by Mark Arundel
‘Mr. Hayes, I am sorry, but if you want to save Magda Jbara then you must do it with your two men, Aksil and me alone.’ A difficult task had just become much harder. Without Muntasser’s men and the firepower they would bring, the plan I had been slowly building in my mind would require a rethink if a rethink were possible.
‘We have a development,’ I said to Cakes and Mick through the CDL. ‘Muntasser’s men won’t be joining us.’
‘Why not?’ Mick said.
‘They’re afraid,’ I said. ‘They think the Islamic extremists will kill them, and Muntasser won’t order them to come because he’s worried about losing his job as police chief.’ Watching through the rear window, I saw the BMW brake hard and then stop. ‘Aksil, stop the Range Rover,’ I said loudly. Muntasser turned and looked at me with a questioning frown. ‘Cakes has stopped,’ I explained. Muntasser spoke to Aksil in Arabic and then he braked the 4x4 to a halt. ‘Go back,’ I said. Aksil reversed to where the stationary BMW had pulled off the faded tarmac onto the bare arid ground. I got out and walked over.
‘You can’t stop here,’ I said. ‘This section is a “no parking” zone.’ Cakes stared at me through the open driver’s door window. My attempt at humour produced nothing more than a hardening of his jaw line and a flash of emotion that told me he was pivoting between anger and exasperation. ‘How was I supposed to know Muntasser’s police force was a bunch of scaredy-cats?’
‘You should have known,’ Cakes said. ‘That’s what you’re good at, knowing things.’
‘All right, I got this one wrong,’ I said, ‘but we’ve still got Aksil and Muntasser and their Range Rover, which is full of hardware. It’s like a mobile gun store.’ Cakes inhaled deeply and I watched his chest rise and fall. ‘I’ve got a plan,’ I said.
‘Have you?’ he said with a sceptical expression that matched his sceptical voice.
‘What is it?’ Mick asked in a more favourable tone.
‘To knock on the door and ask if we can have our playmate back,’ Cakes said. The return of his sense of humour cheered me. I took it as an encouraging sign.
‘We were still going to have to do it ourselves,’ I said, ‘even with the assistance of Muntasser’s men. You know that. And we each know that our only option is stealth.’ Despite his show of reluctance, I knew that Cakes was not a man to quit or walk away from a fight. ‘Don’t you want to find out if we can do it?’ I said. It was the right thing to say.
‘All right, let’s get there and take a look,’ Cakes said. His face softened. It was not a smile, but his jaw unclenched. ‘What’s the plan?’ he asked.
‘I’ll tell you when we get there,’ I said. The jaw line hardened again.
Back inside the Range Rover, the chief of police and his trusted Berber officer viewed me expectantly. ‘Are we still going?’ Muntasser asked.
‘Yes, we’re still going,’ I said.
‘Good. Aksil is not scared,’ he said. ‘And he would very much like to revenge the death of his cousin.’
‘And what about you?’ I said.
‘I am looking forward to seeing what you do,’ Muntasser said.
‘Are you going to help or just watch?’ I asked. Muntasser’s face showed the appropriate amount of indignation.
‘I will help, of course,’ he said, ‘where I can.’
18 The scholar’s ink lasts longer than the martyr’s blood.
Claudia held the Chief’s eyes with an assertive glare, insistent and strong that was wholly genuine. The natural, honest emotions consuming her body made acting, despite her talents in that direction, unnecessary.
‘We had an agreement,’ she said. Her voice matched the glare, which intensified with every word. The Chief, unmoved by Claudia’s passionate display, paused deliberately before speaking.
‘I gave you my word,’ he said. This was all the reassurance he felt it necessary to give.
‘When?’ she asked.
‘All in good time,’ the Chief said. ‘We don’t want to compromise the operation.’
‘You keep saying that.’
‘Keeping Hayes alive will require patience. We must balance the timeline of events very carefully.’
‘They’re leaving Zawiya,’ Jerry said. Although clearly exasperated and prepared to debate the point further, Claudia held her tongue and looked up at the large display screen, which showed the three tracker signals moving south.
