Bonfire (7 page)

The reason I went down and almost lost consciousness was that a bullet had struck my torso on the left side below the breastplate and bottom rib. Despite the ballistics vest, which undoubtedly saved my life, it felt like someone had hit me with a hard-faced ball-peen hammer. I wished I could manage without breathing for a few hours. I swallowed three painkillers and hoped they would quickly take effect.

After driving fast through the city for several miles, Mick found a secure place that seemed deserted. He stopped behind an unused warehouse.

All three of us looked at the dead body of our friend. He must have died from cardiac arrest caused by the massive blood loss. The flying object that struck his neck had obviously severed an artery. Without immediate medical treatment by a surgeon or a doctor who knew how to stop the bleeding Banksy was never going to survive. We had all seen comrades die. I had seen many. For a while, none of us spoke. Cakes broke the silence.

‘As covert missions go this one stinks,’ he said. He was right. ‘Who set us up?’ None of us knew the answer.

‘I’ll call London,’ I said.

‘Yes, call London,’ Cakes said and then gave a personal message that he wanted me to pass on. He voiced how we each felt.

Jerry Lombroso answered the call in his confident, dependable manner. I fought to keep my temper.

‘Suleiman Al Bousefi didn’t show,’ I said, ‘but twenty guys with assault rifles did.’

‘What happened?’ Jerry asked.

‘We got away, but Banks is dead,’ I said. Jerry took a deep breath and then fell silent. ‘You told me the intelligence was good and that the operation was secured.’

‘Yes, that was my belief,’ he said. ‘Through our Libyan network, their connections assured us…’ I interrupted him.

‘Well, assurances or not something went wrong,’ I said.

‘Yes, so it would seem. It’s unfortunate. We really wanted the “Al Bousefi” problem to go away.’ Jerry paused. ‘I’m sorry about Banks,’ he said.

‘We’re going to bring him back with us,’ I said.

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Jerry replied.

‘We can rendezvous with the helicopter at the agreed point in forty-five minutes,’ I said. ‘Can you have it there in forty-five minutes?’

‘The Wildcat is sitting on the ship awaiting instructions,’ Jerry said. ‘Forty-five minutes is not a problem.’

‘We’ll collect Magda on the way,’ I said.

‘At least that part of the mission was a success,’ Jerry said. I ended the call.

‘It’s all set. Let’s get Magda and then get to the rendezvous point,’ I said.

Mick continued to drive. Cakes sat in the front and navigated. Banksy and I were together in the back. It gave me a chance to remember and to say goodbye. It gave me time, also, to question whether I could have seen the man with the RPG sooner. Could I have prevented him from firing? Conjecture, I realised, was pointless. It always is. So, too, is remorse.

I began to wonder how Suleiman Al Bousefi had found out about us. Someone must have told him. I wondered who that someone was. As the mission was over and that in under an hour a Wildcat helicopter would be flying us over the Med away from Libya to an awaiting ship I decided not to think any more about it.

‘How far out are we?’ I said.

‘…less than a mile,’ Cakes said.

‘Hayes, even though we didn’t get this Al Bousefi character we still get paid, right?’ Mick asked.

‘…right. Provided we returned Moha alive to his father and got Magda to her father’s house the deal was payment with or without killing Al Bousefi.’

‘Good,’ Cakes said and then paused. ‘What happens to Banksy’s share?’

‘You know the code,’ I said. ‘We divide his share equally between the three of us.’

‘What are we going to do with his body?’

‘We’ll take it with us to the ship. They’ll give him a naval burial-at-sea,’ I said.

‘This is the street,’ Mick said. It was easy to recognise from the trees and the walls. They had a distinctive North African charm. Mick pulled up outside the house.

‘Wait here while I get her,’ I said.

Nobody inside the house responded to the intercom buzzer on the wall and then I noticed the heavy wooden gate was ajar. Mick and Cakes were watching me through the open driver’s door window.

‘Mick, stay with the car. Cakes, you take a look round the back, see if you can get in that way.’

The Glock pistol was in my waistband beneath the djellaba, which now sported an eye-catching bullet hole. The blood of my dead friend completed the look. I fitted the suppressor, chambered a round and then went carefully through the open gate.

Ahead, the front door was open. I walked up to it, looked inside and listened… silence. Carrying the Glock two-handed and raised, I entered slowly. The rooms were quiet and empty. At the back, I found a room bright with natural light. Through the open, outside door the sun’s rays fell across a chair like an honoured guest.

Seated in one of the other chairs was Nasser Jbara, Magda’s father. A young man stood close beside him.

Aiming the Glock, I stepped forward. My feet were soundless. Nevertheless, the young man turned his head. He was fast. Two or three rapid steps and he had reached me. His speed was fortunate or I might have shot him. Using both hands, he tried to grab my arms. With one-step, I turned away and using my free hand grasped his closest wrist and pulled hard. To the sound of Nasser’s voice saying, ‘Jamaal, no,’ I sent him tumbling to the floor. He was just as fast to get up. Nasser shouted again. The young man stopped and stared.

