Bonfire (25 page)

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Let’s get back to the BMW and prepare.’

Despite the steepness in some parts, Aksil chose a quick route for the descent, which the Range Rover’s control systems made easier.

‘Aksil, stop here, I want to scout the BMW.’ The satellite positioning on my phone told me the car’s exact location. ‘Mick, with me.’ Finding some of Al Bousefi’s friends waiting for us would not be a good start.

Mick and I split and approached from opposite sides. We found the BMW just as we had left it and the locale was deserted.

‘Aksil, all-clear, bring the Range Rover in,’ I said through the CDL.

‘We’re putting our faith in a man we’ve never seen shoot before,’ Mick said.

‘Is that why you hesitated?’ I asked. ‘Muntasser says he can shoot, and he’s got an HK417.’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Mick said thoughtfully.

‘What does Cakes think?’

‘He said with an HK417 and S&B scope it’s impossible for anyone to miss.’

Aksil stopped the Range Rover alongside the BMW and Cakes jumped out. ‘I’ve found the best place,’ he said and held his phone for me to see. ‘The sun will be off his right shoulder, the distance is three hundred and ten yards and the elevation is twenty-three degrees.’

‘Aksil, we’ve found you a nest,’ I said.

‘…a nest?’ the Berber questioned.

‘Yes, it’s perfect,’ I said. ‘Cakes will go with you. Get ready.’

‘I am ready,’ he said. The HK417 rifle with scope and suppressor both attached hung around his neck and balanced under his right arm.

‘Ammunition?’

‘The magazine is full and two here,’ he said and tapped the buttoned pocket of his tunic.

‘Good. We’ll keep to the plan. If it becomes fluid…’

‘…fluid, what is fluid?’ Muntasser said uncomprehendingly.

‘Affected by events beyond our control that force us to adapt and make active decisions allowing us to move forward and maintain our objective,’ Mick said. Muntasser frowned like a man given directions in Swahili.

‘If we have to change the plan we will,’ I said, ‘but if at any time, an exit strategy is needed then the BMW will be an option. We’ll leave the key, here, on the rear tyre, a loaded pistol under the driver’s seat and an assault rifle in the boot together with water, a compass and a torch.’

‘Yes, I understand,’ Muntasser said. Aksil gave me a poker-faced nod.

‘Fifteen minutes, no more,’ Cakes said. Then he and Aksil left.

‘Let’s get ready,’ I said to Muntasser and Mick and opened the rear of the Range Rover. The police chief’s store of small arms was impressive. I chose a CZ 99 semi-automatic pistol and an AKM assault rifle, which had a bayonet attached. After checking both weapons had full magazines and making them ready to fire, I placed them inside the BMW along with the water, compass and torch.

From my own bag, I took a Glock 17 and screwed in a Gemtech suppressor. The magazine released into my hand, I checked it was full and then snapped it back. Mick was doing the same while Muntasser stood and watched. He read my expression.

‘I am ready,’ he said. ‘I have my Beretta.’ He pulled the weapon from its holster inside his tunic. The Italian, 9mm semi-automatic was a versatile and reliable pistol. Muntasser had the Special Duty model with a desert tan frame and longer barrel.

‘Do you have a suppressor?’

‘Yes, I have it in my pocket.’

‘Screw it on tight,’ I said.

My wristwatch told me six minutes had passed since Cakes and Aksil left. ‘Cakes, what’s your progress?’ I said into the CDL.

‘We’ve got one more stretch of open ground to cross before we begin the climb,’ he said. His whispered voice was clear through the satellite communication system.

‘Is anyone about?’

‘The small hills and vales make it hard to know.’

‘Tell us when you’re in position,’ I said.

‘We leave?’ Muntasser asked.

‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘We’ll keep out of sight until they’re ready.’

The back of the Range Rover closed gently and then I stood beside the open driver’s door and waited. Muntasser pulled the cigar from his tunic pocket and held it in his fingers.

‘Why don’t you light it?’ I said.

‘Because I don’t smoke,’ he replied.

The voice through the CDL was rapid, edgy, and deep with concern. It was obvious that Cakes was running. ‘Hayes, the technical has caught us out in the open. We can’t outrun it and make cover. If we stand and fight, we’re dead.’ Muntasser never gave me the chance to speak. His Arabic words were instant and rapid. Then Aksil’s voice came back through the CDL. His Arabic reply was just as fast and unintelligible. Again, Muntasser spoke and again, Aksil replied, and then Muntasser spoke once more.