‘It looks like they’re going after Magda,’ Jerry said.
‘Tell me,’ Claudia demanded.
‘I will,’ the Chief said, ‘but only when it is necessary and of use to him. At this point, all we can do is wait.’
‘Why did you lie to Hayes about your location?’ Jerry asked. Claudia replied without hesitation.
‘…because I want him to trust me,’ she said.
‘You hope to gain his trust by lying to him,’ Jerry said.
‘Yes, isn’t that the basis of all modern government and of every intelligence service that has ever existed?’
‘You’re quite right, my dear,’ the Chief said. ‘One thing, though, be careful to those you voice such truths. To the ears of some, it brings nothing except disquiet.’
Mahmoud al-Barouni and his son, Moha Hassan, turned off the smooth tarmac onto the rough dirt track and the surface change caused the Mitsubishi to buck like a startled deer before it settled into a running staccato rhythm.
‘How did you know where to turn?’ Moha asked his father. ‘This track is hidden from the road.’
‘I’ve driven here before,’ Mahmoud said. ‘I know the way.’
‘How much further is it?’
‘From here to there and no more.’ Moha had heard that answer before from his father. The young man turned his head away and focused through the passenger seat window at the barren, rock-strewn land that stretched until it disappeared inside a miasma-veiled horizon. The landscape of everyone’s home appears normal, familiar and safe no matter how different, unusual and hostile it may appear to an outsider. Moha loved Libya. Those who would do it harm with their extremism he hated. He was young and open-minded with a liberal belief in individual freedom: The freedom to believe, to express, the freedom to live. That was why he spied for the British against the fundamentalists and why he so admired Magda Jbara. She was his beacon, his treasure and his desire. How a young woman could bravely stand against the prejudices despite the risk to her own safety gave Moha hope for a better Libya. The thought of her with Suleiman Al Bousefi made him choke as if his lungs had lost their ability to reflate. The thought of her dead caused not just breathing difficulty, but an overwhelming constriction of his entire body as if held in the crushing force of a giant fist or squashed beneath a giant boot.
Mahmoud braked the Mitsubishi and it made his son turn sharply and look at the track ahead. ‘Guards,’ Mahmoud said. ‘We post them on the access road. They patrol the perimeter, too.’ Moha eyed the white Toyota Landcruiser that was parked side-on and blocked their path with a disciplined expression that he knew his father would like. An assault rifle decorated a shoulder of every guard and each wore the black robes that signified their allegiance to the zealot cause.
The Arabic greeting through the open driver’s door window from the senior guard showed the necessary respect towards such a high official within the organisation. Mahmoud accepted the man’s subservient address and replied to him assertively with equal respect and the authority that came from his high-ranking position.
‘This is my son, Moha Hassan,’ Mahmoud said. ‘Moha, this is Abu, a strong and dependable man.’ Abu leant in and the man’s features took Moha aback. They were so prominent and threatening it seemed his face blocked out the light.
‘Your bravery brings credit on your father,’ Abu said.
‘Yes, he is brave, but he cannot shoot straight,’ Mahmoud said and smiled with paternal pride. Abu remained tactfully silent on the subject of Moha’s failed attempt to carry out the political assassination in Tripoli that had put the youn
g man in front of a police firing squad. The escape from which still had Abu perplexed despite the explanation circling that had, reportedly, come from Al Bousefi.
‘Is everyone here?’ Mahmoud asked.
‘Yes, you are the last to arrive,’ Abu replied. ‘I will tell the guard on the gate to expect you.’ Abu signalled to a younger man to move the Landcruiser and allow the Mitsubishi to pass. Mahmoud gave a silent acknowledgement and then drove on. Abu watched and thought again of the police firing squad and the explanation that puzzled him.
‘Without such men the Brotherhood cannot hope to achieve its aims,’ Mahmoud said. ‘Brutality is as important as prayer when it comes to ruling Libya.’ Moha fought to avoid offering his father an alternative view on the subject of ruling Libya. It was an internal struggle with which he was familiar and, as always, he was successful. Moha was a good spy.
