Bonfire

by Mark Arundel

  ‘I said it would work,’ he said.

  20 Beware the anger of a patient man.

  Captain Robert Harding stood on the corner gantry outside the bridge, straight-armed with both hands clasped to the railing and watched the deck crew at work below. The sea air of the Mediterranean blustered steadily aside the bulkhead and tugged without favour at Harding’s cap. Grasping the peak between thumb and forefinger, he pulled downwards securing the naval headwear against his broad skull and lowering the peak onto his eyes producing a more steely appearance like a baseball pitcher or a fast draw cowboy.

  Two dull grey cases appeared through the opening, raised side by side on a single platform and safeguarded tightly by straps. After release, four members of the deck crew guided the wheeled containers between the marked lines towards the parked aircraft. Harding watched alone and in silence. Am I doing the right thing?

  Freed from their tether, the cases quickly gave up their contents. The crew lifted clear the cluster assemblies and placed them with care onto machined, hydraulic riggings. Then, they positioned each of two lifts underneath the plane’s wings and raised the attachments until the alignment sensor sounded.

  A mechanical technician verified the umbilical connector before attaching the ends and the crew linked the forward shoe with housed pins. Once they removed the supports and cleared the deck, the aircraft adorned resplendently with balanced Brimstone capability.

  After giving the aircraft one final look, Harding turned away. He left the gantry and re-entered the bridge. Once his ears had adjusted to the absence of a gusty sea breeze, he lifted the tight cap and rubbed his lined forehead.

  ‘Tea, sir?’ Mr. Baxter asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mr. Baxter.’ Harding lifted the mug from the tray, raised it to his lips and sipped thoughtfully.

  After lowering the hot mug, he used the internal communication system. ‘Mr. Castle, a progress report if you please.’

  ‘We’re awaiting final clearance from the deck crew, captain, and then, once our pre-flight checks are completed, we’ll be ready for take-off.’

  ‘Very good, Mr. Castle,’ Harding said. ‘Proceed when ready.’

  ‘Aye-aye, captain.’

  Harding sat down in the captain’s chair and lifted his steaming mug of tea. ‘Baxter, don’t be shy with those biscuits,’ he said. Reluctantly, Baxter passed over the chocolate covered biscuits and watched as the captain lifted one to his lips. Harding followed the double bite with a mouthful of tea. ‘Excellent biscuits, Baxter,’ he said. ‘From where did you get them?’ Baxter looked surprised.

  ‘From the galley, captain,’ he said.

  ‘Well, you mustn’t hide them, Baxter.’ Before the lieutenant commander could defend the slur to his character on the subject of biscuit etiquette-at-sea, a call came in for Harding. It was the Chief calling from London. At school, the other boys had called the Chief, Duke not that he was a Duke. It was a nickname. Nicknames were routine at their school.

  ‘Have you received your intelligence?’ Harding asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ the Chief said. ‘It’s taking longer to come through than I had anticipated which is likely to mean our window of opportunity will be smaller. At what stage are your preparations?’

  ‘Our preparations are almost complete. We’re nearly ready for take-off.’

  ‘Good. Can you proceed straightaway? We must be in a position to move quickly.’

  ‘We can be airborne in the next few minutes,’ Harding said and sipped his tea.

  ‘I’ll keep in touch,’ the Chief said and then ended the call.

  ‘Mr. Castle, are you ready for take-off?’ Harding asked through the internal communication system.

  ‘Yes, captain, almost ready.’

  ‘Then take her up in your own time, Mr. Castle, if you please.’ Harding took another biscuit and saw his lieutenant commander watching. ‘I’m going to requisition these biscuits, Mr. Baxter,’ he said.

  Muntasser’s self-assurance combined with his present nonchalant countenance was making him unbearable. I tried not to let the Libyan police chief annoy me, but he was a keen test of my self-discipline. The cigar was out again.

  ‘Why do you doubt yourself? I have already told you, your plan is good. The technical has gone away. Forget it and go on with what we agreed.’

  ‘Cakes, assessment report,’ I said through the CDL.

