by Mark Arundel
‘We have pistols and rifles,’ he said. I waited.
‘What else?’
Muntasser shrugged. ‘Perhaps a grenade launcher.’
‘What about bigger weapons like heavy machine-guns, grad rockets, missiles…?’
‘The army has those or, perhaps, the militia groups or the Islamic extremists.’
‘How about gun trucks or a tank?’
‘Yes, we have a Toyota with a machine-gun,’ Muntasser said. The arsenal I had imagined was slightly more extensive.
‘Great.’ Cakes said. He bent his face through the open car window. ‘The enemy of our enemy has two popguns and a water pistol.’ I ignored him, but the disappointment we each felt I saw reflected on Mick’s face.
‘Can you call your men in Tripoli?’ I said.
‘Yes, I can call them,’ Muntasser replied.
‘Tell them to meet us on the way.’ Any time we did not spend reaching Magda and working out how to save her was time lost. ‘We’ll leave straight away.’
‘…we’re still going?’ Mick said.
‘Yes, we’re still going.’
‘As you wish,’ Muntasser said. ‘Aksil will come with us. He is a good man. A man suited to this task.’ I had my doubts, but if Muntasser vouched for him then perhaps he had talents that were not immediately obvious.
‘I’ll ride with you and Aksil in the 4x4. Cakes and Mick will travel in this,’ I said. We needed both vehicles and for the purpose of communication and decision-making Cakes, Mick and I had to split up. ‘Why did you decide to come?’ I asked.
‘Moha Hassan al-Barouni… he might be at this place,’ Muntasser said, ‘and the men who freed him. I would like to meet them again.’
I stepped out of the car. Waiting for me was Cakes. He put his hand on my chest. ‘You better come up with a good plan,’ he said.
17 May you always have money in your pocket, a woman to love and a smile on your face.
Imam Ahmad scratched his greying beard and nodded an unkempt head while his round face maintained a tactful resoluteness. ‘How many guests are we waiting for?’ he asked.
Suleiman held the imam’s gaze without a change to his unsympathetic expression. ‘In less than an hour all will be well,’ he said. ‘After performing the ceremony you can return to Zintan with your pockets full of my money. I shall not need you further.’ Imam Ahmad motioned his understanding and acceptance. His dutiful eyes remained with religious diplomacy on the cold, unyielding face. Suleiman’s grimace deepened.
‘I must attend to the newly arrived guests,’ he said and turned away.
The walk from the gallery room through the gloomy main hall led to a passage of sandstone. Suleiman walked briskly. Worn steps dropped steeply below ground to a narrow channel, which ended at a wooden door set within an archway butted against a low ceiling. Suleiman bowed his head, turned the iron key he took from his pocket and entered. The only light came from candles held recessed within thick walls. He pushed closed the door and locked it. The stonework opposite concealed the entrance to a narrow passageway that ran beneath the outer wall and surfaced in a hidden area of scrubland. Men had used it to come and go unseen.
‘Are you comfortable?’ he asked. His deep rasp did little to disguise the mockery. A distressed moan was the only response. Suleiman stepped closer and in the candlelight focused on the stretched figure partially hidden by flickering shadow.
Magda twisted with her toes just touching the ground. Stretched muscles, the length of her body, tightened and strained, and both shoulder joints ached without let-up. The coarse rope dug into her wrists and it creaked with the twisting movement against the weight of her body. Again, she moaned. It was the cry of a snared creature, distraught and suffering.
Suleiman ran his tongue over dry parted lips and studied the tortured female figure. The deep breaths gave veracity to his pleasure.
Magda swallowed drily against the thick gag of twisted cord and pleaded with eyes that shone wetly in the candlelight.
‘This is just a taste of what stubborn disobedience will bring,’ Suleiman said. ‘Soon the imam will marry us and then, as my wife, you will submit to my every command.’ He stepped closer. Magda could hear his breathing. Inside the underground vault with its thick walls and low ceiling, the rasping sound was menacing. She realised he was aroused. ‘I hope your behaviour does not make it necessary for me to beat you.’ Magda was not in any doubt that to beat her was exactly what he did want. She swung again on the rope as her weight shifted and her toes like a ballerina danced to minimise the pain. She balanced, but the tightness of the knot made her wrists burn.