‘He’s stopped running. Hayes, Aksil has stopped running.’

‘Cakes, stop running,’ Muntasser said.

‘If we stand and fight, we’re dead,’ Cakes repeated.

‘No, don’t fight. Stop running. Aksil will tell the men he is from Jadu, a Berber village, where he is visiting his family from Tripoli. He will say you are hunting gazelle for food. You must not speak. Cover your face with your keffiyeh. The men will believe Aksil and let you go. They will not want to anger the local Berbers without good reason. You understand?’

‘Hunting gazelle?’ Cakes questioned.

‘Yes, hunting gazelle,’ Muntasser confirmed reassuringly. ‘Men from the Berber villages do it. The men in the technical do not know what you are really doing and Aksil is a Berber. Say nothing yourself and they will believe him. Aksil can be very convincing.’

‘Do it, Cakes,’ I said. ‘It might work.’

‘It
will
work,’ Muntasser said.

‘All right, I’ll do it, but if you don’t hear from us again it’ll be because we’re dead.’

We ceased communication. All we could do was wait. Muntasser held the cigar under his nose and inhaled deeply.

‘Fluid,’ he said empathetically. I kept silent and looked at Mick. Neither of us felt like talking. Muntasser put away the cigar and then leant back against the Range Rover while we waited. The seconds passed. One minute and then two minutes went by. Using his tracker signal, I checked on my phone to see whether Cakes’ heart was still beating. It was.

‘We’ll give it another minute,’ I said in response to Mick’s expression. He, too, was watching Cakes’ heartbeat. The minute came and went without a break in the silence. Cakes’ heart continued to beat and his position remained stationary. I had to decide whether to wait longer or drive to their location and engage the technical. If the men in the technical saw us coming, locked on and fired a rocket we were dead. Another minute ticked by.

‘Cakes,’ I said through the CDL. ‘Are you there? Come back.’ Silence. I made the decision. ‘All right, get in.’ Mick’s hand was on the door handle before I said the word
in
. I jumped into the driver’s seat, started the engine and pulled shut the door. Muntasser took longer to get into the passenger seat.

‘We do not need to go,’ he said. His confidence was unabashed. The solid gear lever slotted into
drive
and my foot lifted ready to hit the pedal when we heard Cakes’ voice.

‘I think it’s worked,’ he said in a whisper. ‘They’re leaving.’

Then we heard Aksil’s voice. He spoke Arabic and Muntasser answered him the same.

‘Yes, they’ve driven off,’ Cakes said. ‘Whatever Aksil said to them they must have believed.’ His normally impassive voice conveyed surprise and something else that was difficult to identify. Perhaps it was
respect
. Muntasser was looking at me.

‘I said it would work,’ he said.

Captain Robert Harding stood on the corner gantry outside the bridge, straight-armed with both hands clasped to the railing and watched the deck crew at work below. The sea air of the Mediterranean blustered steadily aside the bulkhead and tugged without favour at Harding’s cap. Grasping the peak between thumb and forefinger, he pulled downwards securing the naval headwear against his broad skull and lowering the peak onto his eyes producing a more steely appearance like a baseball pitcher or a
fast draw
cowboy.

Two dull grey cases appeared through the opening, raised side by side on a single platform and safeguarded tightly by straps. After release, four members of the deck crew guided the wheeled containers between the marked lines towards the parked aircraft. Harding watched alone and in silence.
Am I doing the right thing?

Freed from their tether, the cases quickly gave up their contents. The crew lifted clear the cluster assemblies and placed them with care onto machined, hydraulic riggings. Then, they positioned each of two lifts underneath the plane’s wings and raised the attachments until the alignment sensor sounded.

A mechanical technician verified the umbilical connector before attaching the ends and the crew linked the forward shoe with housed pins. Once they removed the supports and cleared the deck, the aircraft adorned resplendently with balanced Brimstone capability.

After giving the aircraft one final look, Harding turned away. He left the gantry and re-entered the bridge. Once his ears had adjusted to the absence of a gusty sea breeze, he lifted the tight cap and rubbed his lined forehead.

‘Tea, sir?’ Mr. Baxter asked.

‘Yes, thank you, Mr. Baxter.’ Harding lifted the mug from the tray, raised it to his lips and sipped thoughtfully.

After lowering the hot mug, he used the internal communication system. ‘Mr. Castle, a progress report if you please.’

‘We’re awaiting final clearance from the deck crew, captain, and then, once our pre-flight checks are completed, we’ll be ready for take-off.’

‘Very good, Mr. Castle,’ Harding said. ‘Proceed when ready.’

