by Mark Arundel
‘Why are you still inside the building?’ she asked without attempting to hide the strain and urgency in her voice.
‘We’ve run into a bit of a problem,’ I said. ‘Have you persuaded the Chief to extend the five-minute deadline?’
‘No, he’s adamant. He says that you only have yourself to blame and he refuses to jeopardise the success of the operation because you insist on playing the hero. Hayes, get out now. If you cannot save Magda then, please, save yourself. Do it for me.’
‘Claudia, tell him I won’t fail, tell him…’ I had to end the call without saying another word. Four guards had appeared along the corridor walking towards us. They saw us and stopped.
‘What do you want to do?’ Cakes said.
‘Let’s walk slowly over to that passageway and see if our disguises hold,’ I said. We turned our backs on the four guards and began walking. The Arabic shout we heard was anything but friendly.
22 Every patient is a doctor after his cure.
Benjamin “Manny” Chase looked at the incoming call on his phone and then immediately answered it. ‘Hello,’ he said.
‘He has gone.’ The softness of the voice was not enough to hide Moha’s agitation.
‘Who has gone?’ Chase asked.
‘The man has gone. He has left,’ the nineteen-year-old replied.
‘Do you mean Al Bousefi?’
‘Yes, of course. He has gone.’
‘Are you telling me that Al Bousefi has left the building?’ Chase asked with an urgency that he rarely left unchecked.
‘Yes, I think so,’ Moha said.
‘You think so?’
‘I do not know where he is.’
‘Then he could be in the building.’
‘Yes, but I cannot be certain and if the soldiers come and do not find him then we have lost our chance to stop him.’ Chase considered Moha’s words and knew his warning was valid.
‘Find out where he is,’ Chase said.
‘I have tried, but it is not so easy. I must be careful what I say and do. Making this phone call is a risk.’
‘You have to find out.’
‘When I do I will tell you.’
‘How long will it take?’ Chase asked.
‘We must have one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Patience,’ Moha said.
Two lines that Jerry was sure were absent only three minutes earlier had appeared like facial Grand Canyons on Claudia’s smooth complexion. He watched the youthful features turn uglier and the redness of heated passion spread from her cheeks to her pink ears.
‘You cannot kill all those people,’ she said with the madness of desperation lifting her voice to a pitch high enough to trouble a dog. The Chief looked up from his wristwatch with eyes that reminded Jerry of the light—cold and blue—that falls over London on a winter’s afternoon when the sky is heavy with snow.
‘The laws of nature,’ the Chief said in a conversational voice as if he was a physics professor beginning a tutorial. After Claudia’s emotional plea, the sound of education seemed out of place. ‘Don’t they determine what we humans really are?’
‘The laws of nature,’ Claudia parroted laced with anxious frustration.
‘The laws of nature are the same today as they were yesterday and will be tomorrow. They are constant throughout the universe. It follows, then, that they govern humans in the same way as all other things. Our brains work and behave according to a predetermined set of rules. Complex and extensive rules, I have no doubt, but inescapable rules nevertheless.’ The silence stretched as Claudia’s lips parted wider in amazement.
‘We’re deciding over the lives of more than a hundred people—men, women and children,’ Claudia said. ‘This is not an abstract science debate at Cambridge University.’
‘I imagine, Claudia, that you believe in free will,’ the Chief said. ‘You are, possibly, less inclined towards a predetermined view of the universe.’
‘If you mean that I believe the fate of those people is wholly within your will then, yes,’ Claudia said emphatically.
‘Mm, but do we truly have free will or are we just composite biological machines working to the laws of nature?’ the Chief said.
‘What?’ Claudia looked away from the Chief and up at the display, which showed the aerial satellite image of the buildings and the tracker signals of Hayes, Cakes and Magda. She studied the information and then, seeing that all three of them were still inside the fortress, looked back at the Chief desperately.
‘Do you not think the future is determined entirely by preceding events?’ the Chief asked. ‘How does freedom of will exist in a deterministic universe? This produces a moral dilemma, does it not? If past events alone cause our actions, how are we to assign responsibility?’
