Bonfire (4 page)

Even before the improving sharpshooter blew out the second rear tyre, I knew the stricken bull was never going to get away. Looming ever bigger in the binoculars was the approaching Mitsubishi and its deadly payload. The machine gunner was already waggling the PK’s barrel in anticipation.

Decisions require alternatives. As far as I could see, this decision was severely limited in the alternatives department. To me it was straightforward. It was an old-fashioned fight to the death.

‘Magda, crouch down below the dashboard and stay there,’ I said. It was an order, not a request. The Ford’s engine was probably solid enough to stop a front striking PK machine gun bullet from penetrating the car’s interior. The windscreen, of course, was not. Magda obeyed my command and squeezed her slim body onto the floor between the seat and the dash.

‘It’s “John Wayne” time,’ I said and spun the wheel towards the oncoming Mitsubishi and charged. If the Ford had had reins I would have, of course, put them in my mouth. I resisted saying the line and instead said, ‘We’re on our way.’

‘Hurry up,’ Banksy said.

Speeding back along the road, I changed up a gear and accelerated hard. Off the road to our left, the van had stopped and I saw Banksy, Cakes and Moha Hassan get out and then hold cover. The Mitsubishi pickup truck was now within firing range. I hoped the men on board would choose to get in closer before unleashing the belt-fed, Eastern Bloc shells. I also hoped their military expertise was “playschool” level.

Cakes darted out from the back of the van with his LMG raised and fired a controlled volley at the remaining checkpoint man who had unwisely approached too near. The bullets thumped his body before he had a chance to react. Without breaking the single-movement Cakes was back behind the van and taking cover again before the man’s body hit the ground.

Although Cakes had eliminated the immediate threat posed by the man and his FAL rifle, the action brought about a reaction from the machine gunner. A burst of high-powered bullets shook the van and produced a nervous scream from the crouching Magda.

Still on the road, the pickup truck and our ill-equipped saloon were on a collision course and the gap between us was narrowing with every second. It was now that I needed the pickup driver to show his inexperience. The correct strategy was to attack and neutralise us first and then finish off the damaged van. However, instinct said otherwise.

I watched the pickup closely, and I considered the manoeuvrability of the Ford saloon. With some relief, the Mitsubishi turned away from the collision course and steered off the road and onto the dusty earth. They had chosen to go after the van first. It was a mistake. It gave Mick and me the opportunity to attack.

The first priority was the man wielding the machine gun and the second was the driver. We had to get in close, like a WW1 fighter plane.

Without slowing down, I left the smooth tarmac, bounded onto the rough ground and then angled the direction to come around behind the pickup truck. It was a dogfight manoeuvre.

The gunner opened fire with a short blast and the shells tore through the van’s bodywork. At close range, the impact from each bullet punched a black hole the size of a fist. Banksy, Cakes and Moha Hassan were sheltering on the other side, behind the engine compartment. ‘Where are you?’ Banksy said.

The pickup truck stopped. I steered into the dust cloud thrown up behind the big 4x4 tyres. It made us harder to see. Grainy air blew in through the open windows and tasted dry in my throat.

‘They’ve stopped,’ I said. ‘We’re in the dust cloud behind them. Give some distracting fire, just don’t hit us.’

We were travelling fast, too fast. I heard the report from an LMG followed by the louder PK machine gun. Inside the dust, visibility was bad and I misjudged the braking distance.

Despite the assistance from the ABS, my plan went awry. Instead of stopping behind with a clear shot through the open window at the seated gunner, the car finally stopped alongside the pickup on the passenger side. Mick fired his FAMAS-G2 at the cabin. The side glass smashed and then the pickup sped off.

Knowing that the gunner would be desperate to get us in his sights I was already on the move. Racing backwards with the Ford’s reverse gear sounding like a soprano’s warm-up I used the van as temporary cover.