‘Aye-aye, captain.’

Harding sat down in the captain’s chair and lifted his steaming mug of tea. ‘Baxter, don’t be shy with those biscuits,’ he said. Reluctantly, Baxter passed over the chocolate covered biscuits and watched as the captain lifted one to his lips. Harding followed the double bite with a mouthful of tea. ‘Excellent biscuits, Baxter,’ he said. ‘From where did you get them?’ Baxter looked surprised.

‘From the galley, captain,’ he said.

‘Well, you mustn’t hide them, Baxter.’ Before the lieutenant commander could defend the slur to his character on the subject of biscuit etiquette-at-sea, a call came in for Harding. It was the Chief calling from London. At school, the other boys had called the Chief,
Duke
not that he was a Duke. It was a nickname. Nicknames were routine at their school.

‘Have you received your intelligence?’ Harding asked.

‘Not yet,’ the Chief said. ‘It’s taking longer to come through than I had anticipated which is likely to mean our window of opportunity will be smaller. At what stage are your preparations?’

‘Our preparations are almost complete. We’re nearly ready for take-off.’

‘Good. Can you proceed straightaway? We must be in a position to move quickly.’

‘We can be airborne in the next few minutes,’ Harding said and sipped his tea.

‘I’ll keep in touch,’ the Chief said and then ended the call.

‘Mr. Castle, are you ready for take-off?’ Harding asked through the internal communication system.

‘Yes, captain, almost ready.’

‘Then take her up in your own time, Mr. Castle, if you please.’ Harding took another biscuit and saw his lieutenant commander watching. ‘I’m going to requisition these biscuits, Mr. Baxter,’ he said.

Muntasser’s self-assurance combined with his present nonchalant countenance was making him unbearable. I tried not to let the Libyan police chief annoy me, but he was a keen test of my self-discipline. The cigar was out again.

‘Why do you doubt yourself? I have already told you, your plan is good. The technical has gone away. Forget it and go on with what we agreed.’

‘Cakes, assessment report,’ I said through the CDL.

‘The technical has moved away, east and is out of sight. If it is driving a loop around the buildings and keeping to the low ground, the distance is roughly eight miles. The terrain will keep its average speed low. That puts it back at the roadblock on the track in about seventeen minutes.’

‘How far are you from the nest?’ I asked.

‘We’re a minute from the foot of the rocks and then another four to make the climb. Six minutes and we’ll be positioned and ready.’

‘Mick, what do you think?’ I asked.

‘It’s tight,’ he said. It was tight, but I knew, just as Muntasser knew and Cakes, Mick and Aksil each knew that it was a chance we must take if we wanted any hope of success. If we lost any further time, we would lose the light. It had to be now and it had to be quick.

‘All right,’ I said, ‘let’s do it.’

‘Ha,’ Muntasser said and slapped his thigh. ‘Why do you delay? Of course, we must do it.’

‘Mick, scout the track,’ I said. He left the backseat and I watched him through the wing mirror move cautiously beyond the covering hillock. I turned to Muntasser.

‘Can I trust you?’

‘Trust me? What is there to trust?’

‘Why did you come with us?’ I asked. Muntasser studied the unlit cigar in his hand thoughtfully. It caused one eyebrow to lower giving him an intelligent look. I wondered whether he would reveal his inner deliberation. His face lightened.

‘You are young, a professional soldier, well trained, but you know nothing of Libya,’ he said. ‘Like British Intelligence, your masters, I, too, want a Libya free from the rule of extreme Islamic control. We must cut off the serpent’s head. I know the man, Al Bousefi. I know what he wants and I know what he can do. You saw the bomb outside al-Barouni’s house. He kills other Libyans like rats. He is merciless, and he is hungry for power.’

Mick returned and jumped back onto the seat behind us. ‘All-clear,’ he said.

‘London sent you to kill Al Bousefi,’ Muntasser said. ‘I, too, want him dead. That is why I am here.’

Killing Suleiman Al Bousefi was no longer my primary objective. If the opportunity arose then I would take his life, without hesitation, but saving Magda and getting her safely out of Libya was my number one concern. I had nothing to gain from telling that to Muntasser. He was gazing at me with an odd expression as if he, too, was considering whether he should voice his thoughts.

