Bonfire (2 page)

He ran through the growing smog with an assault rifle over his shoulder and a combat knife in his hand. A keffiyeh covered his head and face so that only his eyes were visible and he wore a djellaba robe like a Berber-Arab.

The man reached Moha Hassan and using the knife cut the ropes that held him to the post. It was then I saw the second man. He appeared in the smoke close to the guards. From his movement, I could tell he was providing cover for the first man. He, too, wore a keffiyeh and djellaba and only his eyes, too, were visible. In his hands, he held an LMG [
LMG: light machine gun
]. It was an FN Minimi, which is probably the most widely used make of LMG. To pin down or eliminate enemy combatants with active, rapid fire from the hip the flawlessly designed weapon is perfect. I was pleased to see the man was not using his FN Minimi at that time for its specialised purpose. However, should the need arise I felt certain he would not hesitate to do so.

Freed from the post, Moha Hassan appeared shaky. His rescuer pulled off the black hood and despite the thick smoke, I saw an expression of miraculous relief on the teenager’s face. It was the look of reprieve for a condemned man who had been only seconds away from death. His saviour led him hurriedly westward beyond the man providing cover with the LMG. He, too, then withdrew and disappeared inside the screen of dense smoke.

It was then that I moved. My eyes and ears had barely improved, but I found my balance was good enough to keep me upright while I ran.

Leaving behind the prostrate Benjamin Chase I leapt from the veranda and ran past the seated Wahbi Muntasser who rubbed his eyes like a man worried he may never see again, to where the firing squad guards were scattered like toy soldiers in an impromptu game of skittles. The blasts from the stun grenades had taken them down and I saw a dark patch of ground scorched by the heat from one of the explosions. Beside the seared earth was an AKMS that a guard had dropped. I picked it up, turned westward and ran through the smoke.

I came out into the fresh air blown clean by the dawn breeze to see the rubble of smashed blocks and masonry and a hole in the compound wall. Passing through the hole were the two armed, Arab-dressed men and Moha Hassan. I ran after them. Through the hole, waiting for them was a transit van with a man already seated behind the steering wheel.

Moha Hassan was still unsteady on his feet. Stepping through the hole, he stumbled and fell. The man carrying the LMG stopped to help him. This gave me the vital seconds I needed. Still sprinting I lifted the AKMS assault rifle and using the sense of touch checked it was ready to fire and then raised it to my chest.

The man who had cut the rope was already getting into the van. I could hear the driver revving the engine in preparation of their getaway. The second man holding the LMG used his free hand to lift the shaky Moha Hassan and shove him towards the open van door. I aimed on the run. The man looked at me. Then I fired. The assault rifle barked, but in my hands, the recoil felt light. The man leapt at me. I had reached the hole. I fired again, and again the recoil was light. I realised the AKMS magazine was loaded with blanks. The man laughed. The keffiyeh muffled the sound, but he was clearly laughing. With the LMG held by his side, he raised his free hand and cuffed me on the side of the head. Then he turned away and hurried into the vehicle. The door slammed shut as the driver accelerated away with the wheels spinning for traction on the dry earth. I stood and watched while the dirty Ford van disappeared into the distance.

Behind me, I heard a man’s voice shout out. I turned and looked. It was Wahbi Muntasser. He was walking towards me on shaky legs. ‘Did they get away?’ he asked. He could see that they had. I kept silent. ‘Did you shoot them?’ I lifted the AKMS assault rifle.

‘This rifle is loaded with blanks,’ I said and threw it angrily to the ground.

Rarely had I seen such an unhappy expression as the one I now saw on the face of Wahbi Muntasser. Seated inside the office where earlier he had served us with high-quality coffee the depth of his scowl was impressive. I thought it unlikely that a repeat offer of the coffee was imminent. I could tell from his head movements that the man in charge had not yet recovered from the effects of the stun grenades. His vision may have returned to normal, but his ears were still causing him problems. He tilted his head and probed with a thick index finger.

Benjamin Chase was also suffering from the effects of the “flashbangs”, but worse. He sat very still with his head bowed and face covered by his hands. I wondered whether he might be saying a silent prayer.