The pickup had moved to the opposite side and while the gunner searched for us, Cakes took the opportunity to fire on them. His reputation with a FN Minimi light machine gun was well founded. With setting time close to zero and firing from the hip at distance, he peppered the cabin with a short, accurate burst. The windscreen shattered and the man in the passenger seat slumped out of sight.

Urgently the pickup truck sped forward and Cakes retreated around the van together with Moha Hassan and Banksy. I, too, was on the move and this time I was determined to make my judgement error free.

Racing the car to the front of the van, I spun the wheel and using the handbrake turned like an ice-skating gold medallist into an angled clear shot at the gunner. I took it. The LMG barked in my hands like a well-trained heel hound and spat out a line of bullets. I was never going to miss. I released the trigger and the only thing keeping the gunner in his seat was the harness that strapped him in.

The driver remained. He was the only one left alive. With a dead colleague beside him in the cab and another in the gunner’s seat behind, his day could only get better. Unfortunately, for him, while I was shooting the gunner Mick had left the car, hurried unobserved into position, and secured an open shot. He took it. The French assault rifle cackled like the cruel laughter of a fairy-tale witch and the driver’s need to worry about his day was over.

‘You can get up now,’ I said. Magda uncoiled her body and sat back in the passenger seat. She looked out of the car and saw the dead men.

‘You killed them,’ she said. I got out of the car without responding and walked over to the van. With both rear tyres blown and the bodywork full of bullet holes, we were going to need a new vehicle.

‘We’ll take the other pickup truck,’ I said.

‘I’ll transfer the kit,’ Banksy said. Taking the pickup belonging to the men at the checkpoint was the safer option. It was less conspicuous than a pickup with a machine gun and much less likely that anyone in Zawiya would recognise it. We needed to avoid any further trouble.

I went to the body of the first man killed and retrieved the money he had taken. Banksy and Cakes had finished moving all the kit from the van to the pickup. Leaving everything else as it was we drove away.

Inside the car, Magda was quiet. I kept my eyes on the road.
Killing
was sometimes part of the job, but I refrained from voicing that truth to Magda.

The remainder of the drive to Zawiya went by without incident. Along the route, we saw some vehicles, animals and windowless concrete buildings, but nobody with a FAL rifle or a PK machine gun to get in our way.

Ahead, the low-level city gave the impression of a haphazard collection of items all painted in shades of magnolia. Three things stood out. I saw a minaret, a phone mast and large signs written in Arabic.

Preferably, we would have entered Zawiya after nightfall, but the timeframe to which we were working made it impossible.

The city streets were much busier than the connecting road, which helped us to travel unobserved.

Despite having the destination fixed on the satellite phone, Magda gave me directions. Once we entered the city, her mood brightened and she displayed signs of excited anticipation. Returning to one’s hometown after an absence is, perhaps, a universal feeling.

The residential area was in the north and easier to find than I had expected.

‘This is the street,’ Magda said.

Since entering the city, Cakes had closed the gap to maintain visual contact. I looked in the mirror to see the pickup truck on my bumper and then made the turn. The street was quiet with stucco walls and arched entrances and doorways.

‘This is the house,’ Magda said and pointed through the windscreen. I saw a wall with an entrance that led to a courtyard. Behind, the house was two floors with green shutters at the upstairs windows and palm trees that offered shade. The neighbourhood was affluent, but without ostentation.

‘We can drive inside, but I must open the gate,’ Magda said with a lift to her voice. She opened the car door and got out. She spoke using the intercom on the wall and straightaway the gate opened. We drove inside and the gate closed behind us.

The door to the house opened and a man appeared with an expression that combined astonishment with joy. Magda rushed to him and they embraced. I recognised the man from the photographs London had shown me. His name was Nasser Jbara and he was Magda’s father. They continued to hug and speak softly together. I stepped forward. Nasser Jbara looked at me and then to the vehicles and the other men. He spoke assertively in Arabic. Magda spoke in English.

