by Mark Arundel
‘Show me the rifle,’ I said. Aksil moved to the Range Rover. He kept the Heckler & Koch attached by clips under a carpeted panel inside the 4x4. He passed it to me. The weapon was a specifically designed battle rifle intended for use by a sharpshooter. A number of Special Forces choose it. One of which, I knew, was the UK’s Special Air Service regiment. Aksil’s rifle was new and clean. I passed it to Cakes to look at. ‘Is it true you never miss?’ I said. Aksil held my eyes with his implacable stare. My question went unanswered for several seconds.
‘It is not known until after every shot,’ he said. I liked that answer. Cakes passed back the rifle to Aksil. I could see Cakes liked the answer, too.
‘Do you have a suppressor?’ I asked.
‘For the sound?’ he said.
‘Yes, for the sound.’
‘Yes, I have it.’
‘Good,’ I said. I now had the first part of my plan worked out.
Mick returned with Muntasser following. Mick and Cakes exchanged glances, and Muntasser shook his head.
‘Mr. Hayes, it is not easy the task you make for yourself,’ he said. ‘But, already, I think you have a way. Am I right?’
After pausing to ensure everyone was listening I said, ‘Yes, I have a plan that will get us inside.’
‘Getting inside is one thing, but what about Magda’s location, and how do we get out again?’ Cakes said.
‘The plan to get us inside may, also, provide us with intelligence on Magda’s location and other useful facts about layout and guards, and possibly an exit strategy.’
‘…might?’
‘Yes, at the moment it’s unknown.’
‘All right,’ Mick said, ‘you better tell us the plan.’
Moha sat crossed legged on the rug and listened in silence, although, inside, he wanted to scream. Stop—stop this—it is not right. None of the other men around him appeared troubled by the unspeakable act going on before them. Each man’s taqiyah and clean white shirt beneath a dark waistcoat or smooth tunic gave truth to their wealth and importance. The fate of a woman was of no concern. Women placed with these men scarcely above livestock, such as goats or chickens.
Suleiman was speaking, but Moha was not looking at him, he was looking at Magda. Her eyes were all he could see. They were dark and emotionless, enigma-like with a depth that projected a serene presence as if she had risen above the actions of ordinary mortals. Perhaps a meditational state was the only way she could cope with the agony of marrying such as abhorrent man, Moha thought, but the thought did not comfort him.
‘I know you will forgive me, but such times as these have not allowed public declaration of my marriage as is the custom.’ Suleiman was a clever politician. He always knew the right thing to say.
Once again, Moha suppressed the urge that sprung from deep inside to scream out and denounce the evil in the room, but all the young man could do was sit silently, watch, listen and wait.
Suleiman was concluding his speech and Moha surreptitiously felt the concealed phone inside his pocket and the need to call the Englishman, Chase, was intense in its unrelenting passion.
Magda sat on the rug, surrounded by men, her knees bent and her legs together, weight favouring one hip, hands clasped in her lap, back straight and head perfectly still. Her body felt like stone. Her recent ordeal in the underground room at the hands of the man, who, in only a very short while, would become her husband, had numbed all feelings, left her cold, confused and fearful.
Can I bear it?
Suleiman spoke, but his words did not register with Magda only the sound of his voice. Then it stopped and Imam Ahmad spoke. He read from the Qur'an, but again, the words came to Magda’s ears without form. Her mind was in the future: A life of subjugation. What cruelties and horrors would he make her endure? If endure she could. To carry, give birth and raise his children. Would that be such a bad thing? The consideration of motherhood and Suleiman as her children’s father was, indeed, a thought most bittersweet.
Fixed on her veiled face was someone’s gaze. She sensed it despite her troubled mind such was the intenseness of the stare. With barely a perceptible movement of her head and eyes, she found the man’s face. It was Moha Hassan al-Barouni. Something about his expression, although placid, produced a chill that ran the length of Magda’s spine. Hidden deep behind the black pupils Magda sensed a powerful emotive force, undefined, masked to everyone except herself. It was as if Moha was communicating to her telepathically. The initial jolt went, their eyes remained locked and knowledge travelled the distance between them and entered Magda’s subconscious, but it was knowledge she could not decode.
