Bonfire (23 page)

‘Aye, aye, Captain,’ Castle replied.

The Chief re-entered the room and despite his best effort, Claudia caught his eye.

‘How did you get these photographs?’ she asked politely. The Chief retook his seat and met Claudia’s determined gaze with an unreadable expression.

‘You are a clever and perceptive woman,’ he said without nuance. It was a simple statement of fact.

‘What’s the answer?’ she said ignoring the Chief’s professional flattery.

‘They come from a low Earth orbit surveillance satellite,’ he said. Despite the nod, Claudia’s hair barely moved and her face retained its enigmatic countenance, which was equal to that of the Chief’s.

‘You’re not going to let me down, are you?’ she asked.

‘Trust,’ the Chief said as if the word was the answer to a crossword clue he had just solved. ‘I was telling Jerry, just this morning, trust is something that one can only discover by testing.’

‘So, I’m going to have to just wait and find out,’ she said.

‘As I said, my dear, you have my word. Jerry, what was it Shakespeare said about “trust”?’ In response to the unexpected question, Jerry frowned and then smiled.

‘I’ve no idea,’ he said honestly. The Chief looked disappointed.

‘Oh, well, I don’t suppose it matters,’ he said looking at Claudia.

‘
Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none,
’ she said.

‘Yes, that’s it,’ he said. ‘And do you know from which play it comes?’

‘Yes, I do,’ she said.

‘And which is it?’

‘
All's Well That Ends Well,
’ she said.

Unable to get away from the busy main hall due to the religious and political conversations between his father and the other Brotherhood hierarchy Moha began to sense a feeling of frustration. He rapidly analysed the emotion and then put in place one of his behavioural techniques for masking the reactions to how he felt.

The debate was always the same. The vehemently expressed views he had heard before, many times, mainly in the home in which he grew up, a home reduced by a bomb to smoking, bloodstained rubble.

Moha had to make that phone call to Chase. Until he did, nothing would happen nothing would change. Moha spoke again in agreement to a prompt from his father. The self-control technique that he was employing was working well. Moha’s face displayed a variety of looks including interest, respect and commitment. Mahmoud was pleased with his son. Moha’s bravery and aptitude would guarantee him a good future, a strong future, inside a strict Islamic Libya.

‘Where are you going?’ Mahmoud asked and put out a hand to make his son pause.

‘I must find a toilet, father,’ Moha replied. Although irked that his son was leaving the advantageous gathering, if only for a short while, he could not deny him a toilet break.

‘I will come with you,’ he said. ‘You do not know the way.’ Despite Moha thinking fast and hard, he was unable to come up with any sensible reason why he should go alone. They left the hall together. Mahmoud led and while Moha followed, his mind worked on the problem of being alone long enough to use his phone.

‘Moha, for one so young you have great skill when you speak to other men. It is not only what you say, but also how you say it. You please your father.’

Moha finished and readjusted himself. ‘I try my best.’

‘Come, let us return and you can impress your new friends more,’ Mahmoud said.

Throughout the return walk, Moha worked on his problem and barely heard the words his father spoke. Not that it mattered. He knew what the words would be and that he need not make a response. How could something as simple as making a phone call prove so difficult? The risk of someone seeing, especially his father, was a risk he could not take. Chase would be waiting. Moha knew that.
Follow the plan
. The difference between formation and practical application were wider than the Sahara and just as hard to cross, he thought. To Chase everything was easy. The Englishman always had an answer. He was quick to dispel any doubt and never uttered a word without it having a positive perspective. However, he was not the spy. Moha was the spy, and Moha knew that without the brave, audacious and deceitful work that he alone did
the plan
would not exist. Moha, also, knew that without Chase and the British he could never hope to achieve his goal. They needed each other. It was a relationship of expediency and both sides understood it.

Back inside the hall, every man was preparing to sit, shoeless, on a large rug of intricately woven threads that covered much of the floor. Many wore a white taqiyah and all wore their finest cotton and silk, pristine and distinguished. Suleiman was gathering and arranging his important guests. They were the upper echelons, the men at the top of the Islamic group that would soon seize power and make him supreme ruler of Libya. It was almost time for Suleiman’s marriage ceremony to begin. Moha had wanted to make the call before the ceremony, but now it seemed impossible. He heard his father curse softly under his breath.

