Bonfire (8 page)

‘You told me we could trust Hayes,’ Jerry said.

‘Yes, I did and we can trust him,’ the Chief said. ‘We can trust him to achieve our objective.’

‘…the elimination of Suleiman Al Bousefi,’ Jerry said.

‘Yes, the elimination of Suleiman Al Bousefi,’ the Chief repeated.

There was a pause.

‘Shall I have the software uploaded to Hayes’ phone?’ Jerry asked.

‘Let me talk to him,’ the Chief said.

‘When will that be?’

‘Oh, soon,’ the Chief said. ‘I just need to think for a short while.’ The Chief put his hands together again and then closed his eyes.

Jerry looked at his wristwatch and then at the tracker dots on the screen. He thought about Hayes and noted that Magda’s heart was beating faster.

Cakes had an expression that Mick and I had seen before. It made his forehead overhang so that his eyes almost disappeared. The single line of his mouth was set as if a stonemason had carved it with a hammer and chisel.

From behind the wheel of the Ford, Mick leant through the open window and looked up at us. Cakes and I were standing on either side. In the empty sky, directly overhead, the sun added a shadow that enhanced the dramatic expression. Mick and I waited for Cakes to speak. ‘The job’s over,’ he said. ‘We still get paid. It’s time to leave.’

Each of us had witnessed the slaughterhouse of war. Why take unnecessary risks for the life of one young woman? A young woman we hardly knew. Cakes had made up his mind. Trying to change it based on an appeal to save a life was pointless. Exposure to constant death hardens the soul, unlike any other experience. If I remained silent any longer, Mick was going to agree with Cakes and then Magda was on her own.

‘Why did British Intelligence employ us for this job?’ I said. It was all I could think of to say.

‘They needed professionals to spring Moha and then kill Al Bousefi,’ Mick said.

‘That’s right. So, why did we have to bring Magda?’ From the very beginning, something had bothered me about the mission. Now, as I voiced the question I realised bringing Magda was part of that unease.

‘They wanted to pass a message to Nasser Jbara,’ Mick said. Cakes listened silently. ‘His daughter was to reinforce that message.’

‘That’s a separate job.’ I said. ‘…a job that anyone could have done. Why choose us? Why make it part of the mission to free Moha and kill Al Bousefi?’

‘It’s as you said. We were coming anyway,’ Mick said. I tried to think of an answer. It was then that the scowl lifted and Cakes spoke.

‘Moha knew Magda was here and Mahmoud, Moha’s father, told us where to find Suleiman Al Bousefi,’ Cakes said. ‘There’s a link between the set-ups: ours and Magda’s. That link is Moha and Mahmoud al-Barouni.

‘That’s right,’ Mick said. ‘The group that ambushed us was probably the same group that took Magda. They could have got their information from Mahmoud al-Barouni.’

‘It’s not far. Maybe we’ve got time to pay him a visit,’ Cakes said.

Jamaal Jbara, Magda’s brother, appeared in the gateway. ‘Will you help us?’ he asked. He was desperate to know our decision.

‘I’ll come inside and speak to you and your father in a moment,’ I said. He turned away and went back inside the house. The likelihood of finding Moha or his father, Mahmoud, at home, given that he had just escaped a firing squad was highly doubtful, but I kept that view to myself.

‘Are we agreed on a visit to see al-Barouni?’ I said. Mick and Cakes both nodded.

I left them and went inside the house. Nasser and Jamaal were together in the sunny room.

‘You recognised Moha Hassan al-Barouni,’ I said. ‘Do you know his father, Mahmoud?’

‘Yes, I know him,’ Nasser said.

‘Is he an extremist?’

‘No. He is a committed Muslim, yes, but not an extremist.’

‘Does he know any extremist groups?’ I said. Nasser shrugged.

‘Everyone knows these groups,’ he said. ‘Perhaps Mahmoud knows some of these people through his mosque.’

‘Would he ever work together with them?’ I said. Nasser’s eyes met mine and held them.

‘To save your son would you not meet with the devil himself?’ he said. I found myself unable to think of an answer. Unlike Mahmoud al-Barouni, I did not have a son. I asked another question.

‘Do you have an underground room like a cellar?’

‘Yes, we do,’ Nasser said.

‘I have a dead man in the car,’ I said. ‘Can I leave him with you in your cellar?’ Nasser considered for a moment.

‘Yes, you can leave the body here,’ he said.

‘I plan to come back for him,’ I said, ‘but if I don’t make it back then will you see he is buried?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Nasser said.

‘Give me your phone number,’ I said. Nasser read out the number and I entered it into my phone. ‘I’ll call you.’ I said.

‘Can you save her?’ Nasser asked. ‘Can you save Magda?’ To answer that question was impossible. To give false hope was unkind.

‘I’ll call,’ I said again.

‘I want to come with you,’ Jamaal said. His voice was emotional and his eyes were full of determination. I shook my head.

‘Your father needs you here with him, by his side,’ I said. The passion in Jamaal’s eyes changed.

‘At least take my phone number,’ he said. ‘If I can help… Remember, I am young and clever and I speak Arabic. You may have need of me.’ Jamaal told me his number and I entered it into my phone.

Outside, Cakes and Mick were waiting. Mick was still in the driver’s seat. I spoke to Cakes. ‘Help me carry Banksy inside. We’ll leave him here in their cellar and collect him on the way back.’

