Bonfire (10 page)

The bike was directly ahead. We closed the gap along a stretch of road probably built by the Romans it was so straight. The bike rider glanced back. He braked, leant into the turn and then disappeared between two buildings. Cakes had accelerated to a high speed. With great determination, he stamped the brake pedal, swung the steering wheel and yanked on the handbrake. The heavy saloon shuddered and then glided with poise and control like a top class ice-skater. We seemed to slip through the narrow opening as if guided by sonar and then straighten balanced and ready “tail up”. That was why I thought Cakes was a better driver than Mick was. He drove like an out-of-work stuntman.

The bike rider left the passage through a walkway that was too narrow for us to follow. Unperturbed Cakes turned and gunned the BMW along the roadway that ran perpendicular until we joined a small lane, which ran parallel to the walkway.

We came out on a wider road, still residential, but built to move a heavier flow of traffic in and out. Cakes turned to where he thought the bike might be and raced to make up the lost time. We searched and listened with the windows down. Cakes slowed. Like all predators, he displayed controlled, determined aggression. His one purpose was to catch his prey.

We knew the bike rider must be close. Had we lost him? Cakes thumped the steering wheel with his fist.

Then the bike reappeared. It came out onto the road a much longer distance ahead than we expected. The walkway had proven a good shortcut, but not good enough to complete a successful escape.

Cakes floored the pedal with renewed hope and gripped the steering wheel in both hands. The gap narrowed quickly. The bike rider looked back over his shoulder. He knew we were chasing him and he knew he was running for his life.

Frantically he searched for an escape route. His head turned rapidly, one side and then the other. Desperately his eyes sought for a way out. He knew if he stayed on the road, we would catch him in seconds.

Open ground between the houses was his only route off the road and he took it. We followed. The ground was hard and dusty, but not dusty enough in which to hide.

He steered tightly behind the buildings searching for an exit. We were almost touching his back wheel. Desperate, evasive action was necessary. Forcefully he turned the handlebars and despite the bike snaking, he found just enough agility to dodge our bumper. The manoeuvre took him away between the buildings and back towards the road. Relentlessly Cakes pursued. The man looked back at us as he left the rough ground and then again before he turned fast onto the tarmac.

Neither he nor the car saw each other. It was a glancing blow. The car’s solid wing struck against the man’s leg. The bike wobbled and then went down and the man came off. The bike threw out death throw sparks and then lay on its side motionless. The man was still trying to escape. Dragging his injured leg, he was desperate to reach cover. He was never going to make it.

Cakes revved hard past the fallen scooter and then braked hard alongside the limping man. I was out of the car even before it had stopped. The man saw me and pulled a knife. I rushed him and he lunged. It was the strike of desperation. The block was simple. I stepped inside, grasped his forearm, twisted his wrist and the knife fell from his hand. To make obvious my displeasure at having a knife pointed at my stomach I elbowed the man in the throat and then heel-kicked him in the chest. He went down and stayed down.

Mick was now beside me. Together we lifted the man from the ground and then dragged him towards the BMW.

The driver of the car with which he had collided was standing next to his open door watching nervously. He spoke rapidly in Arabic without receiving a response.

Mick held the man against the car while I searched him for any weapons concealed or otherwise. He had only been carrying the knife, which remained on the ground where it had fallen. The remote detonator, which I found in his pocket, was a weapon, of course, but one that he had already used.

Mick released the bomber, I threw him onto the backseat and I got in beside him. Mick jumped into the passenger seat and then Cakes, clearly pleased with the outcome, raced us away.

It was hard to tell whether the expression on the face of the man beside me on the backseat of the BMW saloon was fear or pain. Most probably, it was a combination of the two. He certainly smelled of fear. It was a mixture of sweat and dust blended together with hatred and murder. The damage to his leg must have hurt. Blood had seeped through the khakis and was staining the cotton.

‘What’s the plan?’ Mick asked. He turned in his seat and studied our captive.

‘Can you fix the tracker system?’ I said.

‘I’ll look at it,’ he replied.

I tried to imagine what the man seated next to me was thinking. He must have been trying to work out who we were and whether he stood any chance of escaping with his life.

I was wondering whether he spoke any language other than Arabic. Could he be of any use to us?

‘Cakes, find somewhere isolated so we can ask our new friend some questions,’ I said.

‘He’s not going to tell us anything useful,’ Cakes said, ‘We should just kill him, dump his body and then get out of here. The tracker system doesn’t work and Jerry Lombroso isn’t answering your calls. Mahmoud al-Barouni is either dead or gone for good. Staying any longer is a waste of time. Hayes, it is home time.’

