Bonfire (12 page)

Claudia and I had only known each other a short while, but our relationship was, up to that point, argument free. She showed an independent spirit that put me in mind of the famous Gallic
joie de vivre
, which I liked.

‘Now I know what you’re probably thinking,’ she said. I very much doubted it. ‘You’re probably thinking that I must have something to do with the job you’re on. Am I right?’ Oh, she did know what I was thinking.

‘Well, do you?’

‘I only found out a few minutes ago that you were even on a job,’ she said. ‘The Chief sent a car to fetch me into the office where I found him and Jerry Lombroso waiting, and running a black operation. They are aware of our “friendship” and asked if I would call you.’

‘If you don’t know about the job why have they asked you to call?’

‘They think you might listen to me,’ she said. That seemed unlikely. ‘All I know is what they’ve told me.’

‘Are they listening to this conversation?’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said.

‘Parler en français,’ I said.

‘Jerry speaks about six languages one of which is French,’ she said.

‘All right, just say what you called to say.’

‘All they have told me is that the job for which they employed you is complete. Is that true?’

‘It’s more complicated than that,’ I said. ‘Your friends skipped over some details, important information that they should have shared with me.’

‘I know that one of your team, Steven Banks, is dead and I’m sorry, but if you go after this woman, Magda Jbara, then it’s likely one or more of you will end up the same way,’ she said.

‘You may well be right,’ I said.

‘Then why not get out now and go home to lovely Corsica.’ After I left the Legion, I bought a small place on the French Mediterranean island of Corsica and went into business for myself selling “expertise”. Knowing the reputation of MI6 for employing non-regular personnel, the British SIS was the first place I offered my services. They invited me to London for a period of assessment and it was during that visit I met Claudia Casta-Locke. She was one of the intelligence officers involved in the selection and vetting process.

‘It feels like unfinished business,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Why? Is it because I’m a woman? Is it because I’m half-French? Tell me.’

Growing up, at home, Claudia’s French mother had only ever spoken
en français.
The Legion, too, only speaks in French so this gave us an immediate connection. This
French connection,
however, was not the only thing that drew us together. Attraction takes many forms. As an Irishman once told me,
there is often the look of an angel on the Devil himself
.

‘No, it’s because you’re not a soldier, you’re not here on this job and you don’t know Magda Jbara,’ I said. ‘Unless there’s something I don’t know, something London hasn’t told me, the chance of Magda Jbara still being alive this time tomorrow is nil, and how it looks to me from where I’m crouched here in the dirt is that her only hope is Mick, Cakes and me. So, I’m not going to go home to lovely Corsica just yet simply because it suits your bosses.’ I may have allowed my voice to rise a little. Cakes knocked my arm and put his finger to his lips. He was right. Talking above a whisper was an unnecessary risk.

When Claudia spoke her voice, too, was louder. ‘You’re paid to do a job, the job we give you. You’re a mercenary. If we tell you the job is over and to go home then that’s what you do.’ Where had the Gallic charm gone? The passion I heard in her voice was genuine. It was hard to fault her for that.

‘Claudia,’ I said. I had softened my voice and I spoke without malice. ‘Find out whether Jerry Lombroso can still track the implants that we all have because it’s stopped working for us. Then ask him why he’s so determined that we shouldn’t find Magda Jbara. If you get an honest answer, call me back. I’d like to know. In the meantime, I’m going to try and save Magda’s life.’ I was about to end the call when I heard Claudia’s voice. It was soft and sincere.

‘Hayes, faire attention,’ she said. To me, her accent always sounded Bardot-esque. She was asking me to be careful.

‘The only thing I take care over is the choice of my enemies,’ I said.

‘Isn’t that an Oscar Wilde misquote?’ she said.

‘He was from Dublin,’ I said.

‘What does that mean?’ she asked.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ I heard Claudia laugh. It sounded less like Bardot. ‘Find out what’s going on,’ I said and then ended the call.

‘Was that Claudia?’ Cakes said in a quiet voice. I nodded. ‘Is she involved in this?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

‘What did she want?’

‘London got her to call,’ I said. ‘They really don’t want us to save Magda.’ I paused for a moment in thought.

‘Are we going in or not?’ Cakes said.