The stone steps that led to the cellar were narrow and turned back on themselves. We carried the body of our dead friend carefully and laid him out on the cold, sandstone floor.

As we left, Nasser spoke and Jamaal stood alongside and listened.

‘I pray you will find my daughter and return her safely to Britain,’ he said. Neither of us responded. Nasser’s eyes were wet. ‘Inshallah,’ he said.

Cakes and I got into the car and Mick drove away.

‘Do you know what “Inshallah” means?’ Cakes asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It means “God willing”.’

The drive to the al-Barouni house was one we had made earlier in the day. I hoped that this time it would pass without incident.

Mick was driving and Cakes was riding shotgun. I was in the backseat with the bloodstains. The painkillers had made breathing more bearable.

‘How do we know she’s still alive?’ Mick said.

‘I’m waiting for the Chief to call me,’ I said. ‘When I spoke to Jerry Lombroso I told him to upload the software to our phones so we can follow the tracker implants. They register a heartbeat.’ As I finished saying the word “heartbeat”, my phone rang. It was the Chief.

‘Hayes, Jerry has informed me of events,’ he said. ‘I’m very sorry to hear about Banks.’ He paused expecting me to speak, but I remained silent. ‘It was a pity Suleiman Al-Bousefi didn’t show.’

‘How do you think he knew about us?’ I said.

‘I really couldn’t say,’ the Chief said. ‘Trust is a fickle mistress.’

‘Is Magda still alive?’ I asked.

‘Yes, her tracker is registering a strong heartbeat.’

‘Is Jerry getting the software uploaded to our phones so we can trace them ourselves?’

‘Yes, I believe he’s working on it as we speak,’ the Chief said.

‘I’m glad you insisted on them,’ I said. ‘You were right. They have come in useful.’

‘Yes, they have,’ he agreed. ‘Hayes, I’m a little confused.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Why aren’t you on your way home?’ It was a good question and one to which I was unsure I had an answer. ‘The job is over. A helicopter is waiting and so, too, is your money. Why are you bothered about what happens to this woman?’

‘Does the reason matter?’ I said. The Chief paused before he responded.

‘As a Zen master might say, “we’ll see”.’ I liked that answer. ‘I’ve just received confirmation that the software upload is complete,’ the Chief said. ‘To access it you will need to use a password. We will send it together with the instructions attached. It’s all very straightforward.’

‘All right, good,’ I said.

‘Hayes, stay in touch,’ the Chief said and then ended the call.

‘Our phones should now have the tracker-software uploaded,’ I said. I entered the package using the password, skimmed through the instructions and then began using the system. The Chief was right. It was straightforward and easy to use. I immediately found Magda’s signal on the map. She was on the outskirts of the city in the east and stationary.

Cakes had done the same. As Mick was driving, he would have to do his later. Cakes studied the screen.

‘She’s not moving,’ he said. ‘Her location is just over six miles east of our current position.’ He looked back at me. ‘Have they reached their final destination or have they just stopped on the way?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

‘I’m still here because I want to avenge the death of Banksy,’ Cakes said. ‘But if you want to save the woman then we should do it now. She’s only six miles away and currently stationary. Mahmoud al-Barouni can wait.’ Silent seconds passed while I considered.

‘Do you want me to turn east?’ Mick asked.

‘Yes, turn east,’ I said. Of course, what Cakes said made sense. However, the prospect of speaking to Mahmoud al-Barouni and learning what he knew before we made our move to free Magda was a hope I found hard to shake off. I told myself, once more, that he was unlikely to be at home.

Cakes and I continued to study the screens and to give Mick directions. ‘Turn left at the end of this road,’ Cakes said.

Magda’s tracker signal showed her location had not changed. She was still stationary. We were less than two miles away.

‘Go straight over at the junction,’ I said. Mick braked hard and then accelerated hard. He was driving fast and we were covering the ground quickly. Traffic was light and the roads were straight and wide.

Ahead, beyond the nearest buildings and towering above them, I saw a minaret. I checked the screen. The tracker was sending its signal from that area. We were near.

‘The signal is coming from the area around that mosque,’ I said and pointed through the windscreen at the minaret.

‘Turn there,’ Cakes said. Mick swung the wheel and the Ford bounced on the rough surface.

We had left the main road and were now driving through narrow streets between low-level houses painted white with small windows and arched doorways.

After several more turns, we came out into a wider area with cobbles and trees. The courtyard had four narrow exits, not including the one along which we had arrived.

The entrance to the mosque was an elaborate, stone archway with heavy double doors. People had parked beneath the trees and along the wall where the shadow fell.

Mick braked to a stop and we all surveyed the area. Two old men sat together in the shade. Other people passed through walking slowly. A man stood by the door of the mosque waiting. Cakes looked up from the phone.

‘I’ve lost the signal,’ he said. ‘It’s gone from the screen. The connection must have failed.’ I checked the screen. He was right. My connection had dropped, as well.

‘Mick, is it the satellite?’ I said.

‘Unlikely,’ he said. ‘It’s a strong system and the satellite connection never drops.’

‘Then what is it?’

‘It could be an override switch.’

‘…manually operated?’ I asked.

‘Yes, or written into the software to trigger if something is breached.’ The screen was still blank.