Why is he here? Of course, his father is here.
Magda knew Mahmoud al-Barouni was a senior member of Suleiman’s extremist Islamic group and his closest friend of many years. The presence of his son, Moha, should not have been a surprise. After all, the nineteen-year-old had attempted a political assassination in Tripoli, which, obviously, was at the command of his father, should have cost him his life, and would have done so had it not been for Mr. Hayes and the other men sent by London.
Why did they free him?
It was a simple question. Despite the anguish and her distressing plight, Magda freed her mental power.
Who benefits?
‘All praise is due to Allah and we praise Allah and we beseech Allah’s Help and we ask Allah’s Protection and we betake Allah’s Refuge from the evils of our animal life and the bad results of our actions…’ The imam started his marriage sermon and this time Magda heard the spoken words, but they barely registered. She was trying to answer her question in her head…
Who benefits? If London sent Mr. Hayes, and they did, then London must benefit. How does London benefit?
Despite following each logical thought in sequence, a feasible answer did not present itself. To solve the puzzle on alone, without further knowledge, was impossible. Then another thought came to her. It felt like a premonition.
Before the day is over, I will have the answer.
His discipline faltered and Moha held Magda’s eyes for longer than he should have. Despite his attempt to break the connection, he was unable to look away. He knew that his face remained expressionless. Magda, too, was impassive like a portrait gazing out from the canvas. Had anyone noticed his or her eye contact, Moha wondered. He dismissed the thought. It was not important. At such a gathering impassive stares were normal.
Magda broke the gaze and Moha wondered what she was thinking.
‘I do marry her,’ Suleiman said. The words shook Moha from his reverie and an inward scowl of emotional pain and disgust brought back focus on the task ahead.
‘May Allah bless you and have His blessing descend upon you and unite you in goodness,’ the imam said. ‘May Allah grant us the ability to simplify what Allah and His Messenger instructed to be simple and grant us blessing in it.’ Imam Ahmad gave Suleiman a barely perceptible nod from his bearded, round head and a fleeting expression of relief crossed the religious man’s face.
The marriage ceremony of Suleiman to Magda was complete.
Fate is not something in which I have ever believed, but luck, luck is very real. The other four members of my impromptu combat unit listened to me without interruption. My plan, devised on the hoof, only took a short while to tell. Possibly, it sounded all the better for it given its sketchy nature. After my quietly spoken voice, the silence was deafening. A sharp cry from a kittiwake, overhead, brought concern, but after checking, we found our position remained secure. Perhaps the seabird was calling out because it had lost its way and not because of movement on the ground that had spooked its foraging. Anyway, with silence still ringing out I made a decision that would allow a little time for consideration. ‘I’m going to take another look while you think about it,’ I said.
The ledge leading to the precipice was no less narrow. After settling a firm crouch, I lifted the glasses and began a systematic review of the dirt track. While studying the guards with the
Landcruiser, which still blocked the way at the point where the crag made a natural gateway, movement caught my eye. Approaching from the west was a white Toyota Hilux. It came into view along the escarpment where the angle of sight from the ledge had kept the moving vehicle hidden until it bounced clear on the rough ground and signalled unintentionally with reflected sunlight off its windscreen. Mounted on the bed of the technical and attended by a seated operator was a rocket launcher. The driver stopped behind the Landcruiser and leant his arm and face through the open door window. Two of the guards walked over and a friendly conversation ensued. Leaving the men chatting, I moved the glasses and studied the weapon. A Russian BM-21 Grad that used salvaged tubes, probably from a damaged Ural-375D, and together with the experienced looking gunner, the technical was versatile and very dangerous. During the first recce, the possibility of a mobile patrol had occurred to me and I was surprised not to have found one. Had I not returned for a second look we could have gone ahead without knowing that such a weapon, capable of inflicting a heavyweight punch, was roaming the area.
Back at the Range Rover Cakes greeted me with a nod and said, ‘I’m in.’