She felt his hands. Both were on her body. Magda groaned through the gag and knew she was defenceless against the horror. His groping felt coarse. Rough hands pawed heavily at her breasts and added revulsion to her torment. He pushed so that she twisted and then his hands lowered and groped her buttocks. Magda choked again and tears escaped from eyes tight shut.
‘Do not forget,’ Suleiman said. ‘At any time I can order the death of your father and brother.’ Again, Magda groaned through the gag. Nausea brought by his squeezing, probing fingers threatened to overwhelm her. She breathed deeply through her nose and fought the bile that rose hot and acrid in her throat. Hopelessness came in a heavy rush and crushed her lungs rooting seeds of depression that were certain to grow deep and strong. Escape from this monster is impossible. He has me enslaved forever.
The groping stopped. Suleiman removed his harsh touch from Magda’s soft skin and stepped back, but his eyes remained fixed on her tethered, stretched body. Magda swallowed, took a breath and opened wet eyes. She forced herself to look at him. She saw open lips drawn back over clamped teeth and a stare transfixed, which saw nothing except her trapped, exposed form.
Unable to resist, Suleiman’s hands returned to Magda’s body. He could not stop the desire to feel her again. Magda cried out through the gag and closed her eyes. When it stopped, Suleiman had put his craving under control—at least for now.
He positioned a wooden footstool beside Magda’s legs and then stood on it. Reaching up to the ceiling where an iron ring held the rope, he freed the reef knot and Magda dropped heavily to the ground.
The physical relief was immediate. Aching muscles eased and blood returned to starved, numb hands. Gently hugging her knees to her chest Magda felt the pain ease and her body begin the slow process of recovery. Suleiman stared down at her.
‘Get ready,’ he said. ‘I will soon return to take you to the imam. He is anxious to perform our marriage ceremony.’
Once Suleiman had gone, Magda stood up. She freed the rope from her wrists, tied a slip knot, fitted the loop over her head and pulled it tight around her neck. Balancing on the footstool, she reached up, threaded the rope through the iron ring, took up the slack and then tied off the end. All she had to do was kick away the footstool and before Suleiman returned, it would all be over.
Magda wanted to do it. She wanted to do it badly and she very nearly did. Only one thing stopped her: the lives of her father, Nasser, and her brother, Jamaal.
Seated comfortably in the captain’s chair, Captain Robert Harding watched the smooth, angled craft take-off from the ship’s deck and lift steeply into a faded blue sky. The wedge-shaped plane, which resembled a “minime” stealth aircraft, was quickly out of sight. It was hardly surprising that members of the public who saw the plane during test flights reported they had seen a UFO.
Harding spoke through the internal communication system to his young officer below deck. ‘Castle, do you have an ETA yet?’
‘Give me a chance, captain. The beasty is only just in the air and… I’m calculating it now.’ There was silence while Harding waited. ‘Captain, ETA is fourteen minutes, eleven seconds.’
‘Thank-you, Mr. Castle.’ Harding ended the communication. For a moment, he gazed out from the bridge to the bleached horizon and the empty sky. He stood up. The captain’s chair felt somehow less comfortable. He paced absently
and then stopped. ‘Mr. Baxter, you have the bridge.’
‘Very good, captain.’
Harding left by the gantry and took the steps down. He made his way along the gangway, deeper into the ship’s heart to the communications room where he found Mr. Castle. The officer was standing in front of a big screen and a small control panel. All the men in the room were deep in concentration.
‘What can you tell me, Mr. Castle?’ Harding asked.
‘She’s just reached her cruising altitude, captain, and she’s flying at a calibrated airspeed of five hundred miles per hour.’
‘Are the cameras working?’ Castle operated the control panel and an image appeared on the wall screen. Both men focused on it. ‘What am I looking at, Mr. Castle?’
‘This view is from the underside camera, captain. I have it set at zero degrees. She’s just about to cross the coastline three miles west of Zawiya.’ The image on the wall screen changed from dimpled blue to smooth tan as the aircraft flew over a thin white surf line and entered Libya.
