Bonfire Read online

  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 w
as?

  The bike was directly ahead. We closed the gap along a stretch of road probably built by the Romans it was so straight. The bike rider glanced back. He braked, leant into the turn and then disappeared between two buildings. Cakes had accelerated to a high speed. With great determination, he stamped the brake pedal, swung the steering wheel and yanked on the handbrake. The heavy saloon shuddered and then glided with poise and control like a top class ice-skater. We seemed to slip through the narrow opening as if guided by sonar and then straighten balanced and ready “tail up”. That was why I thought Cakes was a better driver than Mick was. He drove like an out-of-work stuntman.

  The bike rider left the passage through a walkway that was too narrow for us to follow. Unperturbed Cakes turned and gunned the BMW along the roadway that ran perpendicular until we joined a small lane, which ran parallel to the walkway.

  We came out on a wider road, still residential, but built to move a heavier flow of traffic in and out. Cakes turned to where he thought the bike might be and raced to make up the lost time. We searched and listened with the windows down. Cakes slowed. Like all predators, he displayed controlled, determined aggression. His one purpose was to catch his prey.

  We knew the bike rider must be close. Had we lost him? Cakes thumped the steering wheel with his fist.

  Then the bike reappeared. It came out onto the road a much longer distance ahead than we expected. The walkway had proven a good shortcut, but not good enough to complete a successful escape.

  Cakes floored the pedal with renewed hope and gripped the steering wheel in both hands. The gap narrowed quickly. The bike rider looked back over his shoulder. He knew we were chasing him and he knew he was running for his life.

  Frantically he searched for an escape route. His head turned rapidly, one side and then the other. Desperately his eyes sought for a way out. He knew if he stayed on the road, we would catch him in seconds.

  Open ground between the houses was his only route off the road and he took it. We followed. The ground was hard and dusty, but not dusty enough in which to hide.

  He steered tightly behind the buildings searching for an exit. We were almost touching his back wheel. Desperate, evasive action was necessary. Forcefully he turned the handlebars and despite the bike snaking, he found just enough agility to dodge our bumper. The manoeuvre took him away between the buildings and back towards the road. Relentlessly Cakes pursued. The man looked back at us as he left the rough ground and then again before he turned fast onto the tarmac.

  Neither he nor the car saw each other. It was a glancing blow. The car’s solid wing struck against the man’s leg. The bike wobbled and then went down and the man came off. The bike threw out death throw sparks and then lay on its side motionless. The man was still trying to escape. Dragging his injured leg, he was desperate to reach cover. He was never going to make it.

  Cakes revved hard past the fallen scooter and then braked hard alongside the limping man. I was out of the car even before it had stopped. The man saw me and pulled a knife. I rushed him and he lunged. It was the strike of desperation. The block was simple. I stepped inside, grasped his forearm, twisted his wrist and the knife fell from his hand. To make obvious my displeasure at having a knife pointed at my stomach I elbowed the man in the throat and then heel-kicked him in the chest. He went down and stayed down.

  Mick was now beside me. Together we lifted the man from the ground and then dragged him towards the BMW.

  The driver of the car with which he had collided was standing next to his open door watching nervously. He spoke rapidly in Arabic without receiving a response.

  Mick held the man against the car while I searched him for any weapons concealed or otherwise. He had only been carrying the knife, which remained on the ground where it had fallen. The remote detonator, which I found in his pocket, was a weapon, of course, but one that he had already used.

  Mick released the bomber, I threw him onto the backseat and I got in beside him. Mick jumped into the passenger seat and then Cakes, clearly pleased with the outcome, raced us away.

  10 The best way to keep loyalty in a man's heart is to keep money in his pocket.

  It was hard to tell whether the expression on the face of the man beside me on the backseat of the BMW saloon was fear or pain. Most probably, it was a combination of the two. He certainly smelled of fear. It was a mixture of sweat and dust blended together with hatred and murder. The damage to his leg must have hurt. Blood had seeped through the khakis and was staining the cotton.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ Mick asked. He turned in his seat and studied our captive.

  ‘Can you fix the tracker system?’ I said.

  ‘I’ll look at it,’ he replied.

  I tried to imagine what the man seated next to me was thinking. He must have been trying to work out who we were and whether he stood any chance of escaping with his life.

  I was wondering whether he spoke any language other than Arabic. Could he be of any use to us?

  ‘Cakes, find somewhere isolated so we can ask our new friend some questions,’ I said.

