Bonfire (3 page)

Jeremiah “Jerry” Lombroso had the screen fixed with a thoughtful gaze like a man studying a secret map of buried treasure. Despite rising from his bed two hours earlier, he remained dressed in his pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers. Beside him on the kitchen table was a coffee percolator, an empty cup, and his phone.

On the screen were individually coloured dots that moved on a map. It was a map of Tripoli. Along the bottom of the screen was a line of icons that opened real-time satellite imagery. Jerry clicked on one and a bird’s eye view appeared. He zoomed in and the roofs of two vehicles came into sight together with a group of people.

Rosemary Lombroso walked into the kitchen in slippers wearing a short nightdress and a wrap over her shoulders Navajo-style.

‘You were up early,’ she said. ‘Did you forget it was Saturday?’ When her husband failed to answer or even acknowledge her presence, she went over, picked up the coffee percolator and looked at the screen. It was his work, of course. The satellite image interested her. ‘Where’s that?’ she asked and ran her fingers through the back of her husband’s thick, dark hair. When all she got in response was a pinch, she went to make fresh coffee. ‘Today, I’m going to run naked down Knightsbridge to see how many wolf-whistles I get from the cab drivers,’ she said.

‘Mm, what’s that, darling? I wasn’t listening.’

Rosemary Lombroso knew very well that she had a good figure. She would get plenty of whistles, and not just from cabbies either.

‘I’m making toast. Do you want some?’ she said.

‘Oh, yes. Toast sounds good, and some more coffee,’ Jerry said without taking his eyes from the screen. His phone rang. After checking the caller ID, he answered. ‘Lombroso,’ he said.

‘Jerry, it’s Andrew, Andrew Beresford,’ said the friendly voice. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing your Saturday morning.’

‘No, no, I was just having breakfast with my wife,’ Jerry said. ‘She’s thinking about running down Knightsbridge naked to see how many wolf-whistles she gets.’

Hearty laughter filled Jerry’s ear as Andrew Beresford chortled at what he obviously considered a hilarious witticism. He had never met Rosemary. The laughter abruptly ceased. ‘Very amusing,’ he said. ‘Seriously, though, Jerry, something’s come up.’

‘Oh, what’s that?’ Jerry said.

‘I’ve received a communication from our embassy in Tripoli. It seems an incident has occurred.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Jerry said.

‘Yes, armed men have attacked a police compound in the city and freed a prisoner.’

‘Oh,’ Jerry said. ‘Was anybody hurt or killed?’ Rosemary filled her husband’s empty cup with steaming coffee from the percolator and then ignoring the phone kissed him on the lips.

‘Your toast is just coming,’ she said.

‘...no, no serious injuries or any deaths, it appears to have been carried out by...’ he paused, ‘...capable men.’

‘...capable men,’ Jerry parroted.

‘Yes, it was a very professional job,’ said Andrew Beresford without elaborating further. Jerry picked up his coffee cup. It was hot. He took a careful sip.

‘Who was the prisoner?’ Jerry asked.

‘He’s a nineteen-year-old from Zawiya by the name of Moha Hassan al-Barouni.’

‘Do you know him?’ Jerry said.

‘They were going to execute him this morning by firing squad for treason. Apparently, they already had him tied to a post with a hood over his head when his rescuers blew a hole in the wall. A few seconds more and...’

‘I see,’ said Jerry interrupting Andrew Beresford’s obvious delight in the melodramatic. ‘He sounds like a lucky chap. How can I help?’

‘Well, the Minister has asked for a briefing. He likes to keep himself informed on such matters in case of developments...’

‘...or questions,’ Jerry said.

‘Yes, or questions,’ said Andrew Beresford. ‘The Foreign Secretary is a conscientious Minister who takes his responsibilities seriously.’

‘I never doubted it,’ Jerry said.

‘The reason for my call was to ask whether you knew anything about it.’

‘What made you think of me?’ Jerry asked.

‘Well, you hold the desk for North Africa, and Libya is in North Africa,’ Beresford said without changing his voice.

‘Why would the intelligence service have anything to do with it?’ Jerry asked.

‘Well, it seems a man attended the execution this morning by the name of Mr. Hayes. Benjamin Chase, a military attaché at the embassy, accompanied him. The Tripoli embassy received the correct Foreign Office protocol to arrange the event.’

‘What of it, Andrew?’

