Bonfire (9 page)

‘All right, we know she’s somewhere near,’ I said. We studied the surrounding area.

‘She’s either in one of those vehicles or inside the buildings behind,’ Mick said.

‘Perhaps the mosque,’ Cakes said.

Both were right. Magda had to be either inside one of the vehicles or one of the buildings.

‘How do you want to do it?’ Cakes asked.

Hostage release is never easy. The biggest danger always comes from the risk of getting the hostage killed. Once the hostage takers know they are under attack, the first thing they often do is kill the hostage. Even if it means they die, too.

‘Mick, stay with the car,’ I said. ‘Cakes and I will take a look at the parked cars.’

The man was quick. Even by our standards. Parked to our left in among the row of vehicles the van was at an angle, pointing away. One rear door swung open and in the same movement, the man appeared.

Gripped in both hands the assault rifle was already prepared. He had it aimed directly at us and fired instantly. Instinctively we ducked. The staccato grunts echoed around the enclosed space, increasing their volume and depth like the singing from a showering baritone.

The car rocked on its suspension and dropped lower as the bullets struck. The volley was brief but accurate. With the same quickness, the man withdrew inside the van, which then raced away and disappeared through one of the narrow streets.

‘Is anyone hit?’ I said. In reply, I got two negative responses. As well as not hitting any of us, the gunman had failed to hit the upper half of the car because none of the glass was shattered. I looked at the phone, but the screen was still blank.

‘Do you want to chase them?’ Mick asked. I had the feeling that chasing them was impossible.

After checking the courtyard for any other obvious dangers, I opened the back door and stepped out. Cakes got out, too. It was just as I thought. The gunman had aimed for the wheels. He had shot out three of the Ford’s tyres. The car sat low and slightly lopsided.

‘Mick, pull the car over against that wall out of the sun,’ I said. The Ford limped into the shadow and then Mick switched off the engine.

‘Why didn’t he try to kill us?’ Cakes said.

‘Perhaps he lacked enough confidence so, instead, made sure of a getaway by blowing the tyres,’ I said.

‘How did they know it was us?’ Mick said.

‘Maybe it was one of the men from earlier and he recognised the car,’ I said.

‘What were they doing here?’ Mick said.

‘Possibly they were meeting someone inside the mosque,’ Cakes said. ‘Do you want to go in and shoot up the place?’

‘No, it wouldn’t help and it wouldn’t save Magda or avenge Banksy,’ I said. Mick kicked one of the flat tyres.

‘Now, what do we do?’ he said.

‘We get a new vehicle,’ I said. ‘Let’s put everything important from the boot into our rucksacks.’

‘And then what?’

‘And then we wait,’ I said.

The wait lasted sixteen minutes. During that time, I sat in the shade and tried to call Jerry Lombroso. I called him several times, but each time it just rang for a while and then stopped. It made me annoyed. When I get annoyed, I always think. My thinking kept ending with the same question: Why did the Chief want us to bring Magda on the mission?

Cakes and Mick waited like me. They looked like extras on a film set waiting for someone to shout “action”. The positions we had chosen were circumspect but still enabled us to see each other and observe the whole area.

He was a man of around sixty years of age. The djellaba that he wore accentuated his lean body and brown, wrinkled face. He walked alone. I watched him approach the BMW saloon and then I nodded to Mick who was closest. The man unlocked the car using the remote, but before he could open the driver’s door Mick was on him. The man struggled and yelled. Cakes and I were quickly there, but Mick had already taken the remote from the man’s hand and pushed him to the ground. I raised the Glock and pointed it at the brown face. He stayed down with fear stretching his features and smoothing out the wrinkles.

We jumped into the BMW. Mick fired the big engine and then we raced away down the same narrow exit that the van had used.

‘Where are we going?’ Mick said. Without a functioning tracker system, finding Magda was impossible. For a brief moment, I considered potential places Magda’s captors might take her, but realised such conjecture was futile. My next thought was more productive. Would Mahmoud al-Barouni be at home and would he tell us anything useful?

‘Without the tracker working our only worthwhile option is to go and see if Mahmoud al-Barouni wants to talk,’ I said. Just then, I received a phone call.

‘Hello Mr. Hayes, this is Benjamin Chase.’ His voice sounded stretched as if a small dog was nipping purposely at his trouser leg. Why was Benjamin Chase calling me?

‘Have you fully recovered from the effects of the flashbangs?’ I said. He responded with a polite laugh.

‘I still have an occasional ringing in my ears,’ he said.

‘Don’t worry. It’ll wear off,’ I said.

‘I’m sorry to call you unexpectedly, but I felt it important that I speak to you personally,’ he explained. ‘I wanted to make sure you had left Libya.’

‘Why is that?’ I said.

‘…because Wahbi Muntasser is looking for you.’

‘Oh,’ I said trying to sound surprised. ‘What does Libyan internal security want with me?’

‘Well, Muntasser seems to think you might know something about the incident this morning.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘I don’t have all the details, but apparently he has obtained intelligence that in some way implicates you and points to your possible involvement.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘Muntasser called me at the embassy and was very adamant. He seems determined to find you if at all possible.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘He’s not going to find me.’