‘Moha, the gift, I have left it in the car,’ he said. It was an opportunity. A chance had come Moha’s way and, determinedly, he grabbed at it with the speed of a striking cobra.

‘I will fetch it for you, father,’ he said and turned to go. Mahmoud caught his son’s arm and then scanned the room to evaluate whether it was pragmatic to allow Moha to leave, albeit, for only a short time.

‘Yes, all right, but come back quickly,’ he said. Moha had found his chance. He made to leave, but his father’s hand pulled his arm. ‘No, wait,’ he said. ‘The imam is here. We will have to get the gift later.’

‘I will be quick,’ Moha promised.

‘No, later will do.’

Moha hid his frustration as he hid all his emotions. He and his father moved towards the rug where the other men were beginning to sit. Moha searched the far side and saw the approaching imam. His greying beard only added to the roundness of his placid face. Then Moha’s heart struck against his ribcage and his throat closed, punched shut by the jolt from his Adam’s apple as his eyes fell upon the person following. The veil covered her head and her face, only her eyes could Moha see, and to Moha they were the eyes of life, of the inner self and of beauty in a dark and cruel world. The eyes that had such emotive influence over Moha were the eyes of Magda Jbara. He watched her walk forward and then she sat obediently on the rug where the imam pointed. It was only then that Moha saw Suleiman, waiting. The hatred fired in Moha’s belly, but it never touched his face. Suleiman looked up at Magda as she sat and then he looked at the imam who sat as well, clearly eager to begin.

‘Sit, Moha, sit,’ Mahmoud said softly. Moha obeyed his father and sat without looking down. He saw only Magda: veiled, serene and dressed for her wedding. It was torturous, but his self-discipline held firm. His determination grew stronger and made him drive out the emotions that threatened to overwhelm his already stretched clear-headedness with a cruelty that left his judgement just and sharp like the Zulfiqar of Ali. Yes, Moha thought harshly, he would act without mercy. Doubting was the privilege of the weak. Seeing Magda had turned an already resilient tenacity into an unbreakable resolve that would carry the young man through his ordeal to its terrible and bloody end.

Aksil’s shoulder felt sinewy and hard beneath my hand as I leant forward in the back of the 4x4 and shook the Berber energetically. ‘It’s south-east and we’re still travelling south,’ I said. ‘We must have missed the turning. We’ll have to go back.’ The fact that Aksil had assured me that no such turning existed despite the satellite’s insistence to the contrary had no bearing on the vigorousness of my shaking. Aksil cursed in Arabic, or so I assumed, and braked hard, spun the wheel with dexterous enthusiasm and pointed us back the way we had come just missing Cakes and Mick following in the BMW as he did so. Through the CDL, I heard Cakes swear with equal passion. ‘We must have missed a turning south-east,’ I said by way of explanation. ‘We need to go back and find it.’

‘There wasn’t a turning,’ Cakes said.

‘There must be a track or a route between the rocks,’ I said, and through the rear window, watched the dust rise as Cakes spun the BMW saloon and then accelerate to catch us up.

‘Then where is it?’ Cakes said. ‘I didn’t see a road or anything like it.’

‘It’s there, and we need to find it.’

Using the satellite link, I projected a straight line from the position of Magda’s tracker signal to where it intersected the road at the shortest point. I reasoned the turning was likely to be near on one side or the other to that point.

‘Aksil, drive slowly,’ I said. ‘Our best chance is to spot the markings where other vehicles have left the road. The falling sun was almost directly above in a straight line to where we were looking. Squinting against the glare, I searched the undulating ground of shadows and hillocks, dappled by scree and blown clean in a warm zephyr. The bumpy terrain dropped away from the road and the covering of small hills hid any view beyond the distance I could comfortable throw a fist-sized rock.

Aksil drove us to the point on the road identified by the satellite and then beyond. Despite our eagle-eyed searching neither Mick, Cakes, Aksil or I could find the turning. Even Muntasser appeared to be looking hard despite his reservations. ‘There is nothing out there. It is scrub until the mountains. At the end of this road, we will arrive at Jadu, yes, but out there, nothing.’ Aksil ignored Muntasser’s proclamation and studied the ground along the roadside with unnerving attention despite the fact he was driving. It was on our second sweep, a little way after the satellite intersection point when Aksil braked unexpectedly and pointed a long finger. My eyes followed the line and I scoured the ground.