‘What’s the ETA, Mr. Castle?’
‘…just under six minutes, captain.’
‘When the aircraft arrives at its destination I want the best images you can get without endangering the sortie.’
‘Aye-aye, captain.’
‘I’ll take a seat while we wait,’ Harding said and sat down in Castle’s chair. Castle checked the readings on his monitor, made an adjustment and then studied the new data closely.
The silence was eerie. Harding watched the Libyan ground pass below on the wall screen and waited. The naval officers in the room continued their work. One of them spoke in a composed voice and Castle answered confidently. The minutes passed.
‘She’s one minute out, captain,’ Castle said. ‘Her airspeed is one hundred and fifty mph and her altitude is ten thousand feet.’ Harding watched the screen without comment. ‘I’ll put her into a tight holding pattern, which should give us strong visual contact.’
Two buildings, a distance apart, appeared on the wall screen surrounded by desert scrubland and accessed by a line of compacted dirt.
‘Show me the wider surrounding area, Mr. Castle,’ Harding said. The image on the screen changed to an angled view of the far distance as Castle selected the forward camera. The aircraft altered course on its holding pattern and the screen displayed a circling panorama.
‘Those are the Nafusa Mountains,’ Castle said.
‘Yes, very picturesque,’ Harding replied. ‘All right, let’s take a closer look at the buildings.’ Castle reverted to the underside camera and the image on the screen returned to the ground directly below. The powerful zoom lens magnified the image until the roof of the larger building filled the screen.
‘They look like men with guns, Mr. Castle,’ Harding said.
‘Yes, captain, they do,’ Castle replied.
‘All right, let’s see the other building.’ Castle worked the console and the image on the screen moved to the smaller building. ‘How many men can you see in the courtyard, Mr. Castle?’
‘I count six, captain.’
‘Yes, six, Mr. Castle. All right, show me the road.’ Again, Castle remotely moved the camera angle and the screen image panned along the dirt track. ‘Would you say they were guards, Mr. Castle?’ A parked truck and three men had come into view.
‘Yes, they certainly look like it, captain,’ Castle said. The three men, dressed in black, each carried an assault rifle slung over their shoulder.
‘Yes, very good. All right, if you’ve got everything you need, Mr. Castle, bring her home.’
‘Aye-aye, captain.’
Harding stood up from Castle’s chair and left the communications room. Outside, on the gangway, he stopped, placed both hands on the coaming and breathed deeply. The afternoon Mediterranean air tasted salty and the seawater lapped noisily against the port bow below. He thought about MI6 and the Foreign Office and wondered if what the Chief had promised he could deliver. Harding and the Chief had been schoolboys together. They forged their unbreakable bond in a cauldron of adversity. Experiences shared and secrets learnt and endured made for a friendship resilient and spirited. Even so, acting without orders from the Admiralty or a direct communication from the Foreign Office held considerable risk. Harding could lose his captaincy. The Chief had given his assurance in the same way he proffered every announcement. He had delivered it with Shakespearean timbre and the unshakeable belief and certainty that came from a man who led British SIS like Richard III: astride a white courser, sword drawn. The outcome, Harding hoped would be different to that of Bosworth Field.
Harding stepped back from the coaming and returned to the communications room. ‘Mr. Castle, download all the camera footage and the stills to the server and enable satellite link access. Then await my further instructions.’
‘Right away, captain,’ Castle said.
Back on the bridge, Harding settled into the captain’s chair. ‘Did I miss anything, Mr. Baxter?’
‘No, nothing, captain,’ Baxter replied. ‘It’s as quiet as the grave.’
Aksil drove the 4x4 with both hands clamped to the steering wheel and a scowl on his face that hid his eyes behind two black slits. How he could see to keep us on the road was a mystery. We were travelling south through flat savannah where a falling sun, blurred yellow behind a deep haze, shot out blinding rays of white light.
