by Wilbur Smith
‘What’s the deal with these guys?’ asked Xander. ‘They’re crooks, yet they step ashore in broad daylight to a hero’s welcome. They parade us – stolen children – through the streets and nobody gives a damn.’
‘It’s not quite as simple as that,’ said Mo.
‘On one level – the most basic, obvious, incontrovertible one – it definitely is,’ said Amelia.
‘I’m with Amelia on this,’ I said.
‘I’m sure you are,’ said Mo. ‘And don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to defend them. But you have to understand them.’
‘That’s an easy way to overcomplicate things,’ I muttered.
‘Hear him out,’ said Amelia.
‘My country, Somalia, is a difficult place,’ said Mo. ‘For many years there was civil war here, and the fighting continues today. We have attacked ourselves from within, and this has meant we have been unable to defend ourselves properly from outsiders.’
‘Whose problem is that?’ I couldn’t help saying.
‘Right now, it’s yours,’ Mo said quietly, before continuing. ‘But it is also a big problem for all of us, including our fishermen. Without a navy to protect our waters, outsiders took advantage. Big industrial fishing boats from other countries took our fish. This meant fewer fish for us. People on the coast grew poor and went hungry. Many pirates started out as fishermen. With nothing left to catch they put their knowledge of the ocean to other uses.
‘First, they began hijacking foreign fishing vessels, as much to scare others away as to steal the boats and fish. Then they grew bolder and, with the help of ex-soldiers, they started targeting big international cargo ships. The companies who owned them paid ransom monies for the release of their cargo and to free their employees. For a time, the seas here were a virtual no-go area. Soon the international community fought back however, sending warships to patrol the seas. US and Chinese navy boats, fully armed, and willing to shoot and kill. Many pirates died.’
‘My heart bleeds for them,’ said Xander.
‘But in the meantime, you see, the coastal communities had benefited. The pirates spent money ashore; markets thrived. It’s the same the world over: wealth creates wealth, at least locally. Also, since the pirates had scared away the foreign fishing boats, the fish came back, and the seas grew plentiful again.’
I thought of Mum and her environmental crusade. Protecting coral reefs was top of her list, but she was also striving to ensure marine diversity and looking after fish stocks. To think that her efforts were in any way aligned with what the pirates were doing, however inadvertently, by defending their seas, made a sick sort of sense.
Mo went on: ‘With the return of the fish, local fishermen made record catches. They earned money and others did too. People had enough to eat again.’
‘It’s like Robin bloody Hood,’ I said.
‘I do not know this …’ said Mo.
A shot of something close to pleasure went through me: the boy hadn’t heard of everything then.
‘English folk hero,’ said Amelia. ‘Proto-Marxist. Robbed the rich, gave proceeds to the poor, against a backdrop of exploitative taxation.’
‘That’s one way of telling the story,’ muttered Xander.
Mo ignored him and addressed Amelia. ‘Yes, I remember now. The subject of many successful film interpretations. Errol Flynn, Kevin Costner, Russell Crowe, et cetera.’
The pleasure washing through me leaked away. I picked at a scab on my knee to divert myself.
‘Also played by Sean Connery, and, most recently, Taron Egerton,’ Amelia added.
‘Yes, well, think of those films,’ said Mo. ‘The happiness of the poor people when Robin is among them. That’s what it’s like here. Our captors are seen as brave and helpful by the whole community.’
‘Not least their mafia-style bosses,’ said Amelia. ‘Don’t forget them.’
‘I haven’t,’ said Mo. To me and Xander he explained, ‘The men who risk everything to steal boats – small ones these days, since the big ships are so heavily defended – are not acting alone. They have backers. Rich men ashore who put up the money for their fuel and weapons. They expect and receive a big return on their investment. There is even an informal stock exchange selling shares in piracy operations! The pirates themselves only see a slice of the proceeds from their endeavours. Everyone knows this. They are not regarded as greedy thieves, more the defenders of our waters, men prepared to put their lives on the line to help rebuild this country.’
‘By “endeavours” you mean stealing other people’s property, kidnapping children to ransom, and killing innocent civilians,’ I growled.
‘Yes. As I say, it’s complicated. Let me leave you with this. The Somali word for pirate is burcad badeed, which means ocean robber –’
‘Sounds about right,’ I interrupted.
‘Yes, but the pirates themselves refer to what they do as badaadinta badahor, which translates as something like “saviour of the sea”.’
I punctured the silence that followed this little lecture with a snort, but the awkward truth was that Mo’s explanation did make sense of what I’d witnessed that afternoon. These guys had no reason to skulk about. At least not for the most part. Presumably there was somebody responsible for policing this bit of Somalia, but whoever it was obviously didn’t trouble the pirates unduly. They had the support of the locals, that much was clear, and they were relying upon them to keep our location a secret for now.
It was an odd feeling, to think that a whole town was fine with our incarceration. Odd and unpleasant. If I could break us out of this room and run down the street shouting ‘Help!’ I’d likely be gathered up and handed straight back to Barrel-man again. Just as the pirates had used the Indian Ocean as the mother of all moats, they now had the land and everyone in it to contain us. Jumping overboard – for now at least – would be as pointless here as it had been at sea.
