Bonfire

by Mark Arundel

  ‘The technical is slowing down,’ Cakes said.

  ‘Yes, they are stopping,’ Muntasser confirmed.

  ‘We’re on our way.’ Mick and I began to run. ‘Aksil, do you have a shot?’

  ‘No, I will move.’

  ‘The passenger has gotten out,’ Cakes said. ‘The driver and the gunner are staying put. Muntasser has gotten out. He’s waiting for the man to approach him.’

  Pulling my suppressor-attached Glock and hugging the rock wall I moved at speed on soft footsteps to the angle and as far as cover would take me. Mick was right behind.

  ‘They’re standing beside the Range Rover talking,’ Cakes said. ‘The other two haven’t moved.’

  I stole a glance. The distance was greater than I had hoped and without any further cover, the open space made an unseen approach impossible. Swopping places with Mick allowed him to see.

  ‘Aksil, do you have a shot?’ I said quietly through the CDL. We only had seconds to act before the situation altered.

  ‘This is all I can do,’ Aksil said. ‘I cannot move further.’

  ‘Do you have a shot?’

  ‘Yes, one shot, the man sitting, the gunner.’

  Pushing against Mick I glanced again. ‘Cakes, can you take the driver?’

  ‘Negative. The distance is too great and I don’t have a clear line of sight.’

  ‘Can you move closer?’

  ‘Not without the gunner seeing me.’

  The driver was our problem and the risk that he would escape.

  ‘Muntasser,’ I said softly through the CDL, ‘you will have to kill the driver before he can drive off. You need to move away from the man you are talking to into a position that gives you a clear shot.’ I glanced again. Muntasser maintained the conversation while casually ambling around the man towards the technical and its open passenger door. This movement caused the man to unconsciously turn and follow him. Showing us his back was a welcome addition. ‘Aksil will shoot the gunner, Mick and I will take the standing man, and Muntasser, you have the driver. Aksil, are you ready?’

  ‘Yes, I am ready.’

  ‘All right, we go on the count of three,’ I said. ‘One… two… three.’

  Mick and I burst out together into the open and rushed towards the technical with our pistols held ready. The gunner jolted abnormally, fell to one side and then slumped down as if his seat had become made of ice. He was not going to get up again. Muntasser attempted a cowboy-style quick draw, but the Beretta’s suppressor caught on his unbuttoned tunic and ruined the Sundance Kid impersonation. The driver was young and alert. He immediately realised the danger, and the loud clatter from the revved diesel engine broke the quietness like a drum kit during band practice. Darting over to get a better angle, I raised the Glock in both hands to eye level and targeted the standing man. In his panicky attempt to aim his rifle at Muntasser he, too, had become a failed quick draw competitor. Aiming between the man’s shoulder blades, I fired. Mick sprinted directly towards the front of the technical. He saw the man fall and knew my accuracy was good. The converted Toyota Hilux lurched forward with all four tyres spitting dirt in a rushed attempt to convert power into traction on the soft ground. Pointing the Beretta into the moving cab Muntasser fired once. The Hilux lurched again and this time, the tyres stuck with venomous alacrity. Mick had planted his feet. Straight-armed his pistol aimed through the windscreen at the driver. The acute angle provided an almost front-on shot. The Toyota leapt forward at speed and the engine growled like a whipped hyena. Muntasser must have missed. Mick fired twice. The windscreen frosted and two bullet holes appeared black like hawthorn drupes in the snow. Still accelerating the Toyota veered without warning. Mick was close. He was too close. The unexpected change in direction came without notice. It was rapid and unstoppable. The realisation lasted only a fraction of one second. The hit sounded dull like the thud from a deer strike. It lifted Mick off his feet and for a moment, he sailed like a kite. Time seemed to slow as I watched helplessly. With nothing to stop the Toyota, it ploughed on. Mick was lost. The vehicle’s high ground clearance and protruding metal bull bar caught him and pulled his inert body down and under with a gut-wrenching inevitability. The suspension bounced closing the space between the heavy tyre and the wheel arch and sounding like a passing carriage on a train track. I ran to my friend. Continuing onward in a straight line the Toyota only stopped when it crashed head-on into the jutting rock face. Twisted and unmoving Mick’s body pressed heavily on the ground and blood ran across his face. In my arms, his body felt broken and lifeless.