The remaining journey was thankfully brief. Moha held his tongue while listening to his father extol the virtues of a strong Islamic state and the brutal rule of law with which it came.
The first building appeared behind a rise along a turn in the track that dropped beyond a dimpled hillock spotted by sand rocks. Blocked walls matched the terrain in which it nestled and hid the toil of construction with natural acceptance.
More guards wearing the same black robes and the same shoulder adornment stood and watched as the Mitsubishi drove past. ‘That is where Al Bousefi houses his personal guard when he is here. Abu and his men, also, stay there.’
The track turned once more and then travelled straight dissecting twin mounds with a surgeon’s precision until it crested the rise and ran into the distance beside a ridge of dunes. The view beyond was dominated by the escarpment, which rose in long steps and led into the Nafusa Mountain range. Whoever had decided on this isolated location had chosen well, Moha thought and then the irony almost caused him to smile.
After a final turn below a sandstone outcrop, the second building appeared and the track ended. Its imposing outer wall loomed with medieval intent.
‘It looks like a castle,’ Moha said. As if to support his observation, the heavy wooden door swung slowly open in a manner reminiscent of a drawbridge. Mahmoud drove through and they entered a courtyard full of vehicles. He spotted a gap and squeezed the Mitsubishi between an Audi and a Fiat.
Moha got out and walked slowly towards the arched entrance while he studied the block stone structure. The falling afternoon sun shot rays of yellow through the high turrets and created a deep contrast of light and dark that only served to strengthen the building’s beauty and atmosphere. It is a pity.
‘Come, Moha,’ his father called and beckoned him towards the entrance. They stepped together into a wide reception hall, dark and cool, silent and tranquil. Suleiman broke the peace.
‘Mahmoud, my oldest friend, you have come.’ It seemed to Moha that his aura came out of the gloom to greet them before his person such was the presence and character of the man.
‘On such a day I could never stay away,’ Mahmoud replied. The two men embraced and then Suleiman turned his head.
‘Moha, it pleases me to see you alive,’ he said. The gaze from Suleiman’s eyes lingered as if he was trying to read print that was too small.
‘Allah has spared my son,’ Mahmoud said.
‘Yes,’ Suleiman agreed. ‘Perhaps Allah has some greater purpose planned for Moha.’
‘Whatever may be expected of me I shall do my upmost to be worthy,’ Moha said.
‘Now that you are here we can begin,’ Suleiman said. ‘Come this way.’ Over his shoulder, he added, ‘The imam is anxious to get away.’
Inside the main hall, Suleiman left Mahmoud and Moha in the company of the other guests. They were all senior members of the Brotherhood. Mahmoud, immediately, began talking with his connections and quickly included his son in the discussions. Moha joined in loyally, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He had divided attention, the bigger part of which centred on the phone he carried concealed inside his pocket. It was the phone given to him by Benjamin Chase.
The Chief lifted his telephone from the table and read the screen. ‘We have some photographs taken in the past few minutes of the Al Bousefi residence,’ he said. ‘I’ll put them on the screen.’ The Chief worked his phone and then the first picture came up. It was an overhead aerial shot showing a desolate landscape and two remote buildings.
‘Magda’s tracker signal is coming from the larger of the two buildings,’ Jerry said looking up from his laptop.
The second photograph showed a panoramic view of the escarpment, mountains and a pale blue skyline. ‘That’s the Nafusa Mountain range,’ Jerry said. ‘It’s home to a number of Berber villages.’
The Chief quickly moved on to the next. It was a close-up of the smaller building. From above, the dark figures stood out against the lighter roof, the stone blocks and sandy ground.
‘They look like fighters of Al Bousefi’s Islamic group,’ Jerry said. There followed a series of photographs all showing similar images and then appeared an overhead shot of the larger building. Again, dark figures on the roof and in the courtyard were clearly visible against the sun-bright sandstone and flat, washed-out roof panels.
