriage and she refused. That’s why we think he’s taken her. She has a transmitter implanted under the skin of her arm, which we can track using our satellite phones. That’s how we’re certain she’s there.’ Again, using my phone, I showed Muntasser evidence of what I said. He studied the tracker image with interest.
‘Why does British Intelligence not use more men? Why come to me?’
‘If British Intelligence used more men then this operation would be unlikely to remain covert,’ I said.
‘What is “covert”? Muntasser asked.
‘…secret,’ I said. ‘And, anyway, there isn’t time. If we are to succeed then we must do it now.’
‘What is your plan?’ Muntasser asked. His level of response throughout the conversation had remained the same. This question only highlighted that apparent reservation. The plan I had was to turn up and see what happened, which was unlikely to impress my new friend.
‘You can arrest them,’ I said.
‘…arrest them,’ Muntasser echoed. The belly laugh was unexpected, but it felt good to see him happy for a change.
‘All right, kill them, then,’ I said.
‘And what if they kill us?’ he asked.
‘Then we’ll be dead. Are you afraid to die?’ Muntasser muttered in Arabic and shook his head unconvincingly.
‘When I saw you this morning I had a bad feeling,’ Muntasser said. ‘You look like a man who will never rest until he is dead.’
‘Will you help us?’ I asked. Muntasser’s face lightened. Was it in anticipation? I waited.
‘Let us hope today is not the day your rest begins,’ he said wisely.
‘How many men do you have?’ I asked. Muntasser studied my face for a moment and then looked down as he retrieved a cigar from
his tunic pocket. He lifted the cigar and examined it. The expression this produced was the same as the one I had seen following my question. It was a look of “expectation”.
‘You have not told me your plan,’ he said.
‘Our plan is to free Magda Jbara and kill Suleiman Al Bousefi,’ I said.
‘How…? How will you do these things? Yes, Magda Jbara is there because your tracker tells you, but Al Bousefi… How do you know he is there? And if he is there he is inside a fortress protected by many men.’ Muntasser held the unlit cigar to his nose, sniffed and then inhaled deeply.
I only had one plan. There was only one way to save Magda and kill Al Bousefi.
‘Mick, Cakes and I will enter the building unseen, find Magda and kill Al Bousefi. You and your men will keep out of sight. When I give the signal, you will attack. We will then escape and you will win the battle.’ Cakes made a sound that told me how he felt about my plan, but he restrained from voicing his opinion. Mick, too, I could sense, was less than excited about my simplistic, gung-ho approach. At that moment, my only concern was to ensure Muntasser’s participation. We still had an hour’s drive ahead and more time when we arrived while we scouted the location. Together with the satellite images that I intended to study in more detail, I was sure a winning strategy would present itself. ‘Will you help us?’
Muntasser placed the unlit cigar between his lips and turned it slowly with his fingers while he considered. ‘Will you go anyway?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We will go either way.’
‘Um,’ he nodded. ‘Then… yes, I will go with you.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Right, men and weapons… what do you have?’ Muntasser replaced the unlit cigar inside his tunic pocket and fastened the button.
‘These men are local,’ he said. ‘They are policemen, but they are not trained for fighting.’ He gestured disparagingly. ‘Such men are no good. The best men are in Tripoli. The men you call “SWAT”. We must get them.’
‘…and weapons?’ I said.