‘It’s just that you weren’t on the London flight. I checked. If you’re still in Libya, it might be advisable to leave straight away. Muntasser is very unhappy and he’s a determined man. I suspect he’s an unpleasant individual given the right provocation.’ That I did not doubt. ‘I don’t know what’s going on and I don’t know whether you had anything to do with what happened this morning, but it might be best if you left Libya immediately. Can you do that? The last thing we need is any kind of diplomatic unpleasantness. I’m sure you understand.’ I did understand. “Unpleasantness” was something we definitely wanted to avoid.

‘Chase, you’re quite right. I’ll do as you say.’ I did not intend to do anything of the kind. He seemed pleased.

‘Oh, good,’ he said. ‘I’m so pleased.’ I thought so. Benjamin Chase was like a Kent village in May: very hard to dislike. ‘Well, I’ll say goodbye, then, Mr. Hayes.’

‘Goodbye, Mr. Chase,’ I said.

‘Who was that?’ Mick asked.

‘It was Benjamin Chase,’ I said. ‘He’s the embassy man from this morning.’

‘What did he want?’

‘How far away are we from the al-Barouni house?’ I said.

‘…less than a mile,’ Cakes said.

‘Keep an eye out for police vehicles,’ I said. ‘They’re blue and white.’

‘What did he want?’ Mick said repeating his question.

‘He wanted me to leave Libya,’ I said.

‘He’s got the right idea,’ Cakes said. ‘If al-Barouni isn’t at home then it’s time for us to leave.’

‘What about Magda?’ Mick asked.

‘We don’t have a working tracker,’ Cakes said. ‘How are we going to find her?’

Unfortunately, Cakes was right. I tried Jerry Lombroso again. I had to get the tracker system working. While the phone was ringing, I spoke to Mick and Cakes. ‘Mick, stop the car and let Cakes drive. I want you to look at the tracking software to see if you can fix it.’ Mick stopped the BMW and they swopped seats. ‘Can you fix it?’ The phone stopped ringing. Again, Lombroso had failed to answer my call. ‘Mick, can you fix it?’ I said again.

‘I don’t know yet,’ he said. ‘I need to find out what’s wrong with it first.’

‘It doesn’t work,’ Cakes said. The car lurched as Cakes applied the brakes. ‘There’s a police Land Rover,’ he said and motioned through the windscreen towards the junction ahead. The blue and white 4x4 passed in front of us without taking any notice. The men inside had other things on their minds.

‘Give it plenty of room,’ I said. Cakes pulled away at an easy speed and we watched the police vehicle accelerate ahead.

‘If it’s going to the al-Barouni house it’ll turn left,’ Cakes said. The police Land Rover did turn left.

‘Stay back,’ I said. The police were always going to look for Moha at his family home. ‘Stop on the corner. We can watch from there.’ Two further police vehicles, one a Toyota pickup and the other a Range Rover, were already on the street outside the al-Barouni home. The Land Rover drew up alongside. I wondered whether Wahbi Muntasser was in personal attendance. More likely, he had sent a selection of underlings. He would know the chance of finding Moha at his family home was a long shot.

‘It looks like home time,’ Cakes said.

The distortion of air produced a punishing effect inside my ears and lungs. Only a big explosion can cause that effect. Even at a distance of at least one hundred paces, the thump caused by the moving airwaves was shocking. The intensity made me gasp. The noise penetrated my body and left it deadened. It felt as if something unnatural had interrupted my nervous system and caused it to short-circuit.

My eardrums were still intact because I could hear the sound of falling debris on the roof of the car. My eyes, too, worked. The destruction and mayhem I saw were all too clear. The front of the house was missing, obliterated and strewn like handfuls of rubble. Flames filled the hole and sent up thick smoke, black against the cloudless, midday sky.

The vehicles, not vehicles any longer, their make indistinguishable even to the designer who lovingly carved their shape, were burning, smouldering and scattered. Upended, buckled and crushed the police Land Rover that we had followed was now a mechanical deformity, grotesque and unnerving.

In the road, I saw body parts. Freshly slaughtered and bloodied they resembled slabs of butcher’s meat covered by torn and tattered cloth. Men ripped apart with their red guts spilt on the bleached tarmac.

I heard two loud expletives. Mick went first and then Cakes outdid him. They were both right.

‘Did someone slip on a jacket and push the “ignite” button?’ Mick said.

‘No. There was a van there,’ Cakes said. ‘It’s not there now. The explosive device was inside it.’

‘Remote detonation,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ agreed Cakes. We all searched. The person who set it off was most likely nearby. We heard a motorbike. It sounded like a race-tuned scooter. The high-pitched whining grew louder and then the bike passed behind us and accelerated away.

The chase instinct was automatic. Cakes floored the pedal and swung the steering wheel violently. The powerful BMW gripped tightly through the arc and then stretched its horses as the rev needle spun round and we experienced slingshot acceleration.

The first turn was a combination of harsh braking, steering that produced rolling like a voyage around Cape Horn and mechanical howling from, seemingly, every moving part. Why did I think Cakes was a better driver than Mick was?