Bonfire (24 page)

Unfortunately, my angle of sight did not include the entrance gate, which I thought might have a posted guard. Although, going anywhere near the entrance gate was unlikely to feature in the plan.

Cakes and I lowered our binoculars at the same time. I waited for him to speak first but all he did was look at me. I continued to wait. Aksil lowered his telescopic sight and then, he too, looked at me in silence. As neither of them seemed keen to voice an opinion I said, ‘It’s doable.’ If I was hoping for affirmative responses, I was disappointed. Cakes turned and headed back down the ledge.

‘I’ll send Mick up. He needs to see this,’ he said. I watched him go. Aksil was still looking at me.

‘Do you have a rifle to go with that scope?’ I asked. He thought about the question for a second and then nodded. ‘What is it?’

‘…Heckler and Koch,’ he said.

‘Is it an HK417?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Do you hit at what you aim?’

‘Yes, Mr. Hayes, he does,’ Muntasser said answering my question. The police chief was approaching cautiously along the ledge with both hands on the rock wall and Mick was following patiently behind. ‘Aksil never misses.’

Never misses

A bold statement and one I wanted to believe were true.

‘Now, show me what it is we up against,’ Muntasser said as he peered apprehensively over the edge and then raised Cakes’ binoculars to his eyes. Mick, too, lifted his binoculars and together they studied the view below. With their concentration taken fully, I motioned for Aksil to follow me back to the vehicle and the waiting Cakes.

‘Show me the rifle,’ I said. Aksil moved to the Range Rover. He kept the Heckler & Koch attached by clips under a carpeted panel inside the 4x4. He passed it to me. The weapon was a specifically designed battle rifle intended for use by a sharpshooter. A number of Special Forces choose it. One of which, I knew, was the UK’s Special Air Service regiment. Aksil’s rifle was new and clean. I passed it to Cakes to look at. ‘Is it true you never miss?’ I said. Aksil held my eyes with his implacable stare. My question went unanswered for several seconds.

‘It is not known until after every shot,’ he said. I liked that answer. Cakes passed back the rifle to Aksil. I could see Cakes liked the answer, too.

‘Do you have a suppressor?’ I asked.

‘For the sound?’ he said.

‘Yes, for the sound.’

‘Yes, I have it.’

‘Good,’ I said. I now had the first part of my plan worked out.

Mick returned with Muntasser following. Mick and Cakes exchanged glances, and Muntasser shook his head.

‘Mr. Hayes, it is not easy the task you make for yourself,’ he said. ‘But, already, I think you have a way. Am I right?’

After pausing to ensure everyone was listening I said, ‘Yes, I have a plan that will get us inside.’

‘Getting inside is one thing, but what about Magda’s location, and how do we get out again?’ Cakes said.

‘The plan to get us inside may, also, provide us with intelligence on Magda’s location and other useful facts about layout and guards, and possibly an exit strategy.’

‘…might?’

‘Yes, at the moment it’s unknown.’

‘All right,’ Mick said, ‘you better tell us the plan.’

Moha sat crossed legged on the rug and listened in silence, although, inside, he wanted to scream.
Stop—stop this—it is not right.
None of the other men around him appeared troubled by the unspeakable act going on before them. Each man’s taqiyah and clean white shirt beneath a dark waistcoat or smooth tunic gave truth to their wealth and importance. The fate of a woman was of no concern. Women placed with these men scarcely above livestock, such as goats or chickens.

Suleiman was speaking, but Moha was not looking at him, he was looking at Magda. Her eyes were all he could see. They were dark and emotionless, enigma-like with a depth that projected a serene presence as if she had risen above the actions of ordinary mortals. Perhaps a meditational state was the only way she could cope with the agony of marrying such as abhorrent man, Moha thought, but the thought did not comfort him.

‘I know you will forgive me, but such times as these have not allowed public declaration of my marriage as is the custom.’ Suleiman was a clever politician. He always knew the right thing to say.

Once again, Moha suppressed the urge that sprung from deep inside to scream out and denounce the evil in the room, but all the young man could do was sit silently, watch, listen and wait.

Suleiman was concluding his speech and Moha surreptitiously felt the concealed phone inside his pocket and the need to call the Englishman, Chase, was intense in its unrelenting passion.

Magda sat on the rug, surrounded by men, her knees bent and her legs together, weight favouring one hip, hands clasped in her lap, back straight and head perfectly still. Her body felt like stone. Her recent ordeal in the underground room at the hands of the man, who, in only a very short while, would become her husband, had numbed all feelings, left her cold, confused and fearful.

Can I bear it?

Suleiman spoke, but his words did not register with Magda only the sound of his voice. Then it stopped and Imam Ahmad spoke. He read from the Qur'an, but again, the words came to Magda’s ears without form. Her mind was in the future: A life of subjugation. What cruelties and horrors would he make her endure? If endure she could. To carry, give birth and raise his children. Would that be such a bad thing? The consideration of motherhood and Suleiman as her children’s father was, indeed, a thought most bittersweet.

