Bonfire by Mark Arundel Page A

knew it. I thought about Magda and wondered if she was still alive. Abandoning her was not something I was yet ready to do. ‘I want to question him,’ I said. ‘Cakes, why do you want to rush home? Do you have a new woman waiting?’ Mick laughed.
    ‘All right, let’s question him,’ Cakes said. ‘Do you speak Arabic?’
    ‘Find a quiet spot,’ I said and then looked into the eyes of the bomber and wondered how prepared he was to die.
    While Cakes found a deserted piece of land behind an empty, falling down building away from any built-up area I tried again to speak to Lombroso. The phone rang, but as before the call went unanswered.
    ‘Mick, how’s that tracker system looking?’ I said.
    ‘The signal that’s needed between the software and the satellite is working, but for some reason, the software isn’t processing the data.’
    ‘What’s the cause?’ I said.
    ‘It’s probably a bug.’
    ‘How can it work one minute and then stop working the next?’
    ‘There must be a clash between the tracker software and the hardware in our phones. I’ll keep working on it.’ Mick said.
    Cakes stopped the car against a large expanse of wall away from any doors or windows on a flat stretch of open land with a view of nothing except the blue sky. We were far enough from the road and hidden from sight that nobody would disturb us.
    The bomber was timid. He weakly accepted me pulling him unsympathetically from the backseat and throwing him down onto the hard ground. Both his hands went to the bloodied, damaged leg and pain lines creased his face around eyes screwed tight.
    Mick stood on the other side. Cakes remained in the driver’s seat and watched through the open window.
    ‘Do you speak English?’ I said. The man stared at me blankly and then said something in Arabic.
    ‘Kill him and let’s go,’ Cakes said. I kicked the injured leg and the man screamed.
    ‘Do you speak English?’ I repeated. Again, the man spoke in Arabic and held his leg protectively with both hands. Cakes sighed.
    ‘Parlez-vous français?’ I asked. As ex-legionnaires, we each spoke French. This time, Cakes snorted. ‘If Mahmoud al-Barouni told Suleiman Al Bousefi about us and about Magda then it’s likely this man is a member of the same extremist group,’ I said. ‘They knew the police would visit the al-Barouni home looking for Moha so they parked a van with a bomb outside and left this man to set it off and kill as many as possible.’
    ‘Why would al-Barouni blow-up his own home?’ Cakes said.
    ‘He may not have known about it,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he was at home. Al Bousefi may have wanted rid of him. We don’t know the relationship.’
    Cakes remained silent. I could tell he accepted the argument.
    ‘If you’re right,’ Mick said, ‘then this man probably knows where Magda is.’
    ‘Yes, probably, but how do we get him to tell us?’
    ‘We need a translator.’
    My choice was between Nasser Jbara and Jamaal Jbara. I chose Jamaal and called his number. He answered immediately.
    ‘Yes, it is Jamaal,’ he said. His voice was eager, apprehensive and young.
    ‘This is Hayes,’ I said.
    ‘Yes, Mr. Hayes, have you found my sister?’
    ‘No,’ I said.
    ‘You need my help,’ Jamaal said. ‘What do you need? Tell me, Mr. Hayes.’
    ‘Jamaal, I have a man here who only speaks Arabic,’ I said.
    ‘You need me to translate,’ Jamaal said. He was eager and he wanted very much to help.
    ‘Yes. I believe this man is a member of the group that has taken Magda and that he knows where she is,’ I said. ‘I want you to tell him that unless he tells us I will kill him. Jamaal, do you understand?’ The reason I chose Jamaal over his father, Nasser, was that I hoped Jamaal’s ethics about killing a man would be more ambivalent.
    ‘Will you really kill this man?’
    ‘Yes, I will.’
    ‘I will tell him what you say,’ Jamaal said.
    ‘Jamaal, I’m going to make the phone into a loudspeaker so we can all hear.’