‘Me, too,’ Mick said.
Muntasser waved an expressive hand in which he held his unlit cigar and said, ‘Aksil and I, too, will join you in your plan.’ As heart-warming as it was, albeit delayed, to have consensus, a smile did not appear on my face.
‘I’ve just seen a patrolling technical with a BM-21 Grad capable of firing six rockets,’ I said.
‘What is a technical?’ Muntasser asked.
‘It’s a converted pick-up, a gun truck,’ I said. ‘We can’t take the risk of it firing on us.’
‘What can we do?’
‘We’ll have to amend the plan,’ I said. Muntasser placed the cigar under his nose and inhaled.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Your plan is good.’
‘And if the technical engages?’
‘You said it was patrolling. We will take care that it does not see us.’ Muntasser replaced the unlit cigar inside his tunic pocket and smiled confidently. Whether his confidence came from ignorance or wisdom was difficult to tell. I checked Mick and Cakes for their agreement and got it. Aksil would follow Muntasser.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Let’s get back to the BMW and prepare.’
Despite the steepness in some parts, Aksil chose a quick route for the descent, which the Range Rover’s control systems made easier.
‘Aksil, stop here, I want to scout the BMW.’ The satellite positioning on my phone told me the car’s exact location. ‘Mick, with me.’ Finding some of Al Bousefi’s friends waiting for us would not be a good start.
Mick and I split and approached from opposite sides. We found the BMW just as we had left it and the locale was deserted.
‘Aksil, all-clear, bring the Range Rover in,’ I said through the CDL.
‘We’re putting our faith in a man we’ve never seen shoot before,’ Mick said.
‘Is that why you hesitated?’ I asked. ‘Muntasser says he can shoot, and he’s got an HK417.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Mick said thoughtfully.
‘What does Cakes think?’
‘He said with an HK417 and S&B scope it’s impossible for anyone to miss.’
Aksil stopped the Range Rover alongside the BMW and Cakes jumped out. ‘I’ve found the best place,’ he said and held his phone for me to see. ‘The sun will be off his right shoulder, the distance is three hundred and ten yards and the elevation is twenty-three degrees.’
‘Aksil, we’ve found you a nest,’ I said.
‘…a nest?’ the Berber questioned.
‘Yes, it’s perfect,’ I said. ‘Cakes will go with you. Get ready.’
‘I am ready,’ he said. The HK417 rifle with scope and suppressor both attached hung around his neck and balanced under his right arm.
‘Ammunition?’
‘The magazine is full and two here,’ he said and tapped the buttoned pocket of his tunic.
‘Good. We’ll keep to the plan. If it becomes fluid…’
‘…fluid, what is fluid?’ Muntasser said uncomprehendingly.
‘Affected by events beyond our control that force us to adapt and make active decisions allowing us to move forward and maintain our objective,’ Mick said. Muntasser frowned like a man given directions in Swahili.
‘If we have to change the plan we will,’ I said, ‘but if at any time, an exit strategy is needed then the BMW will be an option. We’ll leave the key, here, on the rear tyre, a loaded pistol under the driver’s seat and an assault rifle in the boot together with water, a compass and a torch.’
‘Yes, I understand,’ Muntasser said. Aksil gave me a poker-faced nod.
‘Fifteen minutes, no more,’ Cakes said. Then he and Aksil left.
‘Let’s get ready,’ I said to Muntasser and Mick and opened the rear of the Range Rover. The police chief’s store of small arms was impressive. I chose a CZ 99 semi-automatic pistol and an AKM assault rifle, which had a bayonet attached. After checking both weapons had full magazines and making them ready to fire, I placed them inside the BMW along with the water, compass and torch.
From my own bag, I took a Glock 17 and screwed in a Gemtech suppressor. The magazine released into my hand, I checked it was full and then snapped it back. Mick was doing the same while Muntasser stood and watched. He read my expression.
‘I am ready,’ he said. ‘I have my Beretta.’ He pulled the weapon from its holster inside his tunic. The Italian, 9mm semi-automatic was a versatile and reliable pistol. Muntasser had the Special Duty model with a desert tan frame and longer barrel.