‘Mick,’ I said speaking through the CDL. ‘We’re going in now.’

Claudia Casta-Locke placed the phone softly on the desk and looked up. The Chief and Jerry Lombroso were watching her. ‘I don’t know why you thought he would listen to me,’ she said and then paused expectantly. Jerry looked at the Chief.

‘Claudia, it doesn’t matter,’ the Chief said. ‘You did your best. It was worth a try.’

‘Hayes is not the type of man to follow the advice of a woman simply because he’s… well, you know …slept with her.’

‘No, I can see that now,’ the Chief said. ‘Unfortunately, my knowledge and understanding of Mr. Hayes are less than they should be. I felt sure that if they took Magda, Mr. Hayes would head back to the pavilion as it were. After all, I made certain the agreement was for him to receive the same payment regardless of whether Al Bousefi showed. It was regrettable that Al Bousefi sent armed men instead.’ The Chief paused and softened his eyes in a gesture of patronage. Claudia wanted to know everything. The Chief knew that. ‘At least you slowed him up for a few minutes,’ the Chief said. ‘Not that he’s going to find her, anyway.’

‘Was he right about the trackers?’ Claudia asked. ‘Is it only on their satellite phones that the system doesn’t work?’

Jerry Lombroso cleared his throat, thought about answering, but then decided to wait for the Chief to speak.

‘Do you enjoy your work in the service?’

‘Yes, you know I do.’

The Chief nodded. ‘Are you a secret lover?’ he asked. Claudia frowned until she realised the Chief’s deliberate use of syntax and then her eyes widened and her lips parted.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m a lover of secrets.’

‘Mm, you know, Claudia, for one to be a valuable intelligence officer one must love and respect secrets. Secrets are the strands of silk from which the web is made, and without the web, we do not have an intelligence service.’ The Chief paused and Claudia held his eyes. ‘Once I tell you something I can never take it back. It remains told and you will know it always. Only death can alter that. Learning intelligence secrets is like joining a club from which one can never leave.’ Claudia took a deeper than usual breath. ‘Are you still a secret lover?’ the Chief asked.

‘Yes,’ Claudia said without pause, ‘I am.’

Cakes stopped three steps below the top floor landing and listened. He leant forward, turned his head and searched the corridor. Using the barrel of his LMG, he indicated the direction from where the sound had come. It was the sound of a closing door.

‘Going in or coming out?’ I said in a whisper while keeping my back pressed tight against the opposite wall. Cakes waited silently.

‘…coming out,’ he said and took the final three steps in one leap to join me. He held up a single finger to indicate it was one person. We stood silently and listened. The footfalls were moving in our direction.

‘Take him or let him go?’ Cakes said in a voice barely lifted over his breath.

‘…let him go,’ I said. Had the man come out of the apartment indicated by the flag on the wall? Cakes and I moved silently to the corner and stepped back out of sight.

We listened. The footfalls grew louder. Judging when the man had reached the stairway, I sneaked a look. My approximation of the distance was accurate. The man turned off the landing and went down the steps. It was only a glance, but a second was all the time I needed. The face of a young man who believes with certainty that his mortal time on earth is at an end is not a face quickly forgotten. ‘That was Moha Hassan al-Barouni,’ I said. Seeing the nineteen-year-old forced me to make a decision and it was a decision I only had a few seconds to consider.

Cakes grimaced and put me in mind of a displeased ogre. ‘Then he was the one who told Suleiman Al Bousefi about us and about Magda,’ he said. ‘Let’s grab him.’ I put out an arm and the “ogre” stopped.

‘…maybe,’ I said. ‘I want to do it differently.’ His scowling face softened.

‘How?’ he said. I spoke through the CDL. ‘Mick, Moha Hassan al-Barouni is exiting the building alone. I want to know what he does and where he goes.’ There was a pause. We waited.

‘I see him,’ Mick said. ‘He’s walking away, back up the road. He’s stopped. He’s getting on a scooter. What do you want me to do?’ I knew what I had to say, but saying it put Cakes and me at risk.

‘Follow him,’ I said. ‘Find out where he’s going. Stay in touch and come back for us as soon as you can.’