‘The point, Jerry, is that the Foreign Office never sent the communication and the Foreign Office has never heard of Mr. Hayes.’

‘I still don’t see why you imagine I would know anything about it,’ Jerry said. Andrew Beresford took a deep breath.

‘No, I suppose not,’ he said. ‘I thought you might know who Mr. Hayes was.’

‘Sorry, Andrew, I cannot say that I do,’ Jerry said and blew on his steaming coffee before taking another sip.

‘I’ll let you get back to your breakfast,’ Beresford said.

‘Goodbye, Andrew,’ said Jerry and ended the call.

Rosemary placed the toast onto the table and then ran a fingernail over her husband’s chin. She liked his chin before the razor made it smooth. ‘Who was that?’ she asked.

‘A civil servant from the Foreign Office,’ Jerry said.

‘What did he want so early on a Saturday morning?’

‘You must have heard the saying, “the sun never sets on the British empire”?’ Rosemary took a bite of toast. ‘He wanted to know whether I knew something that he didn’t.’

‘Is he important?’

‘He likes to think he is.’

‘And the thing that you know that he doesn’t is it important?’

Jerry took a sip of coffee and looked at the image on the screen. ‘Everything I know and do is important,’ he said. ‘You know that.’ Then he put his arm around his wife’s hips and squeezed her tight.

Rosemary made a sardonic noise with her tongue. ‘If you say so, darling,’ she said.

Jerry released his wife, picked up the phone and made a call. While he waited for an answer, he sipped his coffee.

‘Now do not tell me, let me guess,’ the man who answered said. ‘You’ve just taken a call from the F.O. [
F.O.: Foreign Office
] asking whether you know a man by the name of Mr. Hayes.’ It was not a surprise to Jerry. The Chief was a man who always knew things like that. Jerry had never played him at chess, but he imagined the Chief would be very good.

‘It was Andrew Beresford,’ Jerry said.

‘He called you at seven on a Saturday morning.’ The Chief sounded pleased. Baiting the Foreign Office was always enjoyable. ‘Once Chase returned to the embassy we knew the F.O. would receive the report. And Beresford called you because you hold the North African desk.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Jerry said.

‘It’s what we expected,’ the Chief said. ‘Beresford was simply fishing. He’s not our concern. “Bonfire” will be over long before the F.O. gets into gear.’

‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ Jerry said.

‘Don’t worry, Jerry. We can depend on Hayes.’

After driving north, we skirted Tripoli, avoiding the roadblock, which was not looking for anyone in particular, before taking the road west to Zawiya. It was a manmade line of tarmac in a wilderness of sandy earth. The strip of asphalt stretched away, undulating stylishly into the distance like a scene from a film directed with the adjective “epic” in mind.

Inside the saloon car, my fellow passengers were silent. Magda stared ahead. I wondered what she was thinking. Most likely, thoughts of seeing her father and brother filled her mind. Mick, seated behind me, went through his kitbag and checked his assault rifle. It was a FAMAS-G2, which is a French weapon manufactured at a factory in Saint-Étienne. As legionnaires, we used the FAMAS-F1. With the rifle held across his knees, he watched the ground beyond the road on each side like an alert gundog.

For much of the time, the road was empty. An occasional vehicle passed us driving the other way and we had overtaken a number of trucks leaving Tripoli, but it was certainly not enough traffic to cause any problems. The van driven by Cakes was the agreed distance back. The distance allowed for observation time and, if necessary, independent decision-making and action. As well as visual contact, we maintained verbal contact thanks to the CDL system.

I looked at the satellite phone. Magda turned her head. ‘We have about fifteen miles to go,’ she said. The phone showed the distance remaining to our destination was 15.2 miles. Magda must have travelled between Zawiya and Tripoli many times, of course. She was counting down the miles.

The latest satellite imaging we had showed what we knew to be a temporary checkpoint on the road five miles from Zawiya. So far, we had benefitted from a mostly straight and flat road, which together with the good air quality gave us panoramic visibility.

‘Ten miles until the roadblock,’ I said into the fitted device inside my keffiyeh that Mick had set up. Cakes came straight back.

‘I know,’ his granite voice said. ‘I’ve got a satellite phone as well.’

‘I’ll stop when I have visual,’ I said.

Once I had a clear line of sight, it would be easy to use binoculars to assess the position. In-field strategy decisions usually make themselves. After discarding everything that is likely to end in capture or death, there is usually just one option left. I always choose that one. It might be a simple rule, but it works. I like to stay alive.