  ‘The technical has moved away, east and is out of sight. If it is driving a loop around the buildings and keeping to the low ground, the distance is roughly eight miles. The terrain will keep its average speed low. That puts it back at the roadblock on the track in about seventeen minutes.’

  ‘How far are you from the nest?’ I asked.

  ‘We’re a minute from the foot of the rocks and then another four to make the climb. Six minutes and we’ll be positioned and ready.’

  ‘Mick, what do you think?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s tight,’ he said. It was tight, but I knew, just as Muntasser knew and Cakes, Mick and Aksil each knew that it was a chance we must take if we wanted any hope of success. If we lost any further time, we would lose the light. It had to be now and it had to be quick.

  ‘All right,’ I said, ‘let’s do it.’

  ‘Ha,’ Muntasser said and slapped his thigh. ‘Why do you delay? Of course, we must do it.’

  ‘Mick, scout the track,’ I said. He left the backseat and I watched him through the wing mirror move cautiously beyond the covering hillock. I turned to Muntasser.

  ‘Can I trust you?’

  ‘Trust me? What is there to trust?’

  ‘Why did you come with us?’ I asked. Muntasser studied the unlit cigar in his hand thoughtfully. It caused one eyebrow to lower giving him an intelligent look. I wondered whether he would reveal his inner deliberation. His face lightened.

  ‘You are young, a professional soldier, well trained, but you know nothing of Libya,’ he said. ‘Like British Intelligence, your masters, I, too, want a Libya free from the rule of extreme Islamic control. We must cut off the serpent’s head. I know the man, Al Bousefi. I know what he wants and I know what he can do. You saw the bomb outside al-Barouni’s house. He kills other Libyans like rats. He is merciless, and he is hungry for power.’

  Mick returned and jumped back onto the seat behind us. ‘All-clear,’ he said.

  ‘London sent you to kill Al Bousefi,’ Muntasser said. ‘I, too, want him dead. That is why I am here.’

  Killing Suleiman Al Bousefi was no longer my primary objective. If the opportunity arose then I would take his life, without hesitation, but saving Magda and getting her safely out of Libya was my number one concern. I had nothing to gain from telling that to Muntasser. He was gazing at me with an odd expression as if he, too, was considering whether he should voice his thoughts.

  ‘What happens to the girl is of no interest to me,’ he said. ‘I will speak truthfully.’ He took a breath. ‘A man should know before he risks his life what other men think.’ His eyes held mine. They were like the bark of a Scots elm when snow covers the ground. ‘You will get inside and kill many men. I hope one of them is Al Bousefi. Finding the girl and then escaping with your life…’ Muntasser shook his head. ‘…not from that building.’ I let him speak. ‘Aksil deserves his revenge. Whether he lives or dies will be his choice. I do not know which he will choose. Your men follow you.’ Muntasser held out his open palms and hunched his shoulders. ‘Is that trust enough?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, more than enough,’ I said.

  ‘If we don’t go now I’ll have to check the track again,’ Mick said.

  ‘Cakes, progress report,’ I said into the CDL.

  ‘We’re making the climb,’ he said. ‘…three minutes.’

  ‘All right, we’re leaving now,’ I said.

  The Range Rover crept obediently from its hiding place and rolled softly onto the track. With one eye on the phone screen and one ahead, I barely rose above walking pace as the dirt line turned between the hillocks
, and curved to find the even ground.

  Concealed behind the final bend, a short distance out, I braked to a stop. ‘Cakes, we’re in position,’ I said.

  ‘Aksil is finalising his sights,’ Cakes said.

  ‘What do you see?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s still four. Two seated in the Landcruiser: one in the passenger seat, one in the back. The other two are standing: one leaning against the bonnet, the other against the rock.’

  ‘I am ready,’ Aksil said.

  Lifting my foot off the brake, the big 4x4 eased forward. Accelerating gently through the turn we straightened into the open and, ahead, saw the natural rock collar and the parked Landcruiser that blocked the roadway. The four men dressed in black reacted to our appearance immediately. The two outside the vehicle stood away from where they were leaning and slowly advanced pulling forward the assault rifles they carried. The man in the backseat got out, but the fourth man remained in the passenger seat and watched.