‘Don’t try to tell me that firing those missiles is unavoidable because the laws of nature and the universe have already decided that it’s inevitable,’ Claudia said disapprovingly.
‘Ah, no, that’s not what I’m saying,’ the Chief said. ‘Would you agree that until the future has become the present we cannot know what the future will be?’ The Chief glanced again at his wristwatch and while he did so, Magda looked at the display. Her hope that she would see the tracker signals moving away from the building turned instantly to despair. ‘Jerry, what’s your view on fate versus free will?’ the Chief asked.
‘Well, yes, an interesting topic, indeed,’ Jerry said sitting up in his chair. ‘I suppose my view is that free will is just an illusion and, despite the belief of many that they are masters of their own destiny, in truth, everything that happens is already determined due to the laws that govern the universe.’
‘So, Claudia, you see it is not me who decides whether the missiles are fired but the universe and its laws. Unfortunately, we cannot change the laws of physics and they determine everything.’
‘I thought the answer was forty-two,’ Claudia said. Both Jerry and the Chief laughed.
‘In a way it is,’ the Chief said. ‘The answer is whatever anyone wants it to be because reality is a unique personal condition and within that, the brain and the determining laws of nature decide.’ The Chief looked at his wristwatch and then at the display. ‘Time’s up,’ he said.
‘Wait! Let me call him,’ Claudia said.
‘Claudia, it’s too late,’ the Chief said and tapped the screen on his phone. ‘Captain Harding, are you still there?’
‘Yes, Duke, I’m here.’ Harding’s patient voice sounded a little strained.
‘Is everything ready at your end?’ the Chief asked.
‘Yes, everything is still ready,’ Harding replied.
‘Good. Well, I think we’re ready here, too,’ the Chief said looking at the display and then at Jerry who nodded. Claudia gripped her phone in a white fist held to her ear, but Hayes was not answering. Inside her breast, her heart thumped as if a fox when the baying hounds are close. Answer, please, answer.
‘Shall I give the order?’ Harding said. The Chief opened his mouth to speak when Jerry’s phone rang. Jerry looked at the incoming call.
‘It’s Chase,’ he said and answered.
‘Captain, hold on, please,’ the Chief said and watched Jerry take the call. Claudia watched, too. Hayes was still not answering. Jerry lowered his phone.
‘Chase has just spoken to Rossi who says Al Bousefi has disappeared and may have left the building. Chase will call again when he receives further information from Rossi either way.’
‘Captain, I’m afraid an onsite development means we must delay again,’ the Chief said.
‘Delay for how long?’ Harding replied.
‘That is unknown.’
‘All right, I’ll await your call, but don’t take too long. The fuel won’t last beyond another two hours.’
The stare with which Claudia held the Chief’s eyes was the dictionary definition of reprieve. He smiled at her.
‘It must be fate,’ she said.
The shout was l
oud enough for the other guards standing inside the entrance to hear. Immediately they turned their attention in our direction. We kept walking. The second shout was louder and closer. The sound of footfalls was clear. We glanced back. The pursuing guards shouted again and we saw them engage. Rifles lifted, and butts and shoulders found tight embraces. Our only option was to stand. Cakes and I both knew it. Without the need of words, we moved freely and together, splitting to make two targets, turning like two prize-fighting boxers in the ring ready to slug it out toe-to-toe.
Hesitation is not something any professional combat soldier has. At least not one that is still alive. Our light machine guns came up rapid and solid. The familiar tight stance was natural, practised until its action felt unchanging like sitting in a favourite armchair. Both Minimi LMGs coughed bullets doubly hushed inside the confines of walls built from thick sandstone. The return rifle fire barked and echoed loudly. The front man went down. Moving before his head smacked the stone floor, I targeted the second man, but before I could kill him, a feeling as if something had jabbed me violently above my hipbone and it caused me to lose balance and unceremoniously sit down.
‘Hayes, get up. Hayes, Hayes...’
Only inches above my head, the wall threw out stone chips and thick dust from a line of bullets. The closeness had a first-rate sobering effect and combined with the shouts from Cakes kept me conscious. Dazed, but aware of my adverse position I managed to aim the LMG balanced at the waist and return fire. The guards stopped. It was only just enough. I had to move. Struggling to push myself up I fired again and then looked at Cakes. Benefitting from the angle of the building, he was able to hold back the advancing guards from the entrance with bursts of quick fire.