Driving towards us on the other carriageway was a hefty looking Mitsubishi pickup truck. The first thing I noticed about it was the rear-mounted PK machine gun poking above the cab. Behind the gun sat a grubby looking man with one hand gripping the handle. Noting this addition was unsurprising really, as not many pickup truck manufacturers have a machine gun on the optional extras list. The man stared at us as our vehicles passed.

‘Zawiya-based militiamen,’ said Magda.

I watched them disappear in the rear-view mirror.

‘That was Zawiya militia,’ Cakes said.

‘I know, I’ve got eyes as well,’ I said back in a gruff voice. Laughter came from the seat behind. Mick liked it when I gave some back. At times, Cakes could be gruff. Mick thought he was probably psychotic, but I think he just liked to grumble. Either way, he was dependable, which in our job was worth more than money in the bank.

The next ten miles passed without incident. Helpfully, the men who had set up the checkpoint had positioned it on a stretch of road that was long and straight. I saw it a long way off and pulled over at the roadside. Cakes stopped the van a good distance back.

Using the Barr and Stroud binoculars through the open car window, I viewed the checkpoint in magnified clarity.

As with the one earlier at the police compound, this checkpoint was a “homemade” affair. Anyone in a vehicle, particularly a four-wheel drive vehicle, would have little trouble in leaving the road at a suitable point and then driving around the barrier on the sandy ground. Whether the men I saw guarding the checkpoint would open fire on a vehicle performing such a manoeuvre was unknown. The Ford saloon, in which I sat, I noted, was front wheel drive only.

Behind me, Mick, too, was eyeing the roadblock through his binoculars. ‘It’s not Checkpoint Charlie,’ he said with the authority of a man who had seen more than one.

Three operated it. Each man looked scruffy with varying stages of beard and dusty clothes. They had a pickup truck parked off the road nearby. Each carried an FN FAL rifle, which is a widely used self-loading, selective fire battle rifle. In trained hands, the FAL is an extremely effective weapon, but for the inexperienced, the solid recoil can cause the rifle to climb off-target. It can suffer from accuracy that is not always the best.

While I watched, one of the three men waved down a car travelling from Zawiya. It stopped at the barrier. They spoke together briefly and something changed hands. Then the barrier lifted and the car drove through.

‘Are they collecting for the cause?’ said Mick. It was possible.

‘Perhaps Saturday is “toll road” day,’ I said. Simply giving the men some money and then driving straight through was a tempting prospect.

‘I have not seen this before,’ Magda said, ‘but collecting money in this way makes sense.’

I considered our options. ‘What do you see?’ I asked. Banksy came back.

‘It looks like a simple shakedown,’ he said. Cakes remained silent, which I knew meant he agreed. I made the decision.

‘All right, we’ll go through first. Stay back until I give the all-clear. Keep Moha Hassan out of sight until you’re through.’ It was unlikely, but one of the men might recognise him. ‘Banksy, can you make sure Schmidt & Bender keep an eye on us.’ Schmidt & Bender was the name of the telescopic sight manufacturer for the L115A3 sniper rifle that Banksy used.

As well as a pocketful of Libyan dinar, I was also carrying the euro, dollar and pound in sizeable amounts. Cash is king.

Before pulling back onto the road, I put the LMG by my feet out of sight and the Glock pistol in my waistband.

‘If we do have to kill them let’s make it clean,’ I said so that everyone heard. Magda turned her head sharply and I felt her shocked eyes sear into my face. I kept my own eyes frontwards. ‘Translate for me,’ I said.

The road ahead was clear and in the rear-view mirror, I watched Cakes follow me towards the checkpoint. At about three hundred yards out, he pulled over and stopped.

I drove slowly and applied the brake gradually. The less spooked they were the better. The man stepped up and waved me down and I stopped some way before the barrier. He came up to the open window.

‘Aalaamu alaikum (Peace be with you),’ he said.

‘Wa alaikum salam (And peace be with you),’ I responded. Having already used up three of the ten Arabic words I knew my expectation of understanding his next offering was not high, but I resolved to try my best. He spoke and I listened, but not one word did I understand. I tried to look friendly while all the time knowing Banksy had the man’s head in the crosshairs of the sniper rifle. Magda responded to him in Arabic and I waited with my hand resting inside my djellaba on the butt of the Glock.

‘He asks where we are going,’ Magda said.