Seated alone of the backseat, I studied the satellite imagery of our target location and tried to come up with a plan that was at least one notch above “suicide”. It seemed to me likely that both buildings isolated and within a short distance of each other, were under the control of Al Bousefi’s Islamic group. As the satellite location fix on Magda’s tracker signal put her inside the larger building, I planned to concentrate on that one and leave the smaller one undisturbed. The first problem I had was how to get in and out undetected. The second was how to find and free Magda. Deciding to concentrate on the first problem, I did an internet search for the location coordinates provided by the satellite. It brought a list of websites about longitude and latitude and map reading. None of which helped.
‘Aksil is returning home, Mr. Hayes,’ Muntasser said with his cannonball-like face appearing around the front passenger seat. His eyes held mine expecting a response. When none came he said, ‘The Berber tribe from which Aksil comes live in the mountain villages. They raise goats and tend fig and apricot orchards.’
‘We’re not going to the mountains,’ I said. ‘Our target is located on the northern coastal plain, which is in front of the escarpment before we reach the steep slopes. This is not a family visit.’
‘You are right,’ Muntasser said. ‘And, anyway, all of Aksil’s family are dead. Artillery shelling and rockets killed them. Except his cousin, but now, the bomb kills him, too.’ Muntasser shook his head thoughtfully. ‘They are an unlucky family.’
‘Aksil, I’m sorry,’ I said. Aksil bowed once in recognition of my sympathy for the loss of his family. ‘Muntasser, you should call your headquarters in Tripoli and organise your men. They need to leave right away.’
‘Yes, I will call now,’ Muntasser said and then spoke in Arabic to Aksil before lifting the phone to his ear. Aksil’s black slits never left the road.
I glanced behind and saw the BMW on our bumper. Cakes was driving with Mick in the passenger seat cleaning his FAMAS-G2 rifle.
‘Have you come up with a plan yet?’ Cakes said. His voice was in my ear thanks to the CDL system.
‘I’m working on it,’ I replied.
‘How are the chuckle brothers?’
‘A laugh a minute,’ I said.
‘Magda’s tracker signal hasn’t moved and her heart’s still beating.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a phone, too.’
‘Either London doesn’t know we have the trackers working again or they don’t care,’ Cakes said.
‘Why block the signal and then allow us to have it again?’ Mick said. ‘It doesn’t make any sen
se.’ He was probably right, but still there was something odd about it.
‘Once we get there we’ll make our move quickly,’ I said. ‘Waiting until after dark is pointless. We don’t have any night vision equipment and we don’t know how long Magda has.’
‘How long Magda has before what?’ Cakes said.
‘Before they kill her,’ I said.
‘We don’t know that,’ Cakes said. ‘If they wanted her dead they could have just killed her in her home.’
‘Not if they want to film it or do it in a particular way,’ I said.
‘Perhaps it’s only a kidnapping,’ Mick said. ‘Perhaps they’re after a ransom.’ Before I had a chance to respond Muntasser’s big face appeared around the seat again. His expression was one of a man for whom apologies came hard.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘My men do not want to help,’ Muntasser said. For a second, I thought he was joking, but his face told me otherwise and, anyway, Muntasser was not a man who joked.
‘Why not?’ I asked calmly or as calmly as I could.
‘They do not care about the woman,’ he said. ‘They will not risk their lives for her.’
‘Al Bousefi’s group set off the bomb outside the al-Barouni house that killed their fellow police officers,’ I said. ‘They wouldn’t be saving Magda they’d be revenging their murdered colleagues.’
‘Those men are dead,’ he said resignedly. ‘My men do not wish to join them. Al Bousefi’s group has a reputation. The Islamic extremism makes them fearless and very dangerous. They fight with jihadist belief, unafraid of death and brutal in their want to kill the infidels. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, I understand,’ I said. ‘Your men are weak and cowardly.’ Muntasser shrugged.
‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘Or, perhaps, they do not wish to die so easily.’ I kept my anger in check.
‘You could order them to help us,’ I said. ‘This morning you were shouting at them and they were afraid.’ Muntasser nodded.
‘Yes, that is true. However, this morning we were safe inside our compound. I would not be chief of police for very long if I sent my men on dangerous missions and they did not come back because they were dead.’ Hiding my displeasure and disappointment from my face was not possible, but I did remain silent.