26.
They moved us inland the following day, but not before the stunt with the newspapers. I’d been wondering when it – or something like it – would come. Seemed they’d been waiting for a decent internet connection before making their ransom demand.
Mo, listening to the chat coming through the door, warned us what was coming. ‘They’re in no hurry,’ he said. ‘Right now, they allow your families to fear the worst. Then, when they make contact with proof-of-life, it’s as if you’ve come back from the dead. This makes it more likely a big ransom is paid.’
I thought of the message I’d sent Mum and felt more determined than ever that these guys shouldn’t earn a penny from our abduction. Did Xander and Amelia feel the same way though, still? I asked them again.
‘Of course,’ said Amelia straight away.
‘Ideally,’ added Xander.
Amelia immediately pointed out that he was leaving some wriggle room with that word: ‘There’s nothing ideal about the situation.’
‘I’m just not sure my parents will be content to sit back and wait for us to escape. Will yours?’
‘My mum will do whatever Jack’s mum advises,’ she said matter-of-factly.
‘The sooner we make a break for it, the sooner the problem will go away,’ I said, as much to myself as anyone else.
Mo sucked air through his teeth when I said that. ‘You must be careful with these men, on land as well as at sea,’ he said. ‘Be patient.’
‘You would say that,’ I couldn’t help replying.
‘We can’t do much now anyway.’ Xander, ever the diplomat, obviously wanted to head off any argument. He tapped at a breeze block. ‘These are solid walls and that metal door must be an inch thick. We’re not going to break out of here.’
‘They won’t be keeping us here for long,’ said Mo, but immediately and annoyingly doused any spark of optimism by continuing with, ‘However, where we’re going next is just as secure in its own way.’
I pressed my shoulder blades into the solid brick wall, thinking again how beyond them, surrounding us, and
making things worse, were a whole load of people apparently on the pirates’ side.
‘We’re thinking about this the wrong way,’ I said. ‘Breaking out may not be an option, but persuading ourselves out could be.’
‘Persuading?’ said Amelia.
‘Bargaining, negotiating, whatever.’
‘You need something to bargain with for that to work.’
At this Amelia gave me one of her ‘meaningful stares’. They’re not very subtle. I had no idea what she meant by it, and was none the wiser when she gave an equally unsubtle micro-nod in Mo’s direction before repeating the gesture.
What was she on about?
Unable to bear the fact that I hadn’t cottoned on, she couldn’t stop herself from spelling things out. ‘Er, actually, I had one eye on the bargaining power trajectory from the beginning, as I’m sure you guessed.’
‘Trajectory? Guessed?’
‘With the anti-nausea tablets.’
‘Come again?’
‘When Xander was sick I dug out the motion sickness tablets I had in my bag. That didn’t surprise you?’
I shrugged.
‘Well, it should have, possibly because I’ve never suffered from motion sickness: not on the dive boat, not on any plane, and not during any of the million or so car rides we’ve shared since we were small.’
It was true. Neither of us ever gets car sick. We could both happily read a book in the back of Mum’s Mercedes coupe while Mum, who drives pretty fast, raced along twisty country lanes.
‘So, I assumed you’d see through that.’
‘To what?’ said Xander. ‘I was actually sick. You gave me two pills. Not that they helped much.’
‘Sure, but. You really don’t get it, do you?’ she said to me, exasperated.
I shrugged again.
‘The pills were painkillers. Sorry, Xander, but they were. The point is: what else do you think might have been in that packet?’
‘Beats me.’
At that she yanked off her trainer. The look on her face suggested any sane person would know the answer lay within it. In which case I’d have to plead insanity. I leaned forward, hands on my knees. Having given up hope on me she peeled off her trainer sock, turned it inside out, and shook four of the wedding rings we’d found on the seabed into her cupped palm.
I immediately glanced at Mo. He was wide-eyed in the gloom. Seeing that Amelia was reaching for her other trainer I quickly said, ‘Don’t bother, we get the picture.’
‘Could have fooled me,’ she replied, but with a smile.
I realised I was digging with my fingers at the softness running along the edge of my kneecaps, prying at them in my frustration. What was Amelia thinking, showing Mo the jewellery? How had I been so stupid as to let this happen? Already the boy’s expression had changed, his quick surprise replaced with a more deadpan poker face. Valuable jewels, right there in the cell with us: how might he use that information?
‘You don’t seem particularly impressed,’ Amelia said now.
Xander jumped in: ‘Of course we are. With a bit of luck those will come in handy. But –’ he couldn’t keep a playful note out of his voice –‘but why did you bring them to sea in the first place? Wouldn’t they have been safer back in the hotel?’