‘Father, these men are British,’ she said. ‘Please speak English with them. This man is Mr. Hayes. They are responsible for bringing me safely to you.’

Nasser Jbara studied me silently. ‘It is not safe for my daughter to come here. You should not have brought her.’

Magda spoke to her father in Arabic and they began a discussion. I waited. Time was passing. We still had much to do.

‘Mr. Jbara,’ I said, ‘can I come inside? I would like to talk with you.’ His pause lasted only a second.

‘Yes, please, come inside, Mr. Hayes, and bring your men.’

‘Mick, with me; Cakes and Banksy stay with Moha and the vehicles. This won’t take long.’

Inside, the house was dark and cool. Nasser Jbara led us to his study. He offered us tea and we accepted.

‘Why do you bring my daughter here when you know how dangerous it is for her?’ he asked. My answer was silence. ‘What is it you want from me?’

‘London believes you can do your country a great service. You are aware that British intelligence supported your daughter during her campaign for women’s right and civil liberties and that when the extremists threatened her life and it became too dangerous for her to stay Britain provided a place of safety.’

‘Yes, I know this, of course. So, why have you brought her back?’

‘She asked to come,’ I said. ‘It was her idea and she’s very determined.’

Nasser turned to his daughter. ‘Why, when you know the danger?’

‘I wanted to see you, father. I missed you,’ Magda said. Her father embraced her.

Touched as I was by this display of family affection time was pressing, ‘London thinks you’re the right man to write a new constitution and present it to the government in Tripoli,’ I said. ‘They think you stand the best chance of getting a consensus. It would be a big step forward.’

Nasser Jbara was silent while he thought. He nodded and then looked at me. ‘Yes, I can write a constitution, of course,’ he said.

‘Good, and to explain,’ I said, ‘your daughter approached London with the idea; they liked it and thought a personal request was needed. Magda insisted on coming and as I was coming anyway we combined the two.’ I could see that Nasser Jbara liked the thought of writing a new constitution for his country almost as much as he liked seeing his daughter again. ‘Magda has all the details from London. She will explain more,’ I said. ‘Now, my men and I must go. Magda, we will return and collect you as agreed. Don’t leave the house.’ She nodded her understanding.

Outside, Banksy, Cakes and Moha were waiting beside the vehicles. ‘All right, let’s go,’ I said.

Nasser Jbara called after me. ‘Is that Moha Hassan al-Barouni?’ he asked.

‘Yes, it is,’ I said.

‘I thought he was in prison awaiting execution?’

‘He was,’ I said. ‘We’ve given him a full pardon.’

The satellite phone quickly found our next destination and displayed the route. ‘As Moha knows the way,’ I said to Cakes, ‘we’ll follow you.’ With Mick beside me riding “shotgun” we drove east across the city. I stayed close behind the pickup truck to avoid losing visual contact. Driving in this way gave me the opportunity to study the “borrowed” vehicle. Stickers and writing covered much of the white bodywork. Although the images and words were unknown to me, it seemed likely they were the insignias and identifications of a gang of some kind, most likely tribal based and violent and lawless as we had discovered.

With 2.9 miles of our journey remaining, I made contact with Banksy and Cakes. The city roads on which we now travelled were less busy than the ones of earlier. ‘Moha isn’t lost, is he?’ I said.

‘He knows a shortcut,’ Cakes said.

‘I’ve just seen a Burger King I think I recognise,’ Banksy said lifting his voice helpfully.

‘Can we stop?’ Mick asked.

The road we were on was long, straight and wide. The buildings were set back and the pathways were tree lined and mainly deserted. Zawiya is not such a bad place, I thought kindly.

Just then, another pickup truck overtook me and began sounding its horn. It was trying to get the attention of Cakes or rather the person they assumed was Cakes. Then I saw the reason. The new pickup truck was displaying the same images and signs on
its
white bodywork. It was a fellow member of the gang. When the man sounding the horn saw who was really driving, his mood was likely to change to one less jovial.