‘Do you have a suppressor?’
‘Yes, I have it in my pocket.’
‘Screw it on tight,’ I said.
My wristwatch told me six minutes had passed since Cakes and Aksil left. ‘Cakes, what’s your progress?’ I said into the CDL.
‘We’ve got one more stretch of open ground to cross before we begin the climb,’ he said. His whispered voice was clear through the satellite communication system.
‘Is anyone about?’
‘The small hills and vales make it hard to know.’
‘Tell us when you’re in position,’ I said.
‘We leave?’ Muntasser asked.
‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘We’ll keep out of sight until they’re ready.’
The back of the Range Rover closed gently and then I stood beside the open driver’s door and waited. Muntasser pulled the cigar from his tunic pocket and held it in his fingers.
‘Why don’t you light it?’ I said.
‘Because I don’t smoke,’ he replied.
The voice through the CDL was rapid, edgy, and deep with concern. It was obvious that Cakes was running. ‘Hayes, the technical has caught us out in the open. We can’t outrun it and make cover. If we stand and fight, we’re dead.’ Muntasser never gave me the chance to speak. His Arabic words were instant and rapid. Then Aksil’s voice came back through the CDL. His Arabic reply was just as fast and unintelligible. Again, Muntasser spoke and again, Aksil replied, and then Muntasser spoke once more.
‘He’s stopped running. Hayes, Aksil has stopped running.’
‘Cakes, stop running,’ Muntasser said.
‘If we stand and fight, we’re dead,’ Cakes repeated.
‘No, don’t fight. Stop running. Aksil will tell the men he is from Jadu, a Berber village, where he is visiting his family from Tripoli. He will say you are hunting gazelle for food. You must not speak. Cover your face with your keffiyeh. The men will believe Aksil and let you go. They will not want to anger the local Berbers without good reason. You understand?’
‘Hunting gazelle?’ Cakes questioned.
‘Yes, hunting gazelle,’ Muntasser confirmed reassuringly. ‘Men from the Berber villages do it. The men in the technical do not know what you are really doing and Aksil is a Berber. Say nothing yourself and they will believe him. Aksil can be very convincing.’
&
nbsp; ‘Do it, Cakes,’ I said. ‘It might work.’
‘It will work,’ Muntasser said.
‘All right, I’ll do it, but if you don’t hear from us again it’ll be because we’re dead.’
We ceased communication. All we could do was wait. Muntasser held the cigar under his nose and inhaled deeply.
‘Fluid,’ he said empathetically. I kept silent and looked at Mick. Neither of us felt like talking. Muntasser put away the cigar and then leant back against the Range Rover while we waited. The seconds passed. One minute and then two minutes went by. Using his tracker signal, I checked on my phone to see whether Cakes’ heart was still beating. It was.
‘We’ll give it another minute,’ I said in response to Mick’s expression. He, too, was watching Cakes’ heartbeat. The minute came and went without a break in the silence. Cakes’ heart continued to beat and his position remained stationary. I had to decide whether to wait longer or drive to their location and engage the technical. If the men in the technical saw us coming, locked on and fired a rocket we were dead. Another minute ticked by.
‘Cakes,’ I said through the CDL. ‘Are you there? Come back.’ Silence. I made the decision. ‘All right, get in.’ Mick’s hand was on the door handle before I said the word in. I jumped into the driver’s seat, started the engine and pulled shut the door. Muntasser took longer to get into the passenger seat.
‘We do not need to go,’ he said. His confidence was unabashed. The solid gear lever slotted into drive and my foot lifted ready to hit the pedal when we heard Cakes’ voice.
‘I think it’s worked,’ he said in a whisper. ‘They’re leaving.’
Then we heard Aksil’s voice. He spoke Arabic and Muntasser answered him the same.
‘Yes, they’ve driven off,’ Cakes said. ‘Whatever Aksil said to them they must have believed.’ His normally impassive voice conveyed surprise and something else that was difficult to identify. Perhaps it was respect. Muntasser was looking at me.