  A muffled pistol shot drew my attention. Muntasser was ensuring the kills. He walked over to where I sat on the ground holding Mick. ‘The driver was dead already,’ he said. ‘He had two bullet holes in his head.’ He looked closely at Mick. ‘Your friend was a good shot with a pistol.’ He paused. ‘I am sorry.’

  Cakes was the first to arrive back. Aksil was only seconds behind. Cakes stood over me and stared down at Mick’s ashen, bloodstained face. Aksil held a respectful distance.

  ‘This was your fault,’ Cakes said directing his anger at Muntasser. ‘You were supposed to shoot the driver.’ Despite Cakes’ antagonism, Muntasser imposingly maintained his composure.

  ‘You are upset at what has happened,’ Muntasser said. ‘I am sorry.’ Cakes advanced on the man he felt was responsible. He wanted Muntasser to pay. The police chief did not require great detective skills to identify Cakes’ intention. Aksil moved to intercept the advance, but Muntasser waved him back.

  ‘I did shoot the driver,’ Muntasser said. ‘I hit him in the shoulder. Mick hit him twice in the head. Look at the driver’s body and you will see.’ Cakes wavered. ‘This is not my fault.’

  ‘Go and look at the body,’ I said. Cakes walked past Muntasser and went to the crashed Toyota.

  After looking, Cakes walked back in silence.

  ‘What did you see?’ I asked. My inquiry went unanswered. Not that it mattered. Mick was dead.

  The celebratory feast provided in the desert fortress by Suleiman to mark his marriage was unrestrained. The wives and daughters of the men from the inner circle of the Brotherhood had done the work. Suleiman had paid for everything. The women had done the shopping in Zawiya and expertly prepared the extravagant dishes.

  It followed on immediately from the ceremony. After seeing the banquet on offer, and despite his urgent desire to leave and return to Zintan, Imam Ahmad decided he could stay for a little while after all. He stood away from the long table while the women covered it with an abundance of mouth-watering delights, and humbly watched Al Bousefi and his wife, Magda, seated side-by-side in throne-like chairs for all to view. The ego of the man, he thought, had stretched far beyond anyone’s control. His own attempts had been futile. Does he believe himself a king or an emperor?

  A young man took Imam Ahmad’s thoughtful attention. He, too, was gazing contemplatively at Suleiman and Magda despite his blank expression. After years of experience, the imam could read the faces of men regardless of the techniques they employed to make it otherwise. His knowledge of such matters was great.

  ‘You are, perhaps, thinking of your own marriage sometime in the near future,’ Imam Ahmad said. Moha’s composure was invulnerable.

  ‘Salam, Imam Ahmad,’ he said dispassionately while maintaining respectfulness. ‘My own marriage is many years away. I am still too young to think of such things.’

  ‘I know your face, do I not?’

  ‘I am Moha Hassan al-Barouni. My father is Mahmoud al-Barouni.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I am surprised to see you here. I know your father is a friend of Al Bousefi, but I understood you had a more pressing engagement today in Tripoli.’ Moha considered responding but decided not to. ‘I hope you are hungry,’ the imam said. ‘This wedding feast is extravagant.’

  ‘I must return to my father before the meal begins.’

  ‘Violence begets violence, Moha,’ Imam Ahmad said. ‘The passion a man feels, the hono
ur he has for Islam and the love he shows for his family are all good things. Revenge, destruction and killing are not.’ Moha listened to the imam’s words while his eyes remained on the married couple. Still seated, their arms stretched out between them, and Al Bousefi held Magda’s hand like a king pronouncing ownership over his queen.

  ‘I must go,’ Moha said. He turned and walked away through the throng of men. He glanced at his father. Mahmoud was deep in conversation with two other men and did not notice his son. Moha walked silently without stopping. He left the main hall and searched for a hidden spot where no one would see him. In the kitchen, the women were still busy preparing the food. Moha continued along the passageway until he reached the end. His heartbeat had risen and the taste in his mouth had turned acrid. The closed door opened inwards and Moha looked inside. It was a storeroom, gloomy in the weak light through the high, narrow window and filled with water bottles, large wooden crates of differing sizes and pallets of tinned food. He entered, closed the door quietly and then retrieved the phone from his pocket. He called the number and waited. Benjamin “Manny” Chase answered the call almost immediately.