As for the firing squad detail, since we moved inside to the office they had made themselves scarce. Before they disappeared none of them had looked fit enough to put the cat out, let alone join a posse and track down the bandits. I suspected that if asked they would have agreed.

Working in diplomacy as a military attaché Chase was politically astute and as a result unlikely to provoke Muntasser by saying anything controversial. In fact, looking at him he was unlikely to say anything at all. I, of course, did not work in diplomacy.

Despite his physical condition, Wahbi Muntasser was a cauldron of bubbling rage. He looked at me from under a deep frown. ‘Why did you not stop them?’ he said.

‘Why was the assault rifle loaded with blanks?’ I said. It was simply an argumentative response, as I already knew the reason. Muntasser sucked in air through pouting lips.

‘Two of the rifles had blanks,’ he said. ‘So the men could say they did not shoot him.’

It was an old firing squad tradition and one that many military organisations still followed. If some of the guns used are loaded with blanks, then the men in the firing squad can all legitimately claim not to have fired the fatal shots. A clear conscience is a wonderful thing.

‘How did they know the execution was taking place here?’ I said. Muntasser widened his eyes and made a pained, grumbling sound in his throat. ‘Who knew you had moved the location from the prison to here, to this police compound?’ His anger simmered and my question remained unanswered.

‘You saw the vehicle,’ he said. ‘What was it?’ That was a long shot. He was never going to find the men that way.

‘It was a dirty van,’ I said. ‘It might have been white or silver. In the bad light and with the flash and the smoke...’ He never let me finish. He waved away my unhelpful answer and moaned again. ‘What happened to the guards at the checkpoint?’ I said. ‘Where were they?’ If the incapacitation of the guard in the lookout tower by a rubber bullet was any indication the checkpoint guards were undoubtedly laid out, too.

Muntasser hollered. He continued to holler until a guard appeared. Then in Arabic, he barked at the man who turned and left with the enthusiasm of someone given orders to shoot his own grandmother.

‘We should be going,’ I said and stood up. It was time for Chase and me to leave. It was pointless for us to stay any longer. I nudged Chase who looked up with an expression that could have won him first prize in a “village idiot” competition. I pulled him onto his feet to help get him moving. Muntasser also stood.

‘How can I contact you, Mr. Hayes?’ he asked. ‘Where are you staying?’

‘The British embassy has all the details,’ I said. ‘Chase, here, is your main contact. You have his number. If you think he can be of any use to you.’ Muntasser looked at Chase and then back at me. His ugly grimace was answer enough.

Outside, the sun had lifted clear of the horizon and its rays felt warm in the cool morning air. Chase and I walked from the building to the parked Mercedes saloon. Chase stumbled.

‘Give me the key,’ I said. ‘I’ll drive.’

Benjamin Chase must have started to feel better because he found his voice. ‘What happened back there?’ he said. ‘I feel like I’ve been shot to the moon on a rocket.’

‘The effects will soon wear off,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not permanent.’ My reassurance may not have convinced the diplomat as he made an unhappy nasal sound before rubbing his eyes and dropping his head despondently.

I indicated to turn off and a van cut down the inside and would have caused a collision had I not steered away. Chase was right about the standard of driving in Tripoli.

‘What will you tell London?’ he asked.

‘I’ll tell them what happened,’ I said. His despondency seemed to worsen. ‘It’s not that bad,’ I said. ‘It’s not as if someone’s died.’ I think he got the joke. He must have just laughed on the inside.

We arrived at the hotel. I pulled up outside, left the engine running and opened the car door. ‘Goodbye,’ I said.

‘Will I see you again, Mr. Hayes?’ Chase asked.

‘It’s unlikely,’ I said. ‘I’m booked on the afternoon flight to London.’ I stepped out of the Mercedes.

‘Goodbye, then,’ he said. I pushed shut the car door, turned away and entered the hotel.

Anyone who was not a Libyan and not staying in an embassy or as a guest in a private residence was staying in this hotel. It had the best security and the best tagine in the city [
tagine: spiced lamb in a tomato and paprika sauce
].

Despite all appearances to the contrary, I was not a guest of the hotel. Benjamin Chase thought I was. The hotel was from where he had collected me and from where I now took my leave of him. He also believed I was returning to London.