‘Aksil, what is it?’

‘There,’ he said, ‘on the rock,’ and got out. I followed. Ten paces from the roadside was a slab of limestone, heavy in the dry earth and lined horizontally by time. Aksil ran the flat of his hand over a dark band. ‘Black paint,’ he said. I stepped closer and touched the rock with my own hand. Aksil was right. ‘A sign to show the way,’ he said. Our eyes lifted and we both examined the terrain. It curved and sloped between the rocks and scrub, but was flat enough for any vehicle to drive, not just a 4x4. Below my feet, the dry earth was smooth and the absence of obvious tyre markings was the only thing that gave me doubt. ‘The west wind takes away the tracks,’ Aksil said and kicked the ground. The gusting breeze caught the rising dust in a fast moving sand cloud that stayed low and left the surface behind freshly swept. The rangy Berber had begun to grow on me. A simple reconnaissance was all it took to confirm his scouting prowess: A short walk beyond the rock and shallow crag to the brow showed a darker, compacted strip that only the passage of vehicles could have made, and which people used to navigate and cross the rough landscape.

‘This is it. Aksil has found it,’ I said to Cakes and Mick.

Standing beside the open passenger door Muntasser watched me closely. ‘Aksil has eyes like an imperial eagle,’ he said with an authority that put the statement beyond question. Yes, and the same beak, I thought unfairly. Whether the eyesight of an imperial eagle was better than any other kind of eagle, I did not know, but neither did I mind. Time was passing and Magda was continually in my thoughts.

‘Let’s go,’ I said.

Muntasser’s luxury Range Rover was more than a match for Libya’s off-road wilderness. It soaked up the rough ground and dispatched any loose surface or incline with professional ease. Following narrowly behind, the BMW saloon was less clever at coping with the unfavourable conditions if the comments I heard coming from its two occupants were any indication.

Using the satellite feed, I switched to a topographic map showing large-scale detail and contour lines. With Magda’s signal in the middle, it provided elevation and shaded relief that enabled me to plot a route away from the track that would take us to a high observation point from which, I hoped, we could carry out an essential reconnaissance.

‘Aksil, pull off into that dip and stop once the mound hides us from the track,’ I said. He steered away onto the virgin ground and stopped beyond the rise. Cakes pulled the BMW alongside and got out.

‘The best high ground is here,’ he said and showed me on his screen. ‘We can access this ridge from the east using the four-by-four and at this point, the elevation should be angled enough to give us a view of the track and the basin all the way to the buildings.’

Mick was out of the car and had moved to cover us in case anyone felt the need to interrupt.

‘Yes, I agree,’ I said to Cakes, ‘but before we do the recce I want to make some preparations.’

‘All right, what?’

The boot lid of the BMW dutifully swung open and after a quick search, I pulled out two CDL sets. Banksy had worn one and the other was a spare.

Holding them up I said, ‘Mick, I want you to put Muntasser and Aksil on the system.’ He came over to us. ‘Cakes, take the watch while Mick sets them up.’

Muntasser and Aksil did their best to follow Mick’s instructions, but still he required the patience of a saint. ‘It goes over your ear the other way up. Look at mine.’ Leaving them to it, I went over to where Cakes was watching the track.

‘Is anyone about?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘Like a graveyard,’ he replied and then said, ‘What’s the plan?’

‘It’s like I said: We go in, find Magda, bring her out, and then we all go home.’

‘Ha, good plan.’ Cakes’ face took on the look I had seen earlier. Reflective musing was most unlike him.

‘What’s the matter?’

He hesitated. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling,’ he said. ‘A feeling that there’s something wrong, but I don’t know what it is.’ Before I could answer, Mick called over.

‘It’s done,’ he said. ‘All tested, and up and running.’

I left Cakes and walked back to the vehicles. ‘All right, let’s transfer our kit into the Range Rover and then we can do the recce.’ We emptied the BMW’s boot while Cakes kept watch. The spare bulletproof vests were in there. They were the ones Moha and Magda had worn. ‘Put these on.’ Aksil and Muntasser needed help getting into them. Muntasser was, very nearly, too big.

‘I do not need it,’ he said. It was a squeeze, but I insisted. The ache in my side was still there. Without a vest, the ache would not have been troubling me, but then, neither would anything else.

Then I showed Aksil the location on my screen that we wanted to reach. The Berber seemed to understand instinctively and looked confident and ready to proceed.

