Bonfire (33 page)

‘From the crest of this rise we should have a view of where they are,’ Aksil said. Muntasser accelerated.

The Range Rover sped over the crest with the same determination as a downhill ski racer and Aksil bounced in the passenger seat. He realigned the scope against his eye and then focused.

‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘Quickly, you must stop.’ The respect and trust that Muntasser had for the Berber were unquestioning. Without hesitation, his foot stamped the brake and his hands gripped tightly as he brought the big 4x4 to a dramatic standstill. The passenger door was already open. Aksil leapt from his seat, pushed the door forward, leant through the open window, hurried the stock to his shoulder and placed his eye to the scope.

Not wanting to go back down into the tunnel and with Cakes’ body weight increasing by the second I peered out through the trapdoor into the greying hollow and listened. For a moment, I thought I heard the distant murmur of the Range Rover’s engine, but my delirious, weakened state was making me hallucinate because, actually, the sound was the call from a bird flying overhead.

Knowing that my legs would give out any second I pushed open the trapdoor, staggered up the final steps, took a pace or two forward and then dropped to my knees. Cakes slipped from my shoulder and I laid him beside me on the ground.

The blackness of debilitating fatigue threatened all conscious thought and nearly robbed me of my eyesight. Only the sound that came from my left stopped me from passing out. It was the voice of a man. Struggling to remain upright on my knees, I turned my head and fought against the blackness. The man was Al Bousefi. He spoke again, but his Arabic words meant nothing to me. At the end of two straight arms, he carried a pistol and he aimed it at my head. He stepped slowly closer. He had waited for me. He had hidden silently and waited. Behind him in the shadows, I saw Magda. She was gagged and hogtied. Her black, crestfallen eyes held my face, desperate and sorry.

Despite my impossible position, I still wondered where he had gotten the pistol and the rope. He must have had a nearby cache or hidden vehicle. After all, we were at the end of a secret escape tunnel. None of this reflection consoled me very much.

Al Bousefi stopped far enough away for safety, but near enough to ensure his shot hit its target. His expression contorted into a murderous rage, which on a face such as his was a slight improvement. For some reason, I thought of Belfast and my boyhood. Dying in my hometown would have been my choice, but it was not to be. If an afterlife did exist then perhaps, one day, I would see the city again. The look I saw I had seen in the eyes of men before. Al Bousefi was about to kill me. When the shot came, it confused me. My muddled brain took a few seconds to understand what had happened. Blankly I stared at the man lying on the ground in front of me with a hole in his head the size of an orange and, finally, understood that someone had shot and killed Al Bousefi. The realisation that this had happened at the same moment he was about to kill me did not escape me. The final thought I had before I blacked out was a person. That person was Aksil.

Muntasser stood over the dead body of Suleiman Al Bousefi and kicked it contemptuously with the sole of his boot.

‘Are they dead?’ he asked looking over at Aksil who knelt beside the two men whose lifeless bodies laid side-by-side.

‘Hayes is still breathing, but I think Cakes may be dead,’ Aksil replied.

‘Put them both inside the vehicle, quickly,’ Muntasser said. ‘We must not stay here long.’ Although he knew Magda was there only now did Muntasser walk over to her. He bent down and removed her gag. ‘What is your name?’ he asked.

‘My name is Magda Jbara,’ she said. Muntasser acknowledged the answer with a nod. From his belt, he pulled a large knife and cut Magda free.

‘You will come with us,’ he said. ‘Get in the vehicle.’

Sixty seconds later Aksil drove them away north. Sitting in the passenger seat Muntasser interrogated the phone he had taken from Hayes’ pocket. He did this one-handed. With the other, he found his unsmoked cigar and stuck it between his lips. ‘Get back to the road quickly but leave the lights off for as long as you can,’ he said to Aksil. The phone was easier to use than he had expected. A man answered the call immediately. ‘My name is Wahbi Muntasser. I am the Tripoli police chief. Who are you?’

‘Oh, yes, Wahbi Muntasser. We know who you are. My name is Jerry.’

‘Do you know why I am calling?’ Muntasser asked.

‘Yes, I do,’ Jerry said.