  ‘It is Rossi,’ Moha said. ‘He is here.’

  ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘Yes, I have spoken with him,’ Moha said. His palms were wet and he gripped the phone tightly. ‘Everyone is here, all the leaders and their senior men. It is the day of his marriage.’

  ‘His marriage… Right,’ Chase said.

  ‘Wait,’ Moha said. ‘Your special soldiers, your SAS force, when they come they must not harm my father.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He is wearing a blue taqiyah, a cap, the same as me and we both have blue shirts as we agreed. I can give them my codename: Rossi. You said they will know it.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Imam Ahmad, who performed the ceremony, they must not harm him either. He is a religious man. He does not have anything to do with this. And Magda, she is a woman, the SAS will not harm the women.’

  ‘Rossi, don’t worry. They know what to do.’

  ‘When will they come?’

  ‘Soon,’ Chase said. ‘In thirty minutes, no more. He won’t leave, will he?’

  ‘No,’ Moha said and thought of Magda. ‘He won’t leave.’

  ‘Good, but if he did you must call me immediately. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Rossi, you’ve done well,’ Chase said honestly.

  ‘There are guards on the dirt road and a patrol around the buildings, and guards on the roof, in the courtyard and inside the buildings.’

  ‘The SAS know what to do,’ Chase said reassuringly and then ended the call.

  Moha replaced the phone in his pocket, wiped the sweat from his palm and then carefully left the storeroom.

  Back inside the main hall Mahmoud was watching for his son and saw him enter. He beckoned him over. ‘Where have you been? Here, I have saved you a place beside me.’

  ‘Is there room for Imam Ahmad?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I would like him to sit with us,’ Moha said.

  ‘Yes, we can make room.’

  ‘Imam Ahmad,’ Moha called out, ‘please, sit with my father and me. We have a place for you.’

  ‘Moha, thank you, I will come round.’ While Moha waited, he looked for Magda. Seated at the head was Suleiman.

  ‘Where is Magda?’ Moha asked his father softly.

  ‘She has left the men to eat with the other women.’

  ‘Imam Ahmad, this is my father, Mahmoud.’

  ‘Yes, we have met before, Moha, many times,’ the imam said. ‘Your father and Suleiman are always welcome in Zintan. The wedding of such a man as Suleiman Al Bousefi is an occasion for friends both old and new. We are all his closest and most trusted friends.’

  Moha sat and looked at his wristwatch.

  Chase made the call without a moment’s delay. The Chief answered in a likewise manner.

  ‘We have confirmation from Rossi,’ Chase said.

  ‘Is he certain?’ the Chief asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you?’

  Chase considered for a second. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Very well,’ the Chief said. ‘We shall proceed.’

  ‘We’ve lost the signal from Michael Duggan’s heartbeat,’ Jerry said.

  ‘Manny, call me if anything changes.’ The Chief cut the connection. ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘Yes, unless the signal has failed for some technical reason.’

  ‘Is the satellite in range?’

  ‘Yes, just,’ Jerry said.

  ‘Bring up the imagery on the screen,’ the Chief said. Jerry worked his laptop and an aerial image appeared on the big display. The arid ground showed barren and far below. ‘Zoom in as close as you can on Duggan’s tracker signal.’ The picture adjusted, jolted digitally and then came back into focus.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Claudia whispered as if saying the word was a truth she could not speak. Seated on the ground was Hayes and in his arms, he cradled the lifeless body of Mick Duggan.

  ‘Who are those other two men?’ the Chief said. Jerry altered the image, leant forward and then studied the screen intensely.

  ‘The heavier one looks like the Tripoli police chief, Wahbi Muntasser. The other one I don’t recognise. He may be one of Muntasser’s men.’

  ‘Hayes really is a quite remarkable young man,’ the Chief said. He makes allies of his enemies with a single-mindedness that is difficult to not admire.’ For a second, the Chief stared at the image on the display with an expression that anyone seeing might have taken as regretful. ‘Try the recognition software on the one we don’t know.’