I waited just inside the entrance until Chase had driven off. The marble covered, hangar-style lobby had a reserved opulence like all the best, international five-star hotels. However, not all five-star hotels had uniformed security guards wearing Kevlar and carrying assault rifles.

After checking that Chase had left, I slipped back outside. Before I continued onwards, I was careful to ensure nobody had followed the diplomatic Mercedes to the hotel and that nobody was now watching the entrance. The last thing I wanted was a tail.

I made two false starts and doubled back each time. As far as I could tell, nobody had followed me. In fact, nobody seemed the slightest bit interested in me. That was an arrangement I very much hoped would continue.

The side street behind the hotel was only a short distance away. The parked Ford saloon was still there. It was a rental car, which I had collected at Tripoli airport after I arrived earlier that morning on the British Airways flight from Heathrow. The forty-minute drive in the dark from the town of Ben
Ghashir
in the south to the city centre and the hotel had been uneventful. My passenger had barely spoken. She was understandably apprehensive.

I inspected the vehicle closely. Nobody had touched the thick dust that covered the bodywork or disturbed the surrounding sandy ground. I opened the boot. My kit was all there.

Seated behind the wheel, the Ford petrol engine fired and then purred like a lap-contented cat. I took out my satellite phone and studied the route. The screen told me it was less than two miles away.

After checking that nobody was watching or that any other parked car had occupants interested in following I drove away south with my bag beside me on the passenger seat.

A buff sandstone structure with turrets loomed ahead. It had the appearance of a small fortress from a time long ago forgotten.

Once away from the old town the streets were wide and the buildings big and square. I turned onto a broad thoroughfare and searched for a place to park.

At street level, a line of small shops and cafes occupied the tenement building, but above, the other six floors were all apartments. A space became visible at the kerbside within a row of haphazardly parked vehicles. I turned in before anyone else took it.

From the bag, I took a keffiyeh, a djellaba and a pair of Arabic, slipper-style shoes. After changing into the native dress and checking to see whether anyone was taking an interest I left the car and walked along the street on the pathway. People milled around, but none of them was interested in me. I checked my wristwatch.

Ahead, the cafe was busy. Men and some women sat at the outside tables. They ate egg dough known as
sfinz
and drank syrupy, black tea or the more palatable green tea.

A silk, amber headscarf was all I could see. The tables of people hampered a clear view. I approached from a better angle. She turned her head and saw me. Recognition showed from a widening of her eyes and then she stood. I beckoned her over and she came without hesitation. Her covered head was still and her eyes studied my face.

‘The car’s this way,’ I said and then led the way.

Inside the Ford saloon, I used the satellite phone to find the route to the next location. Magda Jbara watched me silently. During our brief time together, she had asked few questions and none that were personal.

‘Thanks for waiting,’ I said. ‘Was everything all right?’

‘Yes,’ she said and gave a small nod.

With the route fixed, I drove away westward. I noticed Magda gently rubbed the underside of her arm. Mine was sore, too. London had insisted on the tracker implants. In fact, the Chief and Jerry Lombroso had been so insistent that they refused to hear any dissent on the matter. I wondered why, but when I found out the trackers were capable of monitoring heartbeat I thought I understood because they would provide a remote way of knowing whether the person was alive.

‘The soreness won’t last long,’ I said. Magda moved her hand away from her arm. Weakness was not something she wanted to show. Returning to her home country was dangerous. If the wrong people got their hands on her, she might wish she had stayed in Britain. Her apprehension was understandable.

We approached the outskirts of the city in the west near the coastal road that ran through the region of Tripolitania. The satellite had a firm location and directed us away from the main road onto a side road that after three miles led to a deserted area of land. Parked out of immediate sight was a dirty Ford van.

Magda looked at the van and then looked at me. How much trust she had in me was difficult to say. I left the track and drove across the dry ground towards the transit, which looked abandoned. I stopped the saloon alongside and got out. Magda got out, too.

The driver’s cab was empty. I stood by the side and listened. Magda also listened. All we heard was silence. I went to the back doors. Magda came with me. They were unlocked. I opened them and found the barrel of an LMG only an inch away from the end of my nose. Holding the light machine gun was a man dressed in Arabic clothes like me. The keffiyeh covered his head and face except for his eyes, which burned with calculating aggression. It was the man from the police compound. I remembered his laughter and the cuff he had given me on the side of the head.