‘What happens to the girl is of no interest to me,’ he said. ‘I will speak truthfully.’ He took a breath. ‘A man should know before he risks his life what other men think.’ His eyes held mine. They were like the bark of a Scots elm when snow covers the ground. ‘You will get inside and kill many men. I hope one of them is Al Bousefi. Finding the girl and then escaping with your life…’ Muntasser shook his head. ‘…not from that building.’ I let him speak. ‘Aksil deserves his revenge. Whether he lives or dies will be his choice. I do not know which he will choose. Your men follow you.’ Muntasser held out his open palms and hunched his shoulders. ‘Is that trust enough?’ he asked.

‘Yes, more than enough,’ I said.

‘If we don’t go now I’ll have to check the track again,’ Mick said.

‘Cakes, progress report,’ I said into the CDL.

‘We’re making the climb,’ he said. ‘…three minutes.’

‘All right, we’re leaving now,’ I said.

The Range Rover crept obediently from its hiding place and rolled softly onto the track. With one eye on the phone screen and one ahead, I barely rose above walking pace as the dirt line turned between the hillocks, and curved to find the even ground.

Concealed behind the final bend, a short distance out, I braked to a stop. ‘Cakes, we’re in position,’ I said.

‘Aksil is finalising his sights,’ Cakes said.

‘What do you see?’ I asked.

‘There’s still four. Two seated in the Landcruiser: one in the passenger seat, one in the back. The other two are standing: one leaning against the bonnet, the other against the rock.’

‘I am ready,’ Aksil said.

Lifting my foot off the brake, the big 4x4 eased forward. Accelerating gently through the turn we straightened into the open and, ahead, saw the natural rock collar and the parked Landcruiser that blocked the roadway. The four men dressed in black reacted to our appearance immediately. The two outside the vehicle stood away from where they were leaning and slowly advanced pulling forward the assault rifles they carried. The man in the backseat got out, but the fourth man remained in the passenger seat and watched.

The nearest man raised a hand while keeping the other firmly on his rifle. The other two men stood behind him. The fourth man appeared reluctant to move. He must have had a comfortable seat.

Braking slowly I rolled the Range Rover to a stop without taking my eyes from the men. Through the CDL Muntasser said something to Aksil in Arabic and then opened the passenger door and got out. Standing with one hand on the open door, he spoke to the closest man. The man’s response, although spoken in Arabic, confirmed my belief that he was the most senior of the four and their leader. His approach displayed rank. I had seen the same confident aggressive arrogance many times before.

Through the CDL I said, ‘I’ll handle the front man. He’s the leader. Mick, cover me. Aksil, take the other two standing behind him. Leave the fourth until he gets out of the vehicle. If he doesn’t get out, Mick, you deal with him. Aksil, give us a second to get into position and then we’ll go on your first shot.’ I waited for any response. The setup was not very different from the one we had envisaged and for which we had planned. After two or three seconds silence I said, ‘All right, let’s do it.’

Mick and I opened our doors together, stepped out and moved slowly to in front of the Range Rover. Whatever it was Muntasser was saying it was not making them jittery. Our movement went by without any counter or defensive reaction from the men in black. I was only five or six paces away from the front man. He was big and ugly with cruel misshapen features. Maternal love only could forgive such a face. When his overconfident eyes left Muntasser and found my face, I held my blank expression. Muntasser spoke again and the man turned back.

Aksil’s first shot dispelled any concern I may have had over Muntasser’s high claim. He gave the second man a new hair parting. The distance and use of a suppressor combined to make the shot itself silent. Only the severe hairstyling property of the bullet made any sound. The insides of the man’s skull burst out through the exit wound in a whoosh of red mush like the release from a high-pressure valve.

I moved. The shock had not frozen
my
legs. Mick held cover and Muntasser had no intention of moving except, perhaps, to get back inside the 4x4. Three long strides covered the distance, but before I reached the front man, Aksil fired again. It was another pinpoint shot. The delay in moving had given Aksil his second stationary target and his second head kill. More red mush filled the air. Now they moved. With the bloody corpses of their two colleagues laid out in the dirt, the front man and the seated man in the Landcruiser moved for their lives. The leader strained desperately to bring up his rifle and target me, but I was already on him. His ugly features tensed in desperate effort. Opting for a forearm smash the iron-hard bone of my elbow connected squarely with his jaw. His head snapped away and he stumbled but remained on his feet. Advancing without pause, I struck him again. This time, I used a police cosh that Muntasser had provided especially for the purpose. My forearm’s close attention had left his head bowed and delivered an easy target. Of quality manufacture, the cosh dispatched its responsibility with praiseworthy effectiveness. The solidness of the strike to the back of the head was not one from which anyone could remain conscious. The man hit the dirt and was out for the count.