‘Are you sure?’ Mick said. The tone of his voice told me he was not enamoured of my decision. Stood beside me Cakes felt the same way.

‘You’re leaving us stranded,’ he said. There is one very important rule of survival when undertaking a combat mission inside enemy territory. That rule is to have an exit plan because without a way out even the best end up dead.

‘Yes, I’m sure,’ I said to Mick. ‘Don’t worry, he’s not going far. You’ll be back in no time. Anyway, I’ve got a feeling this apartment isn’t too dangerous.’ Cakes made a sceptical sound in his throat that indicated it was impossible for me to know.

‘All right, I’ll get back as soon as I can,’ Mick said.

‘Do you still think Magda is inside this apartment?’ Cakes said.

‘Perhaps, but either way we’ll soon find out,’ I said.

‘Don’t you want to wait until Mick gets back?’ Cakes said.

‘No, let’s do it now,’ I said. ‘Then when Mick returns we’ll be ready to leave.’

‘Leave here or leave Libya?’ Cakes said.

‘Come on, let’s see what’s inside this apartment,’ I said. I tried to make it sound exciting. Cakes just responded with two swear words that he obviously considered appropriate.

We moved swiftly and silently along the passageway until we reached the door next to the flag of Libya nailed to the wall. With my ear flat against the painted wood veneer, I listened. Then very carefully, I tried the handle. Unsurprisingly Moha Hassan had left it locked. Cakes lifted up the ram. I saw that the door was minus a security spy hole.

‘No, wait,’ I said. Using my knuckles, I knocked three times and then stood to the side out of the way. Cakes stepped to the other side and stood opposite me.

From behind the door, we heard a man’s voice speak in Arabic. With as much authenticity as my limited acting ability would allow I said, ‘Moha.’ I hoped not to hear the man’s voice again. The sound of the lock opening was my reward.

The door had barely moved inwards and the man’s voice had only just begun to speak when Cakes shoulder barged in with the subtlety of a snorting bull. From behind the point of my LMG, I followed.

The noise made by our entry was certain to alert everyone inside the apartment. If Magda was there, my priority was to reach her and fast.

Unsurprisingly, the man who had opened the door was on the floor. The strap of his assault rifle, an AKM, which was the newer, standard version of the AK-47, was around his neck and it hampered his frantic attempt to bring up the weapon and target us. Cakes dispatched him with a short burst to the chest.

I was already moving forward. Ahead, seated at a table were two further men with AKM assault rifles. The older of the two was urgently getting to his feet and straining desperately to lift his weapon and target me. My own LMG was already shoulder tight and required only minor adjustments from my hands to bring the sights in line. The first trigger squeeze took down the standing man and the second knocked the younger man from his seat. Inside the room, the sound of firing chatter reverberated like a giant hitting a tin drum.

I rushed to the open doorway, held back and poked my head through. The second room was larger than the first. Natural light from two rows of high windows lifted the visibility not that I had much time to look. I saw the barrel of a gun and instinctively ducked. Bullets from an automatic weapon ripped through the doorframe above my head. Covered by the wall I turned and found Cakes at my shoulder.

‘How many?’ he said.

‘…three, but only one had a weapon in his hands,’ I said.

‘Did you see Magda?’

‘No,’ I said. With the manual dexterity of a street magician, the flashbang appeared in his hand. ‘What are you doing?’

‘You said Magda wasn’t in there,’ Cakes said. I fitted the keffiyeh over my nose and mouth. Cakes did the same and then his hands worked the stun grenade before he used a sideways throw to send it flying deep inside the room. We turned away, put our fingers in our ears and closed our eyes. The explosive thump felt like the drum bashing giant had slammed down a hobnail boot.

Smoke billowed through the doorway. We waited and then moved in together, shoulder to shoulder. Cakes swept one side and I swept the other.

The man who had fired at me must have recognised the stun grenade and taken evasive action because he was still standing and still holding the assault rifle. His peripheral vision saw movement and he reacted with aggression. His face came up, his hands lifted and then he focused. The dark beard and the dark AKM assault rifle showed distinctively against the white tunic. It was instinctive. Experience already had the sights of the LMG aligned. I fired. The bullets entered through the chest of the white cloth and eliminated the danger.