Magda screamed and then abruptly stopped as she regained control. The scream was natural. Particularly when confronted with such unpleasant eyes. I nearly screamed myself. Cakes did have very unsettling eyes. Not only were they sunken, but the left eyelid drooped due to a badly healed scar.

John “Cakes” Kipling laughed. I placed my hand on the barrel and lowered the FN Minimi until it pointed at the floor.

‘You tried to kill me,’ he said with an accuser’s voice.

‘Are you dead?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he said.

‘Then I didn’t try to kill you,’ I said. Banksy laughed. Banksy was one of the other two men inside the van and together with John “Cakes” Kipling and Mick made up the three-man team that had carried out the “smash-and-grab”. The target of their captive-rescue mission was also in the van. He was lying on the floor with his hands and feet tied and a hood over his head.

‘You shot at me with an AKMS,’ Cakes said. He was persistent.

‘I shot at you with blanks,’ I said. ‘I had to make it look convincing.’

‘You didn’t know they were blanks,’ he said.

‘Yes, I did,’ I said.

‘...how?’ he asked.

‘The AKMS felt light,’ I said. Again, Banksy laughed and this time, Mick joined him. Cakes swore and cast doubt on my ability to tell the weight of a specific part of my anatomy, let alone the difference between live and blank rounds in an AK-47. He was right. I had fired the rifle without knowing it held blanks, but I had also aimed to miss. ‘Anyway, I let you cuff me around the ear,’ I said. ‘So, we’re even.’ Cakes swore again and said something to the effect that he wished he had hit me harder.

‘Get him up,’ I said. Banksy sat him up and Mick pulled off the hood. The young man’s eyes reacted to the light.

‘That is Moha Hassan al-Barouni,’ said Magda with more than a little surprise in her voice.

‘Is it?’ I said. ‘That’s good.’

‘He should be dead,’ she said.

‘You’ve freed the right man,’ I said to Cakes with just the right amount of astonishment.

Moha Hassan’s face expressed confusion until he recognised Magda Jbara and then it lifted into a smile. I suspected it was the first one for quite some time.

‘How did you save him?’ Magda asked and then without waiting for a reply said, ‘Why did you save him?’

‘Tell him that he’s safe with us,’ I said.

‘What will you do with him?’ she asked.

‘We’re going to take him home,’ I said. Magda’s mouth opened and then closed before she moved forward and began talking in Arabic to Moha Hassan. At the point in the conversation when the face of the nineteen-year-old registered understanding, I told Banksy to cut him free.

Leaving Magda and Moha Hassan still talking inside the van Mick, Cakes, Banksy and I prepared for the next stage.

Mick had responsibility for communications. The system we were using was a CDL [
CDL: common data link
], which is a secure wireless protocol network developed for use by the military. Deployed personnel bounce their transmissions either via high-altitude aircraft or via orbiting satellites. We were using satellites. For a soldier in the field, the system has the most important attribute: reliability. Mick signalled he had successfully added me to the network. I performed a verbal test and Mick nodded. He now had us all wirelessly connected.

Next, onto the ground by my feet, Banksy dropped my in-field kitbag. I fitted the vest under my djellaba and pulled it tight. There was also a vest each for Magda and Moha Hassan. Firepower came in the form of an LMG and a Glock pistol with a suppressor, which I had specifically asked for. There was also a combat knife.

We all confirmed the destination point on our satellite phones and fixed the position. The decision on how we would travel was one we had already made. I was to drive the saloon with Magda in the passenger seat and Mick on the backseat. Cakes, Banksy and Moha Hassan would follow together in the transit van with Cakes driving. This meant both vehicles contained an Arabic speaker and an equal division of soldiers.

‘Put these on,’ I said.

‘What are they?’ Magda asked.

‘There’re ballistic vests,’ I said. Magda’s eyebrows lowered. ‘...bulletproof vests,’ I explained. ‘Wear them under your clothes, so they’re out of sight. Fit them over your heads and then tighten them at the sides like this.’ I demonstrated on Moha Hassan. Magda watched and then fitted hers herself.

We were set to go.

Moha Hassan attracted our attention. He waited until we were all turned and looking at him. ‘Thank-you,’ he said.