Bonfire (15 page)

Heavy traffic through the centre of Zawiya had slowed and then stopped and now, we were stuck in a jam. The narrow intersection resembled a “bumper cars” track with the electricity turned off. Cakes hit the horn in frustration, but all he achieved was to prompt a volley of horns that only died away once, it seemed, everyone had had a turn.

The main problem, other than the volume of traffic that was trying to pass through a narrow crossroads, was a delivery truck that was blocking one of the exit routes. The snarl-up was going to last until someone moved it.

While we waited, the BMW’s climate control provided a welcome cocoon from the foul air of fumes, heat and dust that must have been building up around us. Pedestrians moved between and alongside the stationary vehicles with an indifference that told me the present situation was far from unique.

‘We should have avoided the city centre,’ Cakes said breaking the silence.

‘You’re driving,’ Mick said and checked his wristwatch before returning to his phone, the screen of which he was studying with great attention.

‘We’re still over a mile away from the Jbara house,’ Cakes said. He sat back in the driver’s seat and watched the passing Libyan people through the UV tinted glass. ‘There’s a man walking a goat.’

‘Perhaps the goat is walking the man,’ Mick said without looking up.

‘Banksy would have laughed at that,’ Cakes said.

‘Banksy laughed at anything.’

After a pause, Cakes said, ‘Do you ever think about your own death?’

‘Only when someone’s trying to kill me,’ Mick said.

‘…most of the time, then,’ I said.

‘Yes, but it only seems to happen when I’m with you.’

‘Sometimes I think about all the people I’ve killed,’ Cakes said.

‘Why?’ Mick said. ‘They’re not thinking about you.’

‘Do you remember, in Mali, when we called in that airstrike?’ Cakes said. ‘We killed over a thousand people that day.’

‘No, we didn’t,’ Mick said, ‘the Mirage fired air to ground missiles did.’

‘Do you ever regret leaving the Legion?’ Cakes asked.

‘I will do,’ Mick said, ‘if London doesn’t pay us.’

‘They’ll pay,’ I said. ‘And they’ll give us more work. They always have jobs for men like us. Claudia says that the Chief’s decisive personality is notorious among people inside the intelligence service.’

‘Well, the next time we undertake the Chief’s “decisive action” I hope it doesn’t involve an ambush or it won’t just be Banksy that’s dead.’

The driver of the delivery truck jumped into the cab and pulled shut the door. I watched as the vehicle lurched forward with diesel fumes blowing from the exhaust like a puffing dragon.

‘We’re moving,’ Cakes said and blasted the horn in celebration. A series of horn blasts from everyone else followed while we pulled away slowly like a carnival parade. The road opened up ahead and we drove on.

‘There’s a garage,’ Cakes said. ‘I’m going to stop and refuel.’ He slowed the BMW, steered off the straight road, bumped over the slip lane, and parked on the forecourt.

‘I’ll do it,’ I said. ‘Stay in the driver’s seat and keep the engine running.’

‘Why? Aren’t you going to pay?’ Cakes said.

‘Open the fuel cap,’ I said.

‘Where’s the lever on these cars?’

I fitted the nozzle and squeezed tight the handle. The pump whirred into life. A teenager wearing a dirty shirt and with a head of thick, unruly hair appeared in front of me. After watching me for a second, he spoke in Arabic. I think he was telling me I was doing him out of a job. After checking the numbers on the display, I gave the redundant pump attendant more than enough cash and then passed him the nozzle to put back. He took it and then spoke to me again in Arabic. As before, he received only silence in return.

The passenger door closed solidly behind me and then Cakes drove us away from the garage and back onto the straight road. On the backseat, the screen of Mick’s phone continued to occupy all his attention. I was going to ask him a question but decided to leave him uninterrupted. Cakes, I noticed, was frowning in what I supposed was a troubled reflection.

‘What’s wrong?’ I said.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘We’re almost at the Jbara house.’ Actually, we still had over a quarter of a mile to go, but I desisted from saying so. I had my own thoughts.
What was the relationship between Benjamin Chase and Moha Hassan al-Barouni?

I was still considering the possibilities to that perplexing question when Cakes stopped the car on the street outside the Jbara house.

‘Mick, with me; Cakes, stay with the car,’ I said.

‘I’ll stay with the car,’ Mick said. ‘I want to carry on with this.’ His concentration remained fixed on the screen of his phone.

‘All right, but keep alert,’ I said. ‘Cakes, let’s go.’

The intercom buzzer on the wall beside the gate produced an Arabic response. ‘It’s Hayes,’ I said. The entrance unlocked and Cakes and I went inside. Father and son, Nasser and Jamaal Jbara, were already standing apprehensively at the open door of their family home.

Nobody had anything to gain from not facing the cold, hard truth. I walked up to them and said, ‘We haven’t been able to find Magda. I’m sorry.’ It was tough for them. Their stoic faces tightened and I could see the pain beneath as the despair from my pronouncement settled like a gravestone.

‘What happened with the man you caught, the man I spoke to?’ Jamaal asked. His words were fast and desperate.

‘He took us to the place,’ I said, ‘but Magda wasn’t there.’