‘We’ve got trouble,’ I said. ‘The white pickup coming alongside is expecting to see friendly faces and not your ugly mugs.’

‘His horn works well,’ Banksy said.

‘What does he mean “ugly”?’ Cakes asked.

Looking behind and to both sides, I checked to see that these new gangland militiamen were on their own. ‘Cakes, keep ahead of them,’ I said. ‘We’ll shoot out their tyres from behind.’ I looked at Mick. ‘Shoot out their tyres,’ I said. His expression told me he thought I had seen too many action movies, but despite that, he raised his FAMAS in readiness.

‘Give me an angle,’ Mick said and prepared to lean out through the window.

Cakes had sped up which meant so had the pickup truck which meant so had I. Working a position on the road from which Mick could shoot any part of the truck let alone its tyres was difficult.

‘Get alongside them,’ Mick said. A van driving towards us almost took my wing mirror as a souvenir.

We approached a bend and everyone braked. I tried again. Releasing the brake pedal, I swung into the oncoming lane and was level with the truck’s rear quarter. Mick was leaning out trying to take aim when a car appeared in the bend directly ahead. Instinctively, I braked, hard. At the same time, a man leant through the truck’s window and holding a FN FAL rifle tried to do the same as Mick except his aim was not at the wheels it was at me. The oncoming car swerved. Whether my hands turned the steering wheel faster than a professional racing driver is impossible to say. However, I do know that a professional racing driver hardly ever has a FAL rifle pointed at his face.

The rifle coughed out the bullets like a heavy smoker hacking up a mouthful of phlegm. I expected the windscreen to shatter, but either my reactions were superhuman or the man leaning through the truck’s window pointing the rifle was a bad shot. I told myself it was the former.

Discouraged by the violent motion of the car Mick pulled back in.

‘Get out there and shoot,’ I said.

‘How do you expect me to hit anything with driving like that?’ he said.

With a FAL rifle still waving in our direction, I tucked in close and blocked the line of sight.

Two blazing red brake lights filled the windscreen and I had to stamp hard to avoid a shunt.

‘What are you doing back there?’ Cakes said. ‘Shoot these Muppets and get them off the road.’

‘Do you need any help?’ Banksy asked. That was all the motivation Mick needed.

‘Hold it steady,’ he said and leant what appeared to be his entire body outside the car. Concentration was everything. Smooth and close like dancing the samba. Mick arched his torso and then I heard the familiar noise like a stick dragged hard and fast along a metal railing fence. The rear window of the pickup’s cab exploded and the bullets from Mick’s FAMAS slugged their target. The driver slumped and the pickup veered aggressively across the opposite lane. My tailgating position forced a rapid stomp on the brake pedal and decisive steering that made the saloon buck viciously. It caused Mick to lose his balance. Only its shoulder strap stopped the FAMAS from crashing onto the road. An automatic reaction made me grab one-handed for his leg. He was heavy and the car’s momentum swung against me, but I held on. The car swung back and a combination of the momentum reversing and my pulling brought Mick unceremoniously back inside and onto the seat. His expression remained matter-of-fact. Who got worried about almost falling from a moving vehicle? The pickup left the road and smashed head-on into a wall.

‘Mick, were you ever in the circus?’ Banksy asked.

‘No, but I could’ve been,’ Mick said.

‘The circus always needs clowns,’ Cakes said. We waited for the laugh. It came, but only from Banksy.

‘We’ll have to ditch the pickup,’ I said. ‘It’s too noticeable. Let’s find a suitable place.’

‘Do you think it was just chance?’ Mick asked.

‘They might have trackers fitted,’ I said. ‘And use their phones to trace them.’

We took a detour through the back streets where old men sat outside their houses and stared without expression, and where scrawny mongrel dogs ran beside us and barked us on our way.

Beyond a row of broken-down houses, we found a stretch of wasteland and pulled over.