‘Hayes, move… move.’
Turning unsteadily, I fired again and then felt a thump to my chest like the kick from an unhappy mule. It knocked me back onto my backside. My adrenalin fought the pain and my determination was strong.
‘Hayes…’
Cakes left the wall and moved into the open. While covering the distance between us, his LMG coughed out bullets like a heavy smoker after deeply breathing fresh morning air. I felt his arm around me and then he pulled me to my feet. With his free arm, he continued to hack out bullets. We moved, retreating towards the gloomy passageway and then the magazine emptied. We were still in the open. The guards took advantage, stepped out and shot at us. Using strength found from a place that was unknown, I lifted my LMG one-handed and sprayed bullets with the accuracy of a urinating drunk. We moved again. Supported by Cakes, my heavy feet dragged over the flagstones and then, just inside the shadowy passageway, his support vanished and we crashed painfully to the ground.
‘Cakes, get up, Cakes…’
Beside me, his body felt heavy. Bullets chipped and ricocheted around us. Sucking in a lungful of air and with my chin on the floor and side throbbing against the stone slabs, I slid the Minimi barrel forward, targeted the front man and squeezed off a short burst. Whether it was expert training or the limited angle produced by my facedown position or a combination of the two did not worry me because my improvised shooting found its target and I saw three advancing men fall heavily. I fired again. The other men and they numbered sufficient to fill the extras call in a Hollywood movie, scattered for safety.
We had one chance and one chance only. Unless we made a secure cover in the next few seconds, London would have two fewer heartbeats about which to worry. Using my feet for purchase and with one arm around Cakes’ chest, I dragged us backwards deeper into the gloom while I searched for an exit. Cakes weighed more than a rain soaked grizzly on the day before winter hibernation, which made the steps, when they appeared, unexpected, but despite the excruciating descent, I was thankful for the help they provided. At the bottom, our momentum carried us on until the presence of a heavy door brought us to a clattering halt. The descent had provided us with cover, but it was no more than a brief respite. We had to find safe cover to stand any chance. Twisting painfully, I tried the door handle and then thumped it in frustration. Unconscious, Cakes was bleeding badly from a head wound. My own condition was not much better. I searched for something, anything, that might save us, but I knew that once the ammunition was gone it would be over. Perhaps the drone’s Brimstone missiles would end it sooner, I thought blackly.
The stinging cut under Magda’s arm hurt. ‘I don’t know what it is,’ she said. The stinging slap came without warning and hurt her face just as much. Magda twisted against the rope and groaned.
‘A wife must never lie to her husband,’ Suleiman said. ‘Is that another lesson I will have to teach you?’ Magda remained silent. ‘I shall ask you again. What is this?’
‘It’s a tracker,’ she said.
‘A tracker,’ Suleiman repeated.
‘Yes, it sends a signal that identifies my location.’ Suleiman scowled with simmering rage.
‘I know what a tracker does,’ he said. ‘Why do you have it?’ Magda hesitated. Suleiman hit her again.
‘British Intelligence insisted,’ she said. ‘They told me it was for my protection.’ The scowl on Suleiman’s face deepened and then morphed to one of furious pensiveness. Like an animal sensing danger, he turned his head to the sound beyond the door. The sound was gunfire. With one pull, the reef knot came free, Magda’s arms dropped, and she took a step to get her balance.
‘Get dressed,’ Suleiman said. He glared at the door. Hurriedly Magda put her clothes back on. They heard more gunfire. It sounded almost continuous and then something heavy hit the door. Magda jumped nervously. She watched Suleiman for his reaction. He growled aggressively and then moved nearer. They heard a thump. He hesitated.
‘What is it?’ Magda said. ‘Suleiman, what’s happening?’
He responded with a growl. Angrily he turned the key and pulled open the door.
Giving up was never something I did. My brain did not work that way. Cakes had a bullet wound to the head, I was bleeding out and we were on the floor at the end of a passageway with no escape, but still I fought.