‘Jamaal, this is one of the men that brought your sister,’ Nasser said.

Cakes appeared in the open doorway. I motioned with my hand and he lowered the LMG.

Nasser had an injury to his face. A solid object had connected painfully with his cheek, nose and eye. His bruised and swollen features stared back at me. The gash below his eye was going to scar.

‘Where’s Magda?’ I said. Despite the misshapen face, Nasser’s expression was easy to read.

‘Two men came…’ Nasser said. I interrupted him.

‘…when?’

‘…twenty minutes ago, perhaps longer,’ he said.

‘Did you recognise them?’

‘No, they covered their faces. It happened before I could…’ He stopped unable to speak the words. Jamaal went to his father and put an arm around him.

The emotion I felt was anger. Not only had someone set
us
up, but someone had set up Magda, too.

‘Who’s taken her? Do you know?’

‘Extremists, fanatics… I don’t know,’ Nasser said. His face contorted with desperation and despair. ‘Can you find her? Can you save her?’ He lifted his head and focused. ‘You are hurt,’ he said.

‘No, it’s not my blood,’ I said.

Earlier, in the car, I had not thought it necessary to discover who had betrayed us. I had considered the mission over. Making the rendezvous with the Wildcat was my only concern. Now, with the desperate face of Nasser Jbara waiting for an answer to the question of whether I could save the life of his daughter, I was not so sure. Nasser and Jamaal would have to wait. Using the satellite phone, I called Jerry Lombroso.

‘We’ve got a problem,’ I said. ‘Two men came to the Jbara house. They’ve taken Magda.’ Jerry breathed in and then went quiet.

‘Oh,’ he said eventually. ‘I see.’

To avoid Nasser and Jamaal hearing I walked past Cakes and went outside.

‘What intelligence do you have?’ I said. ‘I didn’t push it before because I thought the mission was over, but now if you want her back you’re going to have to come up with something good.’

‘…want her back,’ Jerry said repeating my words.

‘Yes. Nasser is not going to write a constitution and help you get a political agreement with all the tribal groups if the extremists murder his daughter and then stick it on YouTube,’ I said.

‘Well, he may do. Grief can sometimes produce unlikely behaviour,’ Jerry said. ‘Perhaps it could make him more determined to effect change inside in his broken country.’ Having seen the expression on Nasser Jbara’s face only seconds earlier, I thought Jerry’s hope was not very likely.

‘Distant hills look green,’ I said.

‘What?’ Jerry said.

‘I don’t know if you’re a gambler or an optimist,’ I said.

‘I’m neither,’ Jerry replied. If losing Magda concerned Jerry Lombroso, his voice hid it well.

‘I still get the money, right?’ I said.

‘You do,’ Jerry said. I had the feeling Jerry knew something important.

‘Is the Chief with you?’ I asked.

‘No, no, he’s not,’ Jerry replied.

‘I want to speak to him,’ I said. There was a pause. I could hear the cogs turning inside Jerry’s head.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask him to call you.’

‘Hold off on the Wildcat until I’ve spoken to him,’ I said.

‘All right, if you’re sure,’ Jerry said.

‘The tracker implants,’ I said. ‘Are you monitoring them?’

‘No, no, I’m not,’ he replied.

‘Before the Chief calls me, find out Magda’s location and whether her heart is still beating,’ I said. ‘Can I track the implant signals from this phone?’

‘You can, but you’ll need the software,’ Jerry said.

‘Can you upload the software to my phone?’

‘I’ll look into it,’ Jerry said.

‘Do it quickly,’ I said. I ended the call and then wondered what it was that Jerry was not saying.

The head of British SIS [
SIS: secret intelligence service
] watched Jerry Lombroso lower the phone from an ear that looked decidedly pink and waited for him to speak.

The Islamic extremists have taken Magda from her father’s house,’ Jerry said. The Chief joined his hands together by linking the fingers as if in prayer. He even closed his eyes. Jerry watched him. The seconds passed. Jerry thought about his wife shopping in Knightsbridge. He wondered how much money she would spend. The Chief opened his eyes and looked up. ‘Hayes wants you to call him,’ Jerry said. ‘And he wants us to upload the software to his phone so he can trace the signals from tracker implants.’

‘Did he ask about his money?’

‘Yes, he did,’ Jerry replied.

‘Even the best mercenaries are still mercenaries,’ the Chief said. ‘Legionnaires who grew up in Belfast and can never go back only have allegiance to one thing.’ Jerry wondered if that was true. He kept quiet on the subject.

The Chief looked at the screen. Using his fingers, he enlarged the map. The coloured dots flashed. He spoke without looking up. ‘Jerry, do you know what the intelligence service considers are the most and least important attribute?’

‘No, I don’t,’ Jerry said.

‘Trust,’ the Chief said. ‘The most and least important attribute of a good intelligence service is
trust
. Trust is both everything and nothing. Only by testing can one discover which.’ Jerry decided not to comment. ‘Jerry, never trust someone who doesn’t have anything to lose. A desperate person will promise the earth.’