Bonfire (19 page)

The tyres of the BMW saloon let out a disapproving snarl as Cakes spun the steering wheel and swung us around in a tight arc to face the way we had come. A van driver blew his horn in an unappreciative response to the unexpected manoeuvre.

‘Why didn’t London tell us Magda and Al Bousefi knew each other?’ Mick said.

‘…because London didn’t want us to know,’ Cakes replied.

‘Then, why tell us now?’

‘They’re not. Claudia is telling her boyfriend. It’s different.’

‘Is it?’ Mick said. There was a pause. ‘Do you think he’s taken her?’

The tyres let out another disapproving snarl as Cakes applied the brakes and brought us to a stop outside the Jbara house.

‘Mick, stay with the car,’ I said. ‘Cakes, you’re with me.’

‘It’s Hayes,’ I said into the wall-mounted intercom. I heard Nasser’s voice lift in surprise and hope.

‘What is it? What has changed?’ he asked.

We entered through the gate and saw Nasser and Jamaal Jbara hurrying to discover the reason for our return.

‘London has provided us with new information,’ I said.

‘Yes, yes… what is it?’

‘Do you know a man named Suleiman Al Bousefi?’ I asked. The line of Nasser’s mouth turned uncharacteristically thin and his expression took on the look of a glove puppet when the puppeteer makes a fist.

‘Yes, I know Suleiman Al Bousefi,’ he said. For a second, I thought Nasser might spit.

‘How do you know him?’ I asked.

‘He is from Zawiya,’ Nasser said. ‘I know him from my mosque… for many years… at Friday prayers…’

‘Does he know Magda?’ I asked.

‘Yes, he knows her… since she was a young girl,’ Nasser said.

‘Did he propose marriage?’ I asked. Nasser’s grimace returned. He nodded.

‘Yes, before Magda fled to England.’

‘How did he take the refusal?’

‘He was very unhappy. He did not expect Magda to refuse him. He believes he is an important man, a man who deserves respect and Magda’s rejection was not what he wanted.’

‘Nasser, do you know that Suleiman Al Bousefi is now the leader of a large extremist group?’ I asked.

‘Of course, at the mosque men talk of such things. They speak of Islam and politics. We know about the extremists and we know what they want,’ Nasser said. ‘Yes, I have heard it said that Suleiman Al Bousefi is now the leader, but I hoped it was not true.’

‘Well, it is true,’ I said. My eyes left Nasser’s face and went to Jamaal. His action mirrored my own. ‘What do you know of this?’ I asked.

‘The extremists are violent and dangerous men,’ Jamaal said. ‘They want a strict Islamic state. They want power and they enjoy cruelty. The liberal views, like Magda’s, about women and society, they despise. They are not men of tolerance.’

A clever man it did not need. Even my level of intelligence was enough to know that Magda’s abductors had acted on the instructions of their group’s leader, Suleiman Al Bousefi. As Claudia had said,
a man like Suleiman Al Bousefi is probably used to getting what he wants even if it means he has to take it by force.

‘Do you know where Al Bousefi is holding my daughter?’ Nasser said. A question I did not want to answer. To give false hope was unkind.

‘Where is Suleiman Al Bousefi?’ I said. Nasser shook his head.

‘The leaders of the Brotherhood have a meeting place,’ Jamaal said.

‘Where is it?’ I asked. Jamaal’s expression was less than convincing.

‘South,’ he said, ‘near the mountains… on the way to Zintan.’

‘How do you know this?’ his father asked.

‘I hear men speak of it at the mosque and at the university.’

‘Can you find this place?’ Nasser asked. His red and blue face, which was now swollen and lopsided, showed he already knew the answer. At least he thought he did. I turned to Cakes and gave him the opportunity to answer.

‘We can ask London if they know the location,’ he said. It sounded strange because Cakes did not look like a diplomat.

‘If London knows the location of this place will you go there?’ Jamaal asked. Again, I waited for Cakes to answer.

‘We might take a look,’ he said.

Back outside, Mick motioned his head at me through the open driver’s door window. ‘We’re going to put Banksy back in the cellar,’ I said. A knowing grin brought animation that was easy to read.

Cakes and I carried the wrapped body of our friend into the Jbara house and, once again, we manoeuvred the narrow steps and placed Banksy down in the cool, dark cellar.

‘If we don’t come back you’ll bury him,’ Cakes said. Nasser nodded.

‘Yes, of course, I will,’ he said reaffirming his promise.

‘Nasser, I asked you before about Mahmoud al-Barouni,’ I said.

‘Yes, I remember,’ Nasser replied.

‘I asked you whether he was an extremist and whether he belonged to an extremist group. This time, tell me the truth. It’s important.’

‘I did not lie to you,’ Nasser said. He held out his hands in supplication.

‘Just tell me what you know.’

‘It is true. Mahmoud al-Barouni is a member of the Muslim Brotherhood of Libya,’ Nasser said. ‘He and Suleiman Al Bousefi know each other well. Together they work hard, determined to bring about a strict Islamic state.’