‘More of Al Bousefi’s fighters,’ Jerry said.
The next photograph was a closer shot of the same building. Other fighters were evident and the courtyard held a number of vehicles.
‘Excuse me,’ the Chief said. ‘I’ll only be a minute.’ He stood up from the table with the phone in his hand and left the room. Claudia watched him leave and then she turned to Jerry.
‘How did we get these photos?’ Claudia asked.
‘From a satellite,’ Jerry answered.
‘How does a satellite take a panoramic photo of the Nafusa Mountains?’
‘Oh, you know… camera angles, mirror lens, things like that… it’s all very clever.’
‘Is it?’ Claudia said.
The Chief walked to the empty office at the end of the corridor, went inside and closed the door. Using the phone in his hand, he made a call.
‘I’ve looked at the photographs,’ he said. ‘As soon as I receive confirmation from our man on the ground I would like to proceed.’ Captain Robert Harding listened to the words his friend spoke and paused. It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
‘Do I still have your word on this?’ he asked.
‘The Foreign Office may fall when there’s no strength in the intelligence service,’ the Chief said. Harding was unsure whether the adapted quote from Romeo and Juliet made him feel better or worse.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll make the necessary preparations and await your final instruction.’
‘Include both buildings in your preparations,’ the Chief said.
‘Very well,’ Harding agreed and then heard the connection break as the Chief cut the line. He considered for a moment. ‘Mr. Castle,’ he said through the ship’s communication system, ‘make preparation for a live sortie if you please.’
‘Aye, aye, Captain,’ Castle replied.
The Chief re-entered the room and despite his best effort, Claudia caught his eye.
‘How did you get these photographs?’ she asked politely. The Chief retook his seat and met Claudia’s determined gaze with an unreadable expression.
‘You are a clever and perceptive woman,’ he said without nuance. It was a simple statement of fact.
‘What’s the answer?’ she said ignoring the Chief’s professional flattery.
‘They come from a low Earth orbit surveillance satellite,’ he said. Despite the nod, Claudia’s hair barely moved and her face retained its enigmatic countenance, which was equal to that of the Chief’s.
‘You’re not going to let me down, are you?’ she asked.
‘Trust,’ the Chief said as if the word was the answer to a crossword clue he had just solved. ‘I was telling Jerry, just this morning, trust is something that one can only discover by testing.’
/> ‘So, I’m going to have to just wait and find out,’ she said.
‘As I said, my dear, you have my word. Jerry, what was it Shakespeare said about “trust”?’ In response to the unexpected question, Jerry frowned and then smiled.
‘I’ve no idea,’ he said honestly. The Chief looked disappointed.
‘Oh, well, I don’t suppose it matters,’ he said looking at Claudia.
‘Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none,’ she said.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ he said. ‘And do you know from which play it comes?’
‘Yes, I do,’ she said.
‘And which is it?’
‘All's Well That Ends Well,’ she said.
Unable to get away from the busy main hall due to the religious and political conversations between his father and the other Brotherhood hierarchy Moha began to sense a feeling of frustration. He rapidly analysed the emotion and then put in place one of his behavioural techniques for masking the reactions to how he felt.
The debate was always the same. The vehemently expressed views he had heard before, many times, mainly in the home in which he grew up, a home reduced by a bomb to smoking, bloodstained rubble.
Moha had to make that phone call to Chase. Until he did, nothing would happen nothing would change. Moha spoke again in agreement to a prompt from his father. The self-control technique that he was employing was working well. Moha’s face displayed a variety of looks including interest, respect and commitment. Mahmoud was pleased with his son. Moha’s bravery and aptitude would guarantee him a good future, a strong future, inside a strict Islamic Libya.
‘Where are you going?’ Mahmoud asked and put out a hand to make his son pause.
‘I must find a toilet, father,’ Moha replied. Although irked that his son was leaving the advantageous gathering, if only for a short while, he could not deny him a toilet break.