The magazine in my Minimi emptied and even I questioned whether it was the end while I searched for something else. Keeping the advancing guards from overrunning our cornered position had almost reached its inevitable conclusion, but then, from behind my head, the key turned in the lock and it was the sweetest sound my ears had ever heard. A chance offered itself and I was going to grab it. I summoned all my strength, what little I had left, and using my back and shoulders with power from my legs propelled rearward onto the door and threw it open with tremendous force.
Getting Cakes and me on the other side of the door and away from the guards was my only thought. Leaving behind a trail of blood on the flagstones, I dragged us together over the threshold, hastily slammed shut the heavy door, reached over, turned the key and slammed home the metal bolt. We were safe for the moment, I thought. In the dim light, the knife came at me without warning. As I turned my shoulders, it appeared in front of me like a silent adder readying itself to bite. The strike was much too quick for me to avoid or defend. Had it not been for my ballistics vest the curved blade would have made a good start of turning my liver into pâté de legionnaire. My attacker, on realising he had failed in his attempt to serve me up as his plat du jour, reset his arm and readied to lunge for a second time. He was seriously mistaken if he believed I would allow him another undefended chance. Despite my seated position and injured, weakened state, my ingrained ability at close quarters fighting still operated at a more or less reflex level. My abdomen tightened, lifting and turning, my determined forearm punched inside and before the blade could reach me, I successfully completed the block. Single-minded about ending the threat I jabbed out viciously with my free arm and struck the man in the throat with fingers stiffened like bolts of tempered steel. It had the wanted outcome. Involuntarily, he choked violently, stepped away backwards and lifted both hands to soothe the pain.
Behind me, the guards were banging at the locked door. I pulled C
akes to one side in case they began shooting and then put my weight on my right foot and unsteadily pushed down to stand. My attempt failed and I dropped back onto one knee.
‘Mr. Hayes!’
The surprise I heard in the voice that cried out my name matched my own. I recognised the voice and searched the gloomy, windowless underground room for confirmation. There she was. Standing behind the man who still held his throat, she looked at me with candlelight in her eyes. It was Magda. Realisation stole my ignorance like a thief in the night. The man holding his painful throat had to be Suleiman Al Bousefi. Time to reflect on fortune and how it, supposedly, favours the brave was an enjoyment that would have to wait because the man, who I now clearly recognised from the photographs as Al Bousefi, rushed me. Still on one knee and weakening from the loss of blood my reaction time to the renewed assault was slow. My neck and the swinging knife only remained unconnected by the desperate reaction of throwing back my head, which caused me to topple over. Al Bousefi, sensing victory, pressed his advantage and stepped forward with the knife raised. His breathing was heavy and his throat made a sound like an energetic chicken. By way of his weight behind the attack and full commitment to the action, he stabbed downwards aiming for my neck. Magda screamed. The emotive noise was piercing. I moved just in time and the blade skimmed past my ear. The banging on the door returned accompanied by Arabic shouts. Al Bousefi swung again and the only defensive move I had forced me further back. He seized his chance and rushed for the door. He was going to unlock it. I had to stop him. Instinctively, I stretched out full length, turned my leg up, raised the foot and with considerably less subtlety than a professional footballer, hacked at the shin of the rushing Al Bousefi who tripped and fell heavily onto the unforgiving flagstones. Losing his grip on the knife it flew from his hand and travelled across the stone floor tinkling like a wine glass. Already on the move, I lifted at the waist, spun round and grabbed the face down Al Bousefi’s ankle. I pulled using what strength I had. Al Bousefi groaned as his body knocked painfully over the hard floor. Beside me, his flat back provided the ideal crutch. Using it as a platform, I pushed down with both hands and then one knee, which flattened the Islamic leader even more, but gave me the purchase I needed to make it to my feet. Despite stumbling, I picked up the knife and made it to the door. Al Bousefi was already on his feet and glaring at me wildly. Then, taking me by surprise, he grabbed Magda, who screamed, turned and ran. He opened a hidden door in the far wall and dragging Magda with him disappeared inside a secret passage.