‘…and is Moha Hassan involved?’ I said.

‘Yes, of course, he obeys his father. If his father tells him to shoot at a politician in Tripoli then he does it.’ Nasser made a gesture with his hands and a sound with his tongue to convey his view that such behaviour was incomprehensible.

Outside again, Nasser and Jamaal stared at me expectantly. ‘I’ll call you,’ I said. Saying anything else was pointless. Cakes remained silent.

‘If you need me to translate…,’ Jamaal said. ‘You can call me… you have my number.’ I thought Nasser was going to remain silent, but as we turned away to leave he said, ‘God will protect you.’

Cakes and I left through the gate. Mick was in the driver’s seat waiting for us. ‘Has he got her?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘Are we going after him? The tracker’s still working.’

‘Let’s talk about it inside the car,’ I said. Cakes and I got into the BMW and I could tell we were all thinking the same thing. Cakes spoke first.

‘Without a realistic plan of operation it’s suicide,’ he said. He was right.

‘I agree,’ I said.

‘Then we need a realistic plan of operation,’ Mick said. ‘It’s our chance to complete the mission. We can take out Al Bousefi and free Magda at the same time.’

‘You’ve been watching too many Hollywood movies,’ Cakes said.

‘Mick’s right. We do have a chance to complete the mission,’ I said.

‘All right… how?’

‘There is a plan that might work,’ I said.

‘Oh, yes, what is it?’

‘Have you heard the saying:
The enemy of my enemy is my friend
?’

The roads were wide and straight, the traffic was light and we were there in less than five minutes.

Returning to the place where we had last seen him was our only hope of finding him without involving a third party, which I was keen to avoid. Despite my limited knowledge of espionage “trust” was something I did know had the same value as life.

‘Stop here,’ I said. Mick rolled the car to a halt and I lifted the binoculars. Through the open passenger seat window, I focused down the street at the apartment building behind the oleander bushes.

‘Is he there?’ Mick asked. From behind us, on the backseat, Cakes, too, was looking through his binoculars.

‘There’re a 4x4 and two transits still parked outside,’ he said.

‘Are you sure this is going to work?’ Mick asked.

‘Yes, I’m sure, but just in case be ready to leave in a hurry,’ I said. ‘All right, drive down and stop outside the building opposite.’

Mick drove sedately to avoid drawing any unnecessary attention. The rear doors of both transit vans were wide open as was the 4x4’s passenger door. Men wearing guard’s uniforms were carrying out bodies wrapped in bloodstained white sheets. The senior guard, a rangy man with a dark, shaven dome and a long reach that his pointing aptly demonstrated, was directing the unpleasant work. Beside the open apartment door I saw further police guards and around them milled a group of local men, some watching quietly, others debating animatedly.

Mick stopped the car and we each observed the scene. ‘Can you see him?’ Mick said.

‘No,’ I said and stepped out of the car.

‘I’ll leave the door open and keep the engine running,’ Mick said helpfully.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

The direct approach was the only one to use. I had to find out quickly if he was still there. Holding up my open British passport like a police officer displaying his warrant card, I strode confidently towards the rangy senior guard. He was alert. My movement produced a glance and then his narrow eyes settled on me in a glare of undisguised aggression. He shouted at me in Arabic, but I kept walking. He shouted again, stepped towards me and raised a long arm to gesture his annoyance. I stopped a few paces short and waved the passport encouragingly.

‘I’m British,’ I said. ‘My name is Mr. Hayes.’ Whether he understood English was not possible to tell. However, his reaction to my friendly approach was to pull the pistol he carried in a holster around his waist cowboy-style. It was a 9mm Browning HP. The distinctive handle and cold grey barrel of the gun that I now saw levelling at my chest was an unpromising start to a new friendship. Up to then my instinct for knowing the likely actions of a man who pulled a gun was good… up to then. His eyes were angry, but not angry enough to pull the trigger. A very quick glance back at the car and a subtle lift of my open palm was enough to reassure Cakes who I knew would have his light machine gun discreetly aimed through the open rear passenger window at the man’s chest. The reason I felt confident of my position was the name I was about to speak.

‘I want to see Wahbi Muntasser,’ I said and then repeated loudly, ‘…Wahbi Muntasser.’

Unfortunately, my power of prediction vis-à-vis a man, a gun and his likely intention was not working too well. The guard’s angled face shrank in a crumpled crisscross pattern of tan lines and then, like an angry
Punch
, he attacked.

Having not anticipated an assault his rapid movement, initially, caught me unprepared and I was glad of the few paces I had allowed between us. Although, the unrefined lurch and swinging gun hand were never going to give me too much trouble. Quick feet, as any boxer or footballer will tell you, are the most important attribute for keeping out of trouble and, fortunately, my quick feet were working fine.

The fast moving Browning pistol missed my head as I danced like a Paris
can-can
girl on her night off. Not willing to give the man any room in which to make a second attempt to connect a blow and improve upon his first poor showing, I stepped sideways moving with his momentum, grasped his extended arm and, relying on experience, used my strength and his weight to take him down.