Mick and I held our weapons and stood cover while Cakes and Banksy transferred the kit from the pickup truck to the boot of the Ford saloon. It only just fitted. Moha stood beside us and silently watched.

I drove. Cakes sat in the front because he was the biggest. It was tight seated on the backseat with the lean Moha squeezed between the brawny might of Banksy and Mick.

‘Is everybody comfortable?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ said Cakes. ‘Is the air-conditioning on?’

The satellite phone informed me we were 3.3 miles away from our destination.

Up and until now Moha had hardly spoken so it was a surprise when, from his “sardines” position on the backseat, he asked a question.

‘Why did you save me?’ Moha waited, but none of us answered. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. Again, his question went unanswered. He gave up.

A series of narrow streets and alleyways that were barely wide enough for the car to pass through hid the house like a maze. Eventually, we drove into an open area surrounded by high walls and fig trees.

I turned and parked the car pointing the way we had come. ‘Mick and Banksy, stay with the car. Cakes, with me,’ I said.

A low archway led us to the door. Moha rushed ahead. The man who stood in the open doorway had the same features as Moha except they were twenty years older. An expression of such relief and fatherly emotion for the son he thought was lost I had never before seen. They embraced. Cakes and I waited. The father looked up at us and then we followed him inside. Moha’s mother was in the room crying. She grabbed her son and nearly squeezed the life from him. Only after many seconds was Moha able to extract his compressed body from the boa constrictor-like grip and then he stood embarrassed by his mother’s display of love.

Mahmoud al-Barouni saw us waiting and the smile dropped from his dark, emotionally glazed eyes. He spoke assertively to his wife. She glanced at his face and then left the room without speaking. Moha, too, received strong words from his father. Before he left the room, he glanced at Cakes and me. He wanted to say something but decided against it.

Mahmoud al-Barouni stepped closer. When he spoke, his words were soft. ‘God has spared my son,’ he said. In addition, plastic explosive and stun grenades in the hands of highly trained, elite soldiers had something to do with it, but I could see that “God” had already won the argument with Mahmoud so I let it go.

‘Allah Akbar (God is Great),’ Cakes said. Had I not seen the look on Mahmoud’s face I might have laughed.

‘Allah Akbar,’ Mahmoud repeated in earnest. I struggled to maintain my professionalism. Disrespect was not something I wanted to show. What humour Cakes possessed was black. I avoided looking at him.

‘You are the instruments of God and for that I thank you,’ Mahmoud said. I wondered whether Cakes had another suitable response. There followed a silent pause.

‘Mahmoud, we have delivered our side of the bargain,’ I said. ‘We have rescued your son and returned him safely to you.’

‘Allah Akbar (God is Great),’ Mahmoud said.

‘Yes, Allah Akbar,’ I said. Mahmoud took a small scrap of folded paper from his pocket and gave it to me.

‘The man you seek, Suleiman Al Bousefi, is eating today at this restaurant,’ Mahmoud said. ‘You will find him there.’

I unfolded the scrap of paper. In scratchy writing, Mahmoud had written the name of a restaurant and the name of a street. I copied them into the satellite phone and waited. The navigation system found the location and displayed the information. Azzahra restaurant was south-east of the city close to the main road on which we had arrived.

‘What else can you tell us?’ I said.

‘It is a celebration. That is all,’ Mahmoud said. ‘I know only that Suleiman Al Bousefi will arrive by car, a white Mercedes, at midday.’

Whether British SIS, when brokering the deal with Mahmoud al-Barouni, had told him the reason for wanting to know the location of Suleiman Al Bousefi I did not know. However, looking into his eyes now told me he believed he knew the reason.

‘Will he have protection today?’ I asked. Mahmoud’s face remained expressionless.

‘A man like Suleiman Al Bousefi always has protection,’ he said.

Outside, Banksy and Mick were standing by the car waiting.

‘We have a location,’ I said. ‘Cakes, you drive.’ I wanted the first time I saw the place to be distraction-free.