‘He may have lied. Let me speak to him again.’

‘Jamaal, the man is dead.’

They both struggled with the emotional pain of their plight and fought back unnecessary words. The silence of both father and son was harder to face than anger or tears. The responsibility for Magda’s abduction was difficult to apportion. Blame is not always a simple matter. Perhaps it was the fault of London, but Magda did return to Libya without coercion. She knew the risk. Nevertheless, knowing of the involvement of British Intelligence and the organisations reputation for deceitfulness I decided to reserve judgement. Anyway, blame was only one-step away from vengeance and as a clever man once said, “
An eye for an eye
leaves everybody blind.”

Having already made our decision we wanted to collect Banksy and leave immediately.

‘We’ll get the body of our friend and then we must go,’ I said.

‘Is there nothing more you can do for us?’ Nasser asked. I shook my head.

‘Mr. Hayes, please, there must be something you can do,’ Jamaal said.

‘We don’t know where Magda is and we don’t have any way of finding out,’ I said.

‘London,’ Nasser said, ‘cannot London help?’ Telling them it was likely London was directly preventing us from locating Magda and that our contact was adamant we pull out of Libya and return home was not going to help.

‘London cannot help,’ I said.

‘Have you spoken to Moha Hassan al-Barouni?’ Nasser asked.

‘Why do you think he can help?’ Cakes said. Up until then Cakes had remained silent. His frown, if anything, had deepened and appeared set like a gargoyle, a gorgon or something horrible beginning with “g”.

‘He is young and foolish in his beliefs,’ Nasser said. ‘The extremists can always make use of such men. They get them to spill blood, many times, their own. He may know where they have taken Magda.’

‘We tried to speak to him,’ I said, ‘but he ran off and we lost him.’ I glanced at Cakes whose eyes almost disappeared beneath the heavy overhang of his stony brow. ‘We don’t know where he is.’

‘Is he not at his family home?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘he’s definitely not there.’

‘But you freed him. Why did you do that?’ For a second, I considered not answering Jamaal’s question, but only for a second.

‘Saving him from the firing squad and returning him safely to his father was our primary objective,’ I said.

‘He must have told the extremists that Magda had returned home,’ Jamaal said. ‘What other objectives did you have?’

‘…to bring Magda here to her father.’

‘Did not London realise the danger for Magda of Moha Hassan al-Barouni knowing she had returned?’ Nasser said. It was an interesting question.

‘Do you know where your daughter might be?’ Cakes said.

A forlorn expression turned to brave despair and then resignation. ‘No, I do not,’ Nasser said. The silence that followed was empty acceptance.

‘We must get our friend’s body,’ I said.

Nasser led us along the corridor, through the closed door and then down the narrow stone steps that turned back on themselves. The cellar was cool and dark. On a wooden bench lay the shrouded corpse of our friend.

‘I have washed his body and wrapped it in cloth. It is the Muslim custom,’ Nasser said. ‘I did not know if you would return. He is ready for burial.’ It was a kind act and not one Nasser had had to do. The selfless humanity lifted the frown and Cakes, I could see, had respect for Nasser’s deed.

All true professional soldiers show honour towards the dead no matter what. The Legion’s honour code is strong and every legionnaire learns it so they can recite it from memory. One of the seven articles of the code reads,
Au combat, tu agis sans passion et sans haine, tu respectes les ennemis vaincus, tu n'abandonnes jamais ni tes morts, ni tes blessés, ni tes armes (In combat, you act without passion and without hate, you respect defeated enemies, and you never abandon your dead, your wounded or your arms.)
Just like every legionnaire, Cakes had great respect for the Legion’s code of honour.

Cakes and I carried Banksy back up the stone steps, along the corridor and out through the open front door. Nasser and Jamal followed us into the brightness of the courtyard.

‘These are your friend’s clothes and the things he had in his pockets and on his body,’ Nasser said and held up a large plastic bag.

Jamaal opened the gate and we went through. Mick had moved into the driver’s seat and the screen of his phone still held all his attention.

‘Mick, open the boot,’ I said. He pulled the catch making the boot lid spring obediently upwards. Cakes and I placed Banksy inside between the kit and the equipment. Cakes took the plastic bag from Nasser’s hand and fitted it along the side by forcibly pushing it into the tight available space. I shut the boot lid and then looked at Nasser and Jamal Jbara. Words did not come easily.

The new Libyan constitution, which London and Magda wanted Nasser to write and present in Tripoli came to mind, but I decided to leave it unmentioned. London could deal with it, I thought. It was their problem.

Nasser held out his hand and Cakes and I shook it. Jamal followed his father and we shook his hand, as well. ‘God is with you,’ Nasser said.

I nodded and said, ‘Goodbye.’ Mick had moved over onto the passenger seat from where he could continue with whatever it was he was doing. Cakes got into the driver’s seat and I sat in the back.

‘Cakes, take us away from here,’ I said. He glanced at me in the rear-view mirror and then drove us away. Nasser and Jamal Jbara watched us leave. It was pointless for me to look back. We reached the end of the street and Cakes braked for the junction.