Everything Cakes said was right. He knew it, Mick knew and I knew it. I thought about Magda and wondered if she was still alive. Abandoning her was not something I was yet ready to do. ‘I want to question him,’ I said. ‘Cakes, why do you want to rush home? Do you have a new woman waiting?’ Mick laughed.

‘All right, let’s question him,’ Cakes said. ‘Do you speak Arabic?’

‘Find a quiet spot,’ I said and then looked into the eyes of the bomber and wondered how prepared he was to die.

While Cakes found a deserted piece of land behind an empty, falling down building away from any built-up area I tried again to speak to Lombroso. The phone rang, but as before the call went unanswered.

‘Mick, how’s that tracker system looking?’ I said.

‘The signal that’s needed between the software and the satellite is working, but for some reason, the software isn’t processing the data.’

‘What’s the cause?’ I said.

‘It’s probably a bug.’

‘How can it work one minute and then stop working the next?’

‘There must be a clash between the tracker software and the hardware in our phones. I’ll keep working on it.’ Mick said.

Cakes stopped the car against a large expanse of wall away from any doors or windows on a flat stretch of open land with a view of nothing except the blue sky. We were far enough from the road and hidden from sight that nobody would disturb us.

The bomber was timid. He weakly accepted me pulling him unsympathetically from the backseat and throwing him down onto the hard ground. Both his hands went to the bloodied, damaged leg and pain lines creased his face around eyes screwed tight.

Mick stood on the other side. Cakes remained in the driver’s seat and watched through the open window.

‘Do you speak English?’ I said. The man stared at me blankly and then said something in Arabic.

‘Kill him and let’s go,’ Cakes said. I kicked the injured leg and the man screamed.

‘Do you speak English?’ I repeated. Again, the man spoke in Arabic and held his leg protectively with both hands. Cakes sighed.

‘Parlez-vous français?’ I asked. As ex-legionnaires, we each spoke French. This time, Cakes snorted. ‘If Mahmoud al-Barouni told Suleiman Al Bousefi about us and about Magda then it’s likely this man is a member of the same extremist group,’ I said. ‘They knew the police would visit the al-Barouni home looking for Moha so they parked a van with a bomb outside and left this man to set it off and kill as many as possible.’

‘Why would al-Barouni blow-up his own home?’ Cakes said.

‘He may not have known about it,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he
was
at home. Al Bousefi may have wanted rid of him. We don’t know the relationship.’

Cakes remained silent. I could tell he accepted the argument.

‘If you’re right,’ Mick said, ‘then this man probably knows where Magda is.’

‘Yes, probably, but how do we get him to tell us?’

‘We need a translator.’

My choice was between Nasser Jbara and Jamaal Jbara. I chose Jamaal and called his number. He answered immediately.

‘Yes, it is Jamaal,’ he said. His voice was eager, apprehensive and young.

‘This is Hayes,’ I said.

‘Yes, Mr. Hayes, have you found my sister?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘You need my help,’ Jamaal said. ‘What do you need? Tell me, Mr. Hayes.’

‘Jamaal, I have a man here who only speaks Arabic,’ I said.

‘You need me to translate,’ Jamaal said. He was eager and he wanted very much to help.

‘Yes. I believe this man is a member of the group that has taken Magda and that he knows where she is,’ I said. ‘I want you to tell him that unless he tells us I will kill him. Jamaal, do you understand?’ The reason I chose Jamaal over his father, Nasser, was that I hoped Jamaal’s ethics about killing a man would be more ambivalent.

‘Will you really kill this man?’

‘Yes, I will.’

‘I will tell him what you say,’ Jamaal said.

‘Jamaal, I’m going to make the phone into a loudspeaker so we can all hear.’ I reset the phone and then held it out. ‘Jamaal, you can speak now,’ I said.

To ensure the man on the ground holding his leg was paying attention I gave him a kick. He looked up at me and then looked at the phone as Jamaal’s Arabic voice sounded clear. We all listened.

When Jamaal had finished we waited expectantly. The bomber remained silent. I pulled out the Glock pistol and pointed it at the man’s face. ‘Jamaal,’ I said, ‘tell him again. Ask him to tell you where your sister is.’ Again, we listened to Jamaal’s Arabic words.

When the words finished would the man speak? If not would I kill him?

The man’s eyes remained fixed on the pistol. Jamaal’s voice was the only sound. It stopped. The bomber and I stared at each other. Did he think I was bluffing? It seemed he was going to call me on it, but then he spoke. The words were Arabic and he said them quickly.

