Bonfire (30 page)

‘Well, I don’t suppose a few minutes delay…’ Jerry said before the Chief interrupted.

‘Can you give me one good reason that isn’t emotive?’ the Chief asked.

‘Well…’ Jerry thought for a moment. ‘I suppose it would be beneficial for us to have two men on the ground who could report on the missile strikes. Professional men who had witnessed such things before and who could, should the need arise, undertake any action that might be required in the event of anything transpiring, which we may not have foreseen but which we would very much like tidied up.’

‘…tidied up,’ the Chief repeated positively.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Claudia agreed eagerly.

‘Captain Harding, are you still there?’ the Chief said directing his voice at the phone on the table.

‘Yes, Duke, I’m still here,’ said Harding’s voice.

‘Can the aircraft circle for five more minutes?’ The Chief heard Harding confirm the request with the officer in charge.

‘Yes, we can do that,’ Harding said. The Chief looked at his wristwatch and then locked eyes with Claudia.

‘He’s got five minutes,’ the Chief said. ‘But after five minutes I’m firing the missiles.’

The ninety seconds felt like a long time. Given the circumstances in which we waited five seconds would have felt like a long time. Cakes held his discipline throughout. We listened for footsteps or any other indication someone was approaching, but the only sound we heard floated through the archway from the social gathering below. The murmurs were light and untroubled.

‘Hayes, you’ve got five minutes and that’s all,’ Claudia said. I checked my wristwatch. ‘After five minutes the Chief is going to fire the missiles no matter what.’

‘Try to persuade him not to,’ I said. ‘After we get Magda out Cakes and I can probably kill Al Bousefi without the need for any innocent people to die.’

‘I’m sorry about Mick,’ Claudia said. ‘Hayes, I’ll try, but make sure you’re out of the building and far enough clear before the five minutes is up, please.’ Without making any promises, I ended the call.

‘We’ve got five minutes to grab Magda and get out. Let’s get her,’ I said to Cakes while moving quickly to the galleried walkway. I looked down at the middle rug and then I searched the tables and the other rugs.
Where is she?
The realisation hit me like a heavyweight punch to the gut. Magda was gone.

Seated on the rug surrounded by other women and their children Magda did her best to fight the despair that manifested itself like a swimmer faced with ever-bigger waves and a vanishing shoreline that had become impossible to reach. She reminded herself of the positive aspects to her circumstances. Her father and brother were safe and she would see them often. Her husband was highly regarded and successful. He would provide well for her and her children. It was the fear he instilled that was impossible to ignore. It coiled inside her stomach like a snake that bared cruel and poisonous fangs.

‘Come with me.’ Magda shivered. Suleiman’s voice was hard in her ear. Managing resolutely to keep the trepidation from her face Magda looked up. His hand gripped under her arm and pulled her to her feet. Magda grimaced and stifled a cry. The other women watched silently.

‘Where are you taking me?’ Magda asked. Her voice was nervous and she struggled to stop the anxious tremor. Her question went unanswered. He led her away through the arch with his hand still gripping her arm and the gloomy corridor cast shadows like the screams of silent devils. He strode purposefully and pulled her to keep up. Magda saw the guards in the big entrance hall and after she had walked past on fast tiptoes realised to where Suleiman was taking her.

‘No, please, not again.’

Suleiman closed the heavy wooden door behind them and locked it. The underground room was exactly as Magda remembered. The thick candles still cast a warm light around the walls that never quite reached the corners and the ceiling ring still hung impassive and cold above the stained flagstones like the meat hook in a slaughterhouse.
What torment must I endure?

Suleiman released Magda’s arm and they stood to face each other. Despite her apprehension, Magda held his dark eyes with an expression fearless and resolute.
I am brave and strong
.

Raising his arm Suleiman pushed the expensive material away from her head and grasped a handful of his wife’s thick hair. He gripped forcibly and using his strong arm turned her pale face upwards close to his own. Magda looked into the cruel face tempered by the anticipation of carnality. The tightness of the grip caused her to gasp. Suleiman grinned with taut lips pulled over bared teeth and his harsh eyes glinted coldly in the candlelight.

‘Take off your clothes,’ he said and released his grip. Magda stepped back.
There is no escape.
The fabric left her skin in folds of lustre as if the dress resented leaving her body. A provocative wiggle that Magda did her best to limit was necessary before the garment pooled around her feet.

‘Remove everything,’ he said. Quickly and without fuss Magda discarded her underwear and stood naked and self-conscious. Suleiman stared at her body with eyes that widened.

‘Turn all the way around,’ he said. She spun on bare toes. ‘Do it again, slowly.’ She did it. ‘Now, do it with your hands held together above your head.’ The action of raising her hands lifted her breasts. She turned as ordered. Suleiman stepped closer and his hands went to her body. His touch was the same. In some way, it felt familiar and Magda reviled at the feeling it produced and the way in which her body responded. He lowered his face until it almost touched and then he tasted her skin. Magda squirmed and lowered her arms.

‘No, keep your arms up,’ he said. His authoritative gaze was certain. She raised them again and in the slight turn candlelight flickered yellow over her armpit. Something caught his eye and he raised himself up. ‘Move over to the ring.’