‘Good. What do you want to do?’

‘We are sending a helicopter to meet you. I will send the landing coordinates to this phone and that will provide you with the location,’ Jerry explained.

‘Yes, all right,’ Muntasser said. ‘We will meet the helicopter. Make sure it has a doctor and blood for Hayes. He may still live.’

‘Yes, of course, we have arranged for all that,’ Jerry said. ‘I have a question.’

‘What is your question?’

‘Can you confirm the death of Suleiman Al Bousefi?’ Jerry asked.

‘Yes, he is dead,’ Muntasser said.

‘How did he die?’

‘He was shot in the head.’

‘Who shot him?’

‘It was a long-range shot by one of my men,’ Muntasser said.

‘Is that man’s name Aksil?’ Jerry asked. Muntasser was not surprised he knew.

‘Yes, Aksil killed Al Bousefi.’

‘Tell Aksil
thank-you
from British Intelligence,’ Jerry said.

‘I will tell him.’

‘And thank-you, too,’ Jerry said.

The British were so very polite, Muntasser thought. ‘You are welcome,’ he said.

When I came round my mind questioned whether my body was alive or dead. The inside of my mouth gave me the answer. It felt like two-week old flypaper. I was alive.

Once my blurred vision cleared, I saw the relieved face of Magda staring down at me. Her smile combined gladness with reticence.

‘We are aboard a Royal Navy ship,’ she said. ‘I will tell the doctor you are awake.’

I grabbed her wrist. ‘Is Cakes alive?’ I asked. Magda’s eyes shaded and she shook her head. It felt like a punch to the stomach before you have time to tighten your muscles. I released her wrist and she left.

The navy doctor combined formality with light-heartedness. ‘The bullet went straight through,’ he said. ‘It missed everything, everything important, that is. It entered above the pelvis and came out through your lower back after passing just below your kidney. You were wearing a bulletproof vest, of course, which accounts for the extensive bruising to your upper body. I would say at least three other bullets hit you. The biggest concern was your loss of blood, but once we turned on the tap and filled you up again the outlook soon improved.’

Captain Harding reminded me of the Chief but without the ruthless sense of purpose. His straightforward manner made the situation easier.

‘London has suggested we give John Kipling and Michael Duggan burials at sea,’ he said. ‘Do you have any objection?’ I shook my head. ‘Did either of them hold any strong religious beliefs?’ Again, I shook my head. ‘All right, I’ll make the arrangements. He passed me my phone. ‘London wants you to call,’ he said.

Once Harding had left, Magda returned. Her smile was more positive. ‘My father and brother have asked me to tell you of the gratitude and respect they have for what you have done. They are in your debt. My father wanted you to know he has buried your friend and that he is sorry for the pain he knows you must feel.’

After Magda left, I called Claudia.

‘How do you feel?’ she asked.

‘My three friends are dead,’ I replied.

Claudia breathed deeply.

‘Had you not done what you did the Chief would have fired those missiles. You and your friends saved the lives of many people, among them Magda and Moha.’

‘Yes, I know,’ I said, ‘but my friends are still dead.’

Hayes returns in
Spitfire

Subscribe
at
https://markarundel.wordpress.com/
and be the first to hear all Mark’s latest news.

Codename: Moneyman [File no. 1]

File no.1 in the
Codename File
series is the action-packed, thrilling story of one elite super-soldier who must uncover international espionage or die trying… Can he find the spy planted in the very heart of London?

Codename: Casanova [File no. 2]

File no. 2 in the
Codename File
series sees the elite soldier undertake a deadly mission for his new employer, Bartholomew Meriwether, which forces him to work with an elite super-assassin.

Codename: Santiago [File no. 3]

File no. 3 in the
Codename File
series sees the elite soldier visit Rio de Janeiro on holiday where he anticipates sightseeing, chilled drinks by the pool and bikini-appreciation on Ipanema beach. Unfortunately, his employer, Bartholomew Meriwether, has other ideas. With action, intrigue and suspense soon at a pace to worry Ferrari the "holiday" becomes a deadly race that only stops when someone passes the chequered flag or waves a white one. Buckle up tight.