  ‘We don’t have a clear picture,’ Jerry said.

  ‘Try it anyway. He may look skywards. I’d like to know who he is and what, if anything, we know about him.’ The Chief continued to study the display. ‘Jerry, zoom out and show me a bigger area.’ The image expanded. ‘Their skirmish with Al Bousefi’s outlying guard appears to have concluded in their favour despite the loss of Duggan. The buildings are now within easy reach.’

  ‘We should call Hayes and tell him to get to the extraction point,’ Claudia said pale and with eyes that had leaked all their relaxed charm. Looking at her, Claudia reminded the Chief of the affect that death could have on young intelligence officers.

  ‘Claudia, Duggan’s unfortunate demise is only going to strengthen Hayes’ resolve. Suggesting he agrees to an extraction is futile. His determination to complete the mission and save Magda, now that his decision has led directly to the death of his friend, will be only greater.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, of course,’ she said resignedly. ‘They’re all going to die, aren’t they?’ The Chief remained silent. Jerry concentrated on his laptop. ‘Hayes is going to die.’

  ‘Claudia, we are all going to die,’ the Chief said. ‘Everyone does. Every life comes with an expiration date. Whether today is Hayes’ we shall have to wait and see.’

  ‘Unbelievable, the recognition software has identified the second man,’ Jerry said. A head and shoulders shot of Aksil appeared on the screen. They all studied it. ‘He has distinctive features, does he not?’

  ‘What do we know about this handsome man?’

  ‘He’s a Berber tribesman from one of the villages in the Nafusa Mountains, speaks English and is British army trained,’ Jerry said.

  ‘…British army trained?’ the Chief repeated.

  ‘Yes, it was the SAS. Do you remember? They undertook a period of covert training in the area around Zintan and Jadu.’

  ‘What did our elite British force teach him?’

  Jerry read the file from his laptop. ‘It was mostly weapons training,’ he said.

  ‘They taught him how to fire a gun.’

  ‘Well, it was a bit more than that,’ Jerry said. ‘He showed aptitude as a marksman and an SAS instructor gave him advanced tuition as a sharpshooter. It says here that his Berber
heart beats only forty-five times a minute.’

  ‘Is that good?’

  ‘It is if you’re a sniper.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ Claudia asked.

  ‘Aksil,’ Jerry replied.

  ‘And can he shoot?’ the Chief asked.

  ‘Yes, I rather think he can,’ Jerry said reading to the end of the file.

  ‘Hayes has now lost two men and gained two new ones,’ the Chief said. ‘He’s gained the Tripoli police chief and a local, SAS-trained, Berber marksman. Never let anyone tell you that Mr. Hayes is not resourceful. What he lacks in self-preservation he more than makes up for in tenacity.’

  ‘Promise me you’ll keep him alive,’ Claudia said. Her voice was soft. The Chief stood up and walked to the door. Before he left the room, he turned back.

  ‘Claudia, I cannot promise to keep him alive, but I can promise to leave the decision up to him.’

  At the end of the corridor, the Chief entered his office. He closed the door, took his phone from his pocket and walked over to the sections of tall glass that made up the south-west wall. Far below in the afternoon winter light, the Thames lapped and eddied like a grenadine cocktail inside a moving railway carriage. Behind the bare trees, the traffic along the Embankment passed by without end, some with glowing headlamps and their red brake lights showed blurred through the damp air like dabs of vermillion on a grey canvas.

  ‘Ah, captain, a progress report if you please,’ the Chief said to his answered call. Captain Harding breathed in deeply at the relaxed nature of his old friend. The subject of their business was hardly a matter for levity, he thought. Perhaps, the intelligence service was more accustomed to hard-nosed decisions and black operations than was the Royal Navy.

  ‘I’ve just watched the aircraft clear the deck,’ Harding said.

  ‘What’s the ETA?’ the Chief asked in a more staid voice.

  ‘Hold on.’ Harding lowered the phone and then used the internal communication system. ‘Mr. Castle, what is the craft’s target ETA?’

  ‘Target ETA, captain, is just under sixteen minutes.’