  The nearest man raised a hand while keeping the other firmly on his rifle. The other two men stood behind him. The fourth man appeared reluctant to move. He must have had a comfortable seat.

  Braking slowly I rolled the Range Rover to a stop without taking my eyes from the men. Through the CDL Muntasser said something to Aksil in Arabic and then opened the passenger door and got out. Standing with one hand on the open door, he spoke to the closest man. The man’s response, although spoken in Arabic, confirmed my belief that he was the most senior of the four and their leader. His approach displayed rank. I had seen the same confident aggressive arrogance many times before.

  Through the CDL I said, ‘I’ll handle the front man. He’s the leader. Mick, cover me. Aksil, take the other two standing behind him. Leave the fourth until he gets out of the vehicle. If he doesn’t get out, Mick, you deal with him. Aksil, give us a second to get into position and then we’ll go on your first shot.’ I waited for any response. The setup was not very different from the one we had envisaged and for which we had planned. After two or three seconds silence I said, ‘All right, let’s do it.’

  Mick and I opened our doors together, stepped out and moved slowly to in front of the Range Rover. Whatever it was Muntasser was saying it was not making them jittery. Our movement went by without any counter or defensive reaction from the men in black. I was only five or six paces away from the front man. He was big and ugly with cruel misshapen features. Maternal love only could forgive such a face. When his overconfident eyes left Muntasser and found my face, I held my blank expression. Muntasser spoke again and the man turned back.

  Aksil’s first shot dispelled any concern I may have had over Muntasser’s high claim. He gave the second man a new hair parting. The distance and use of a suppressor combined to make the shot itself silent. Only the severe hairstyling property of the bullet made any sound. The insides of the man’s skull burst out through the exit wound in a whoosh of red mush like the release from a high-pressure valve.

  I moved. The shock had not frozen my legs. Mick held cover and Muntasser had no intention of moving except, perhaps, to get back inside the 4x4. Three long strides covered the distance, but before I reached the front man, Aksil fired again. It was another pinpoint shot. The delay in moving had given Aksil his second stationary target and his second head kill. More red mush filled the air. Now they moved. With the bloody corpses of their two colleagues laid out in the dirt, the front man and the seated man in the Landcruiser moved for their lives. The leader strained desperately to bring up his rifle and target me, but I was already on him. His ugly features tensed in desperate effort. Opting for a forearm smash the iron-hard bone of my elbow connected squarely with his jaw. His head snapped away and he stumbled but remained on his feet. Advancing without pause, I struck him again. This time, I used a police cosh that Muntasser had provided especially for the purpose. My forearm’s close attention had left his head bowed and delivered an easy target. Of quality manufacture, the cosh dispatched its responsibility with praiseworthy effectiveness. The solidness of the strike to the back of the head was not one from which anyone could remain conscious. The man hit the dirt and was out for the count.

  The fourth and final man was now the danger. Out of his comfortable seat with the beat of his heart racing, fear pulsing, intense and all-consuming, racking his body and shocking his mind he turned and ran. Perhaps he was the youngest of the four or the least aggressive, but whatever the reason, if he managed to get away and raise the alarm he would succeed in ending any chance we had of saving Magda. We had to stop him.

  ‘Mick—,’ I said, but Mick was already moving, running in pursuit and holding out his pistol with its suppressor to the fore. ‘He mustn’t get away.’

  Standing next to me Muntasser bent down, pulled the unconscious man over and then secured his wrists with throwaway restraints. ‘And his ankles,’ I said. ‘We don’t want him running off.’ The grunt told me Muntasser did not share my concern, but he fitted the restraints anyway.

  Hurrying over to the Landcruiser gave me a clear sight of the running man. He was following the track. Mick was cutting the distance, but not by much. The man was out of range for a pistol shot. He was attempting to reach the buildings and from the speed of his running had every chance of succeeding. Muntasser appeared at my side and silently watched the chase.

  ‘He’s going to get away and raise the alarm,’ I said. Muntasser’s eyes stayed on the escaping man.

  ‘No, he will not,’ he said.

  The running man fell as if he had tripped, but he did not bring up his hands as he went down and he did not get up again.