‘No, please, not that.’ Suleiman retrieved the rope from the floor.

‘Hold out your hands,’ he said. After tying together her wrists, he stood on the footstool, threaded the rope through the iron ring and then pulled until Magda stretched out like a sleepy cat in the sun.

Bringing across a candle that flickered with displeasure, Suleiman held up the flame and examined Magda closely. His fingers pressed against the skin under her arm. Magda winced and twisted against the rope.

‘Keep still,’ he said and pressed again. ‘What’s this?’

‘What?’ Magda said.

‘You have something hard under your skin.’ The knife appeared in his hand with the practised skill of a conjurer. Curved and sharp pointed the blade caught the candlelight like the dancing wings of a mayfly.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Hold still,’ he said and strongly gripped her arm.

‘Ouch!’ The stinging cut from the sharp blade was painful. Magda’s blood ran freely from the incision and then dripped from her skin and pattered like raindrops onto the flagstone below. Suleiman held up his bloody prize wet between fingers for the candle to illuminate. He studied it intensely and then scowled at Magda.

‘What is this?’ he said.

Moha swallowed a mouthful of warm orange drink and nodded in response to the cheerful words spoken by Imam Ahmad. Moha’s father, Mahmoud, then spoke in response and again Moha nodded. The imam was good company. He was guileless and wise. Even so, it was hard for Moha to concentrate on the conversation. He looked at his wristwatch and knew it would not be much longer.

The certainty of belief in what Moha was doing countered the apprehension he felt. Suleiman Al Bousefi, the man who would be king, was a bully and a dictator in waiting. The espionage work, testing and dangerous, was something about which Moha could feel pride. The removal of Al Bousefi was a good thing. Moha knew that his father would not agree. One day, Moha hoped, his father would understand. He glanced at his pater and saw that his greying beard had captured some unruly breadcrumbs. Moha loved his father, but he loved Libya just as much. The room was busy with chatter and the enjoyment of food. Such men, men of a likeminded group, relax and talk freely when they come together and eat a good meal on an occasion of social cohesion. Despite his youth, Moha understood how such things worked. The imam was talking again and Moha looked up. The responsive jolt was unexpected. Moha kept it from his face, but he felt it keenly in his stomach. The place at the head, the place where Suleiman had been sitting, was empty.
Where had he gone?

‘Mr. Al Bousefi has left his place,’ Moha said. Both Imam Ahmad and Mahmoud looked over to where Al Bousefi had been sitting.

‘Yes, Moha, you are right,’ Imam Ahmad said.

‘Where has he gone?’

‘Perhaps the attraction of his new wife is too great for him to resist any longer,’ Mahmoud said. The imam nodded reflectively.

‘Magda is an attractive young wife,’ he said. These observations did not help the feeling of unease that had descended and brought a worry to the young spy.

‘Could he have left the building?’ Moha asked.

‘I do not think so,’ Mahmoud said. ‘But, with a man such as Suleiman, one never knows. He does not always think like other men.’

If the British soldiers came and did not find Al Bousefi.
The thought weighed down on Moha and his unease worsened.

The empty space on the rug where Magda had been sitting looked like a sports field after the game had long finished. The word
lucky
was not in my head any longer. I had replaced it with another word that described the change in circumstances much more accurately.

‘She can’t have gone far,’ I said.

‘We’ve got less than five minutes.’

‘Then we need to hurry. Come on. Let’s find her,’ I said. Dressed as we were we could move around with reasonable anonymity provided we remained silent and were not approached or challenged.

Abandoning our stealthy approach, Cakes and I hastily descended the steps and scoured the room, but Magda was definitely missing. None of the children took any notice of our presence. Some of the women did, but each of them turned sharply away not wanting to attract our attention.

‘Which way did she go?’ Cakes whispered. We had the choice of two exits. Both were open archways.

‘Pick one,’ I said quietly. While Cakes chose, I spoke in a soft voice to Muntasser through the CDL. ‘There’s a change of plan. London has a drone aircraft flying overhead and they plan to fire missiles and blow up the buildings. Come and get us now. Be ready to leave in a hurry.’

‘When are they firing the missiles?’

‘Once we get clear. Wait for us by the Hilux technical, and keep the engine running.’

‘This one,’ Cakes whispered and led us through the archway with minimal care. It took us into a gloomy corridor with a closed door, which we left untouched and then an open door, which was a kitchen in which three women worked. None of them was Magda. The corridor turned and a wider archway opened into a vast room filled with men having a meal.

‘Magda’s unlikely to be in there,’ I breathed. We hurried past unnoticed and then stopped. Ahead, the corridor ended and beyond was a large, open area full of guards. In the opposite wall, I saw a narrow archway that led into a dark passageway. We kept tight against the wall.

‘How many guards are there?’ Cakes asked in my ear. I stole another glance. This time, I saw further. There were enough guards to make a football team with some left over in the case of injury.

‘Too many,’ I said. ‘It looks like it’s the main entrance leading out to the courtyard.’

‘We better go back,’ Cakes said. I looked again at the dark passageway and wondered to where it led. ‘If we don’t get out in the next three minutes those Brimstone missiles are going to turn us into treacle.’ He was right. I used my phone to call Claudia.