Bonfire by Mark Arundel

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