  ‘I said he would not,’ Muntasser said and looked at me. ‘Aksil never misses.’ The shot by the Berber was impressive.

  ‘Cakes, Aksil, all secure, get here as quick as you can,’ I said through the CDL. ‘Mick, move the body away from the track and then get the clothes.’ I checked my wristwatch. The minutes were passing.

  Muntasser and I went back to the bound man and his two dead co-workers. He was coming round and groaning like a walrus with a toothache. Muntasser kicked his feet and said something in Arabic.

  ‘We’ve got work to do,’ I said. ‘Help me get their clothes off.’

  Cakes and Aksil arrived back. ‘Put these on,’ I said and threw them the black outfits.’

  After I had dragged the two bodies and hid them inside the Landcruiser with the mostly managerial help of Muntasser, Cakes and Aksil had changed clothes. Mick appeared already wearing his second-hand black costume. The disguises were not perfect, but they were better than no disguise at all.

  ‘Cakes, climb up to the top of the ridge and watch out for the technical,’ I said. He stopped beside our captive.

  ‘Don’t you want my help?’ he asked.

  ‘You don’t speak Arabic,’ I said. He thought for a moment and then continued on his way. I had a professional available to carry out the interrogation.

  To get the walrus’ attention Muntasser kicked him. The man looked up and I saw hatred and fear in his eyes. Muntasser asked him a question, but the man only stared. This time, Muntasser kicked him much harder. The man grunted as the toe of Muntasser’s boot sank deeply into his belly. Again, Muntasser spoke. Again, the man remained mute. Again, Muntasser kicked him. The next time Muntasser spoke the man answered. They conversed briefly and then Muntasser turned to me.

  ‘This is Abu,’ he said. ‘Abu is a mid-ranking member of Al Bousefi’s group.’

  ‘Ask him how many guards there are inside the main building,’ I said. Muntasser spoke and Abu answered.

  ‘He says the number is more than seventy.’

  ‘That number seems too many,’ I said. ‘Is he lying?’

  Muntasser combined questioning with both threatened and actual kicks. Abu writhed in the dirt with his eyes closed. The injury to his head and the pain from Muntasser’s boot was challenging his ability to remain lucid. He spoke, but it was not eloquent.

  ‘He says the smaller building gives acco
mmodation to the men and that is why there is so many. There is a big gathering today in the main building. He says it is for the marriage of Al Bousefi.’

  ‘Marriage,’ I echoed unable to hide my surprise.

  ‘Yes, that is what he says.’

  ‘Ask him the location of Magda inside the main building,’ I said. Muntasser questioned, but Abu struggled to listen. The Al Bousefi guard was close to losing consciousness again. He mumbled something.

  Cakes’ voice came through the CDL. ‘I have eyes on the technical. It’s headed our way, less than a mile out.’

  Muntasser pulled his Beretta, aimed without pause using a straight arm and then fired. Through the suppressor, the bullet sounded choked like a cough from a man with a heavy cold. It entered through the forehead above the right eye and exited behind the left ear removing a greater than the fair amount of brain for its 9mm size. Abu’s head jerked unnaturally and then struck the dirt beside its own grisly spatter.

  ‘Mick, help me move the body,’ I said. ‘Muntasser, move the Range Rover. Aksil, take a position on the south ridge. Follow them in, Cakes, with comms. Mick and I will come from behind the Landcruiser. Everyone, watch the crossfire. Keep it quick and quiet.’

  Abu’s dead body was heavy, but we carried it at pace and dumped it in the Landcruiser on top of the other two. Warm blood and matter from the fresh head wound got onto my clothes. If we had had more time, I would then have changed into Abu’s outfit.

  Muntasser had disappeared in the Range Rover behind the rock and the bend in the track. ‘I will stay here until it is over,’ he said through the CDL. Aksil, too, had disappeared.

  ‘The technical is driving around the ridge and entering from the north,’ Cakes said speaking fast and clear. ‘Muntasser, they are going to see you.’

  ‘Does he have time to move?’

  ‘Negative. They will have visual in seconds.’

  ‘Muntasser, if they stop keep them talking. We will come to you. Otherwise, stay where you are until it’s over,’ I said.