  ‘He’s not going to tell us anything useful,’ Cakes said, ‘We should just kill him, dump his body and then get out of here. The tracker system doesn’t work and Jerry Lombroso isn’t answering your calls. Mahmoud al-Barouni is either dead or gone for good. Staying any longer is a waste of time. Hayes, it is home time.’

  Everything Cakes said was right. He knew it, Mick knew and I knew it. I thought about Magda and wondered if she was still alive. Abandoning her was not something I was yet ready to do. ‘I want to question him,’ I said. ‘Cakes, why do you want to rush home? Do you have a new woman waiting?’ Mick laughed.

  ‘All right, let’s question him,’ Cakes said. ‘Do you speak Arabic?’

  ‘Find a quiet spot,’ I said and then looked into the eyes of the bomber and wondered how prepared he was to die.

  While Cakes found a deserted piece of land behind an empty, falling down building away from any built-up area I tried again to speak to Lombroso. The phone rang, but as before the call went unanswered.

  ‘Mick, how’s that tracker system looking?’ I said.

  ‘The signal that’s needed between the software and the satellite is working, but for some reason, the software isn’t processing the data.’

  ‘What’s the cause?’ I said.

  ‘It’s probably a bug.’

  ‘How can it work one minute and then stop working the next?’

  ‘There must be a clash between the tracker software and the hardware in our phones. I’ll keep working on it.’ Mick said.

  Cakes stopped the car against a large expanse of wall away from any doors or windows on a flat stretch of open land with a view of nothing except the blue sky. We were far enough from the road and hidden from sight that nobody would disturb us.

  The bomber was timid. He weakly accepted me pulling him unsympathetically from the backseat and throwing him down onto the hard ground. Both his hands went to the bloodied, damaged leg and pain lines creased his face around eyes screwed tight.

  Mick stood on the other side. Cakes remained in the driver’s seat and watched through the open window.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ I said. The man stared at me blankly and then said something in Arabic.

  ‘Kill him and let’s go,’ Cakes said. I kicked the injured leg and the man screamed.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ I repeated. Again, the man spoke in Arabic and held his leg protectively with both hands. Cakes sighed.

  ‘Parlez-vous français?’ I asked. As ex-legionnaires, we each spoke French. This time, Cakes snorted. ‘If Mahmoud al-Barouni told Suleiman Al Bousefi about us and about Magda then it’s likely this man is a member of the same extremist group,’ I said. ‘They knew the police would visit the al-Barouni home looking for Moha so they parked a van with a bomb outside and left this man to set it off and kill as many as possible.’

  ‘Why would al-Barouni blow-up his own home?’ Cakes said
.

  ‘He may not have known about it,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he was at home. Al Bousefi may have wanted rid of him. We don’t know the relationship.’

  Cakes remained silent. I could tell he accepted the argument.

  ‘If you’re right,’ Mick said, ‘then this man probably knows where Magda is.’

  ‘Yes, probably, but how do we get him to tell us?’

  ‘We need a translator.’

  My choice was between Nasser Jbara and Jamaal Jbara. I chose Jamaal and called his number. He answered immediately.

  ‘Yes, it is Jamaal,’ he said. His voice was eager, apprehensive and young.

  ‘This is Hayes,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, Mr. Hayes, have you found my sister?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘You need my help,’ Jamaal said. ‘What do you need? Tell me, Mr. Hayes.’

  ‘Jamaal, I have a man here who only speaks Arabic,’ I said.

  ‘You need me to translate,’ Jamaal said. He was eager and he wanted very much to help.

  ‘Yes. I believe this man is a member of the group that has taken Magda and that he knows where she is,’ I said. ‘I want you to tell him that unless he tells us I will kill him. Jamaal, do you understand?’ The reason I chose Jamaal over his father, Nasser, was that I hoped Jamaal’s ethics about killing a man would be more ambivalent.

  ‘Will you really kill this man?’

  ‘Yes, I will.’

  ‘I will tell him what you say,’ Jamaal said.

  ‘Jamaal, I’m going to make the phone into a loudspeaker so we can all hear.’ I reset the phone and then held it out. ‘Jamaal, you can speak now,’ I said.

  To ensure the man on the ground holding his leg was paying attention I gave him a kick. He looked up at me and then looked at the phone as Jamaal’s Arabic voice sounded clear. We all listened.

  When Jamaal had finished we waited expectantly. The bomber remained silent. I pulled out the Glock pistol and pointed it at the man’s face. ‘Jamaal,’ I said, ‘tell him again. Ask him to tell you where your sister is.’ Again, we listened to Jamaal’s Arabic words.