Fixed on her veiled face was someone’s gaze. She sensed it despite her troubled mind such was the intenseness of the stare. With barely a perceptible movement of her head and eyes, she found the man’s face. It was Moha Hassan al-Barouni. Something about his expression, although placid, produced a chill that ran the length of Magda’s spine. Hidden deep behind the black pupils Magda sensed a powerful emotive force, undefined, masked to everyone except herself. It was as if Moha was communicating to her telepathically. The initial jolt went, their eyes remained locked and knowledge travelled the distance between them and entered Magda’s subconscious, but it was knowledge she could not decode.

Why is he here? Of course, his father is here.

Magda knew Mahmoud al-Barouni was a senior member of Suleiman’s extremist Islamic group and his closest friend of many years. The presence of his son, Moha, should not have been a surprise. After all, the nineteen-year-old had attempted a political assassination in Tripoli, which, obviously, was at the command of his father, should have cost him his life, and would have done so had it not been for Mr. Hayes and the other men sent by London.

Why did they free him?

It was a simple question. Despite the anguish and her distressing plight, Magda freed her mental power.

Who benefits?

‘All praise is due to Allah and we praise Allah and we beseech Allah’s Help and we ask Allah’s Protection and we betake Allah’s Refuge from the evils of our animal life and the bad results of our actions…’ The imam started his marriage sermon and this time Magda heard the spoken words, but they barely registered. She was trying to answer her question in her head…

Who benefits? If London sent Mr. Hayes, and they did, then London must benefit. How does London benefit?

Despite following each logical thought in sequence, a feasible answer did not present itself. To solve the puzzle on alone, without further knowledge, was impossible. Then another thought came to her. It felt like a premonition.

Before the day is over, I will have the answer.

His discipline faltered and Moha held Magda’s eyes for longer than he should have. Despite his attempt to break the connection, he was unable to look away. He knew that his face remained expressionless. Magda, too, was impassive like a portrait gazing out from the canvas. Had anyone noticed his or her eye contact, Moha wondered. He dismissed the thought. It was not important. At such a gathering impassive stares were normal.

Magda broke the gaze and Moha wondered what she was thinking.

‘I do marry her,’ Suleiman said. The words shook Moha from his reverie and an inward scowl of emotional pain and disgust brought back focus on the task ahead.

‘May Allah bless you and have His blessing descend upon you and unite you in goodness,’ the imam said. ‘May Allah grant us the ability to simplify what Allah and His Messenger instructed to be simple and grant us blessing in it.’ Imam Ahmad gave Suleiman a barely perceptible nod from his bearded, round head and a fleeting expression of relief crossed the religious man’s face.

The marriage ceremony of Suleiman to Magda was complete.

Fate is not something in which I have ever believed, but luck, luck is very real. The other four members of my impromptu combat unit listened to me without interruption. My plan, devised on the hoof, only took a short while to tell. Possibly, it sounded all the better for it given its sketchy nature. After my quietly spoken voice, the silence was deafening. A sharp cry from a kittiwake, overhead, brought concern, but after checking, we found our position remained secure. Perhaps the seabird was calling out because it had lost its way and not because of movement on the ground that had spooked its foraging. Anyway, with silence still ringing out I made a decision that would allow a little time for consideration. ‘I’m going to take another look while you think about it,’ I said.

The ledge leading to the precipice was no less narrow. After settling a firm crouch, I lifted the glasses and began a systematic review of the dirt track. While studying the guards with the Landcruiser, which still blocked the way at the point where the crag made a natural gateway, movement caught my eye. Approaching from the west was a white Toyota Hilux. It came into view along the escarpment where the angle of sight from the ledge had kept the moving vehicle hidden until it bounced clear on the rough ground and signalled unintentionally with reflected sunlight off its windscreen. Mounted on the bed of the technical and attended by a seated operator was a rocket launcher. The driver stopped behind the Landcruiser and leant his arm and face through the open door window. Two of the guards walked over and a friendly conversation ensued. Leaving the men chatting, I moved the glasses and studied the weapon. A Russian BM-21 Grad that used salvaged tubes, probably from a damaged Ural-375D, and together with the experienced looking gunner, the technical was versatile and very dangerous. During the first recce, the possibility of a mobile patrol had occurred to me and I was surprised not to have found one. Had I not returned for a second look we could have gone ahead without knowing that such a weapon, capable of inflicting a heavyweight punch, was roaming the area.

Back at the Range Rover Cakes greeted me with a nod and said, ‘I’m in.’

‘Me, too,’ Mick said.

Muntasser waved an expressive hand in which he held his unlit cigar and said, ‘Aksil and I, too, will join you in your plan.’ As heart-warming as it was, albeit delayed, to have consensus, a smile did not appear on my face.

‘I’ve just seen a patrolling technical with a BM-21 Grad capable of firing six rockets,’ I said.

‘What is a technical?’ Muntasser asked.

‘It’s a converted pick-up, a gun truck,’ I said. ‘We can’t take the risk of it firing on us.’

‘What can we do?’

‘We’ll have to amend the plan,’ I said. Muntasser placed the cigar under his nose and inhaled.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Your plan is good.’

‘And if the technical engages?’

‘You said it was patrolling. We will take care that it does not see us.’ Muntasser replaced the unlit cigar inside his tunic pocket and smiled confidently. Whether his confidence came from ignorance or wisdom was difficult to tell. I checked Mick and Cakes for their agreement and got it. Aksil would follow Muntasser.