‘Jamaal, what did he say?’

‘He says he will take you to where she is,’ Jamaal said.

‘Ask him how far away it is,’ I said. Jamaal spoke and the bomber answered.

‘He says it is on the edge of the city in the west.’

‘Ask him how many men are guarding her,’ I said. Again, Jamaal spoke and again, the bomber answered.

‘He does not know,’ Jamaal said. ‘He thinks no more than five.’

‘All right, Jamaal, that’s helped.’

‘God is with you, Mr. Hayes,’ Jamaal said.

‘I’ll speak to you again when I know something,’ I said and ended the call.

From the rucksack, I took a length of cord. Cakes watched me. Using the cord, I tied the bomber’s wrists together behind his back. Then with the serrated edge of my combat knife, I cut the bloodstained khakis. The collision with the car’s bumper had caused lacerations and swelling. I ran my thumb and finger along the bone to feel for any breaks. Despite the man flinching, the bone was solid.

The bomber limped badly as I shoved him back towards the car. He fell onto the backseat and then I pushed shut the door. Cakes still watched me.

‘Westwards is the same direction as the copter rendezvous,’ I said. ‘We’ll take a look on the way. Mick, are you okay with this?’ Mick nodded. Cakes still had his eyes on me. ‘If he’s lying or it looks too hard then I’ll kill him and carry on to the rendezvous point,’ I said.

The compromise was good enough. Cakes nodded his acceptance. ‘Hayes, get in,’ he said. ‘The sooner we get there the better.’

Claudia Casta-Locke sat with her back straight, knees together and the faintest trace of anticipation on her lips. She followed a considered turn of the head with a friendly smile directed at Jerry Lombroso. He smiled back, but it was lopsided and unconvincing.

‘Claudia, thank you for coming in on a Saturday morning at such short notice,’ the Chief said. Claudia moved her head and focused on the Chief’s appealing face. Jerry’s head followed her direction.

‘You sent a car for me,’ Claudia said.

‘Yes, quite so,’ the Chief said.

‘How did you know where I was?’

‘It was a lucky guess,’ the Chief said. ‘I trust we haven’t inconvenienced you too much.’

‘Not at all,’ Claudia said. ‘The evoked curiosity was more than adequate compensation for coffee at the Ritz. I hope it lives up to its billing.’

‘We’re in the middle of a live operation and would value your opinion on a troublesome matter that has arisen,’ the Chief explained.

‘…a live operation,’ Claudia said. ‘…is it just the two of you?’

‘It’s in Libya,’ Jerry said.

‘…Libya,’ Claudia echoed. ‘You two have a live operation underway in Libya and you want my help. How black is it?’

‘Well…’ Jerry said.

‘Does the Foreign Office know about it?’

‘Well, not exactly, but…’

‘Who does know about it?’ Claudia asked.

‘Well, just the two of us and the captain of a naval assault ship in the Med and now you,’ Jerry said. Claudia fought back a laugh. It was better than she had imagined.

‘So, it’s blacker than my grandfather’s Labrador,’ Claudia said. ‘His name, by the way, is Sooty.’ Jerry looked confused. ‘The Labrador’s name is Sooty, not my grandfather’s,’ Claudia clarified.

‘Well, the operation is covert, yes, but…’

‘What’s the objective?’ Claudia interrupted.

‘The removal of Suleiman Al Bousefi,’ the Chief said.

‘Huh,’ Claudia said and nodded in thought. ‘Is that it, a single target termination?’

‘Well,’ Jerry said, ‘it’s a bit more complicated than that.’ Claudia widened her eyes in a display of mock surprise.

‘How did you get the captain of the assault ship on board with this?’ she asked.

‘Claudia, was that a pun?’ the Chief said. Claudia smiled.

‘He’s an old friend,’ the Chief said. ‘Apparently the Wildcat helicopters need regular use otherwise they get rusty. He’s going to write it up as a training exercise. Nobody ever checks. The navy can do whatever it likes. You know that.’

‘So, what’s gone wrong?’ Claudia asked.

‘It’s not so much “what” as “whom”,’ the Chief said. Claudia frowned. She paused for a second while she considered.

‘Who have you sent in to carry out the mission?’ she asked.

‘We sent Hayes,’ Jerry said. Claudia was determined to keep any reaction from showing on her face. She concentrated on her breathing and on keeping her eyes still. Time passed.

‘Yes, Hayes,’ the Chief said. ‘That’s the reason I sent a car.’