‘On the balance of probabilities, no,’ said Amelia firmly. ‘Valuables go missing from hotels the whole time. Those safes the hotel provides are unlockable with a master code. They have to be, otherwise daft tourists who forget their passcodes would forever be missing their flights home. It’s hardly surprising stuff gets pinched from rooms every now and then: some of the poorest members of society, cleaning staff and so on, having their noses rubbed in the guests’ excess day in, day out. They can’t really be blamed for falling to such temptation. I mean, who wouldn’t want to redress the balance?’
‘Robin Hood again,’ murmured Mo.
‘And statistically speaking we were unlucky to be accosted by pirates,’ Amelia went on blithely. ‘That was unlucky –’
‘Still is,’ said Xander.
‘Yes, but it doesn’t alter the fact that my answer to your question is correct: probability-wise, the rings were safer with us than they would have been in the hotel. And my decision to bring them also turns out to have been expedient.’ She glanced my way and, very annoyingly clocking that I didn’t know what ‘expedient’ meant, went on: ‘Useful in a practical sense, because they’re more valuable to us as bargaining chips in this situation than they would have been in monetary terms ashore.’
As often happens with Amelia, everything she’d just said was true, and yet it also missed the bleeding obvious. The rings were obviously valuable bargaining chips, if we played them carefully. But now Mo knew we had them, she’d effectively handed the advantage over to him. Because although he seemed trustworthy enough and was definitely putting on a good show of being on our side, he was – however reluctantly – one of the goddamn pirates!
27.
Shortly after Amelia undermined her very welcome revelation by spouting it in front of Mo, Flip-flops cracked the door to our cell and motioned for me to come out. Mo came too. I knew, because he had told us, that we were about to be photographed or filmed, and the three of us had agreed on the best way of turning that to our advantage.
The pirate-guard led me to a door at the rear of the house which gave out onto a dusty courtyard. Passing from the linoleum to dirt, the squelching sound of his flip-flops died. They flicked up little plumes of dust as he walked to the centre of the courtyard. Barrel-man handed up a newspaper, which Flip-flops passed to me.
Strangely enough the newspaper was in French, a copy of Le Figaro. I’ve admitted my French isn’t good, but I nailed the days of the week at least, so I was able to translate the date on the front cover, which included the word vendredi.
While languages may not be my strong point, I’m good at keeping orientated in place and time. Today was Saturday, not Friday, so the newspaper was a day old. I didn’t know whether to be impressed that the pirates had got hold of an international newspaper so soon after stepping ashore, or to pity them for not having found the most up-to-date copy. I don’t suppose they thought a day mattered much in the scheme of things.
Aside from me, Mo and the two pirates, the courtyard was empty, of people that is. Two of the skinniest cats I’ve laid eyes on were stretched out on their sides in the shade of the eastern wall. They were both pretty much the same colour as the dirt they lay on, and they stayed so still throughout the process of me having my mug-shot taken – I couldn’t even see them breathing – that I began to wonder whether they were dead.
There was no high-tech filming equipment, tripods or lights, and no fancy background of flags or banners or whatever, just Barrel-man with a mobile phone. He knew enough to move me to the other side of the courtyard, and therefore avoid capturing me as a silhouette, though.
The pirates wanted to send a message – pay up, or you won’t see them again – to our parents with these snapshots and mini-films. Our task was to make the message mean something else. I was confident I could convey what I wanted to Mum. The first thing I did was grip both sides of the paper with tightly clenched fists. To Barrel-man, behind his smartphone, it probably looked like I was gripping the paper so tightly out of fear, but I reckoned Mum would pick up on the signal.
After my brother Mark died, whenever she’s wanted to reassure me without speaking out loud, she’s squeezed her hands into two fists held just in front of her and added a quick smile-wink. I couldn’t exactly time the wink, but narrowed one eye, and it was no problem to smile. I clenched that paper tight and gave the little lens on the back of the phone my cheesiest grin.
Barrel-man dropped the phone a few inches, looked over the top of it at me, and spat something at Mo.
‘He’s asking why you’re smiling,’ the boy said.
Without dropping my ridiculous grin, I told Mo to explain that ever since I was a small boy I’d smiled when nervous.
‘He says don’t be nervous or he’ll give you something to be nervous about,’ Mo reported after another exchange with the pirate.
I shook my head, as if trying to dislodge the smile, but made sure it was still in place when I looked back up. ‘I can’t help it,’ I managed to say through the letterbox slit of my fixed grin.
Mo said something else to Barrel-man. I don’t know what it was but it made the pirate’s muscled shoulders shake with laughter. Out of the side of his mouth he spat a reply to Mo.
‘He agrees: you look like you’ve wet your trousers,’ Mo relayed.
Still smiling, I said, ‘Whatever.’ With the grin still in place, I hardened my one-eyed stare. Mum would get it.
Barrel-man, his thumb stabbing at the phone screen, had obviously switched to video mode now, since he gave Mo an order which the boy passed on as, ‘He wants you to tell your parents we’re treating you well but you’re frightened of what we’ll do if the money doesn’t come through.’
I’d thought about this too. Still looking way more amused than afraid, I drawled, in the most sarcastic voice I could manage, ‘Mum, these muppets are treating us super-nicely, but they’re really, really frightening, obvs, and I’m