Beside me, close enough that we touched backs, Cakes fired. It was a short burst followed by a brief pause and then a second burst that was longer. He, too, was eliminating danger with cool precision.

At the end of the room, we stopped. We swung together and checked behind. It was all-clear. Three men were down.

Ahead I saw a closed door. The handle turned and I pushed. The door swung open. Keeping the wall as cover, I stopped and waited. It was silent.

A narrow corridor led to three smaller rooms and a bathroom. Each room was empty of people. Unfortunately, the apartment was not Magda’s prison.

‘I’ll secure the entrance,’ Cakes said. ‘What’s in the boxes?’ He pointed with his LMG at a line of wooden boxes against the back wall below the window.

I walked over and looked outside. It was a corner view of the neighbouring building and the road below.

Using my knife, I prised open the lid of the end box. Inside, wrapped in clear protective covers was something I recognised immediately. It was C-4 plastic explosive. There were six blocks of the off-white deadly putty. This must have been the explosive used in the car bomb outside the al-Barouni house. It was possible that Moha Hassan had been involved in the destruction of his family home and the deliberate killing of several security officers. If that was true it was not surprising then that Wahbi Muntasser had been so keen to have his firing squad kill the nineteen-year-old.

I prised open the next box and found the detonators together with the remote devices. The third box contained AKM assault rifle magazines.

Cakes returned and looked inside the open boxes. ‘Is it Christmas again already?’ he said.

‘We’ll take these presents with us,’ I said. ‘Mick, Mick, where are you?’ I said through the CDL.

‘Hayes, I’ve just started back,’ Mick said. ‘You were right. He didn’t go far.’

‘Have you saved the location on your phone?’ I said. Through the window on the road, movement caught my eye. ‘How far away are you?’ I said and pointed so that Cakes would look through the window.

‘Not far,’ Mick said. ‘Five minutes.’

‘We’ve cleared the apartment, but we didn’t find Magda,’ I said. ‘We’ve found a box of C-4 and a box of detonators.’

‘…makes sense,’ Mick said. ‘They must be planning some more explosions.’

‘We might have a problem,’ I said.

‘…what problem?’ Mick said.

‘Wahbi Muntasser, the state security chief from this morning at the police compound, has just turned up and he’s brought a six-man SWAT team with him.’ If anything, the expression on Wahbi Muntasser’s face had worsened since the last time I saw him. The scowl had found itself a permanent home.

‘We have to move,’ Cakes said. ‘These men look like they want to shoot someone and I don’t want it to be me.’

‘Mick, approach with caution,’ I said. ‘We’ll see you in five.’ I ended the call. For a moment, I considered speaking to Muntasser but then decided against it.

‘Let’s go,’ Cakes said. I grabbed one of the blocks of C-4 and two detonators before following Cakes to the entrance door. Everything else I left for Muntasser to find. After having Moha Hassan snatched from under his nose and then losing his men in the bomb blast outside the al-Barouni residence, he could use a win. Perhaps it would lessen the scowl a little.

We were too late to exit through the front. The first SWAT team members were already on the stairs.

‘How did Muntasser find this apartment?’ I said. It was a rhetorical question.

‘He asked a man who knew using a twelve-volt battery, two metal clips and the man’s balls,’ Cakes said.

We ran with controlled haste to the door at the end of the corridor on the north side of the building. It had a glass panel and one of those automatic closers that all communal doors seem to have.

The rear staircase was made of concrete with a simple metal handrail and walls that were bare blocks. Cakes led and I followed. He took the steps two at a time and we descended rapidly.

When the outside door opened, Cakes had just made the turn onto the final flight of steps and I was on his shoulder.

There were two of them, dressed the same in matching assault gear, carrying AKMS rifles and looking every bit as menacing as they probably hoped.

Their eyes lifted and they saw Cakes. Dressed as he was in an unusually arranged djellaba with a keffiyeh on his head and holding an LMG they must have readily decided he was a bad man who posed an immediate threat. Despite appearances to the contrary, Cakes was the fastest to react. Perhaps a sound made when the door opened had given him a warning or perhaps his reaction time, which I had witnessed often before was vastly superior. Either way, Cakes fired first.