‘Tell him we are going to Zawiya to visit our family,’ I said. ‘Then ask him why he has blocked the road.’ Magda spoke to the man in Arabic and I waited. We all waited. I was already looking to see the positions of the other two men. If the man’s response was anything other than cooperative, I had decided to kill them.

Magda finished speaking and the man paused. He looked at me and I saw his hand twitch on the stock of his FAL rifle. Then he spoke again. Magda listened. I tightened my grip on the Glock.

‘He says we must pay him money to pass. The money is for the use of the road into Zawiya,’ Magda said. Slowly I took out the dinar notes I had prepared inside my pocket and held them out for the man to see on my open palm. He stared at the money and I could see he was counting it. Then he relaxed. It was then I could have killed him and his two friends, but I decided to leave them. He took the money, stepped back and shouted out. The barrier lifted and I drove through. Greed is bad. Disbelieve anyone who tells you otherwise. They made it one of the seven deadly sins for a very good reason.

Magda breathed out and relaxed. I watched in the wing mirror while I spoke to Cakes and Banksy. Mick had turned in his seat and was watching through the rear window. ‘All they want is money,’ I said. ‘Give them the cash and they’ll let you through.’ I drove slowly for a while and then stopped.

‘Shakedowns are the same the world over,’ Banksy said.

From inside the car, we watched as the van approached the barrier and then stopped. There was a delay.

Through the Barr and Stroud glasses, I saw the man was using his phone. Cakes was waiting and watching him closely.

Not only was Cakes without an Arabic speaker because Moha Hassan was hiding he was also without cover. We had had a sniper rifle backing us up. I considered what reasons the man might have to make a phone call. One possible reason gave me a bad feeling.

‘Give him the money and let’s get going,’ I said.

‘I’m trying,’ Cakes said. ‘The little camel turd is using his phone.’

Still watching through the binoculars, I saw Cakes hold out his hand and gesture impatiently. The man looked at the money and then took it. He finished the phone call and as he stepped back, I saw it. The Mitsubishi pickup truck was travelling fast. Through the glasses, the barrel of the rear-mounted, Russia made PK machine gun was clearly visible. The little camel turd had called his mates and they had not rushed back to engage in pleasantries. They had rushed back to kill and rob us.

‘Cakes,’ I said in an urgent bark.

The man had already started to move and was raising his FAL rifle. He lifted the weapon quickly and I knew he would fire. I heard gunshots. Beside me, Magda gasped. Even at a distance, the distinctive chatter was unmistakable. However, I recognised the sound not as the report of a FAL rifle, but as an FN Minimi light machine gun. The man who had fired was Banksy. Hidden behind the bulk of Cakes he was already prepared with the raised LMG. Cakes had simply moved back uncovering his partner and allowing him clear sight through the open window.

The machine gun bullets thumped into the man’s chest. Through the magnified clarity of the binoculars, I saw dust lift from the man’s tunic as if someone had hit him with a carpet beater.

Cakes already had the van moving. It sped forward and veered towards the other two men who were standing beside the barrier. The wildly revving vehicle charged at them like an unhappy Spanish bull. Both men leapt for safety while at the same time attempting to raise their rifles. They jumped either side of the snorting beast like comic toreadors, but for one of the men, it was his final performance. Banksy, with his LMG sticking out through the window, shot the man with a precise, swinging volley.

The careering van smashed through the barrier and the engine screeched as Cakes floored the accelerator. The front tyres squealed on the dry tarmac with an accompaniment from the lower staccato of a FAL rifle on full automatic.

Bullets flew in a manic stream as the man aimed wildly and the kicking rifle bucked in his hands. More by chance than any skill the man possessed, ricocheting bullets deflected off the road’s hard surface and slugged into the underside of the van’s bodywork. A rear tyre exploded and I saw the rubber disintegrate into writhing, spinning black strips like serpents on speed.

Despite his efforts behind the wheel, Cakes lost traction and the van left the road in a sideways skid. It bumped heavily onto the sandy ground and then slewed like a yacht turning into the wind as the engine pushed out too much power and the wheels caught in the soft earth.

The FAL rifle continued to spit out a stream of bullets as the man held the trigger on automatic and aimed like a drunk holding up a yard of ale. Sensing an advantage, he bravely advanced on the stricken beast, which under the strong-arm tactics of its driver straightened and then discovered some grip through its front wheels. It lurched forwards, bucked once like a rodeo horse and then dug in and gained some ground.