‘Okay, let’s go. Cakes, are you ready?’

Leaving the BMW hidden from the track, the five of us headed out in the Range Rover over the rough terrain to find high ground. Aksil drove, Muntasser sat in the front and Mick, Cakes and I squashed together in the back.

Attacking the lower slopes head-on, albeit at something less than a charge provided us with a series of easy victories. The higher slopes, however, were considerably steeper and proved much tougher. They required Aksil to manoeuvre a sequence of traverses that bumped us about like a fairground ride and disproved Newton’s law of gravity because we avoided tipping over, rolling down until we hit the level and dying horribly, probably, in a ball of fire. I considered pointing out this inevitable event, but as the Berber had the look of a man who knew what he was doing, I decided not to interrupt him. Muntasser, I noticed, was holding on with a grip that would have impressed a freezing man grasping a woollen blanket.

When the deep tread of the rear tyres finally scrabbled over the high ridge and the vehicle became more or less level I realised how tight my stomach muscles had been.

South-west over the flat, brought us to a precipice with a view from the backseat of a whitened sky and nothing except clean, bright air. The ridge soon became a pathway only suitable for mountain goats or people attached to crampons by sturdy rope. Aksil stopped and then backed up to where there was enough room for him to turn around.

‘Is the handbrake on?’ I asked him. His blank expression told me my attempt at humour was wasted. Although Mick laughed, so it was not a complete waste.

We all got out, except Muntasser who appeared unwilling to relinquish his grip. ‘I never imagined this vehicle could do such things,’ he said lifting his eyebrows.

‘Mick, stay with the Range Rover. Oh, and hold Muntasser’s hand,’ I said.

Cakes and I followed Aksil along the narrowing ledge. Having driven us there, the Berber was keen to see whether there was any worth to his work. Would the ledge provide the view we needed?

Stepping carefully and balancing with one hand against the rock wall, we moved forward, turned westward, and then below us, the vista opened wide and deep. Tiptoeing to the edge, I looked over. Heights have never bothered me but the vertical drop did make me check my footing such was the drop’s uncompromising nature. It was a base jumper’s dream. We each crouched low with our weight back and stared at the canyon-style floor far below. The height flattened the relief but the light and dark patterns helped to discern the rises, hollows and rocks. My attention went automatically to the line of track, winding and dark as it curved its way through the hilly, uneven ground. In the distance, the roofs of two buildings showed bright in the sunlight above dark walls of shadow. Cakes and I raised our binoculars while Aksil continued to stare through two black slits at the imposing panorama his driving had provided us. Large and clear, the ground leapt at me through the magic of magnification. Beginning at the nearest visible end I followed the track between the odd palm tree and a mound of clumped scrub until the high-powered glasses arrived at something of interest. Where the track squeezed between rocky outcrops, the sight of a white Landcruiser and men dressed in black carrying assault rifles were like cool slices of cucumber to my eyes. They wore the same get-up as the men who had ambushed us outside the restaurant when we were waiting for Al Bousefi. Without question, these were his men. They were guarding the only access route to the buildings, isolated and hidden, where Al Bousefi held Magda, kidnapped, alone and almost certainly terrified.

While I lowered the binoculars to give myself a brief moment of thought, Aksil took my attention. Held up to his right eye was a German manufactured Schmidt & Bender telescopic sight. He must have had it on his person. His concentration was total and my observation went unnoticed. Cakes, too, I saw, was scanning the basin floor like a man searching for buried treasure. Lifting the binoculars, I returned to my own scanning and the job of shaping a plan.

Leaving the Landcruiser and the armed men in black, I trained the binoculars along the remainder of the track until the first building came into sight. If it had any secrets, it was not giving them up easily. I moved on to the end of the track and the second building. This one was different. The larger of the two structures by quite some measure it was happy to pass on helpful information. On the roof, walking the battlements, I saw two men. They were guards, wearing the obligatory black and carrying rifles that, although the distance prohibited certain identification, were most likely AK-47 variants. Leaving the guards my attention moved lower to the facing sides and the outer wall. I waited, while watching keenly, to see whether one or more guards were patrolling the outside perimeter. To my surprise, the wild, undulating ground remained uninhabited by anything other than a number of grouse-like birds, which told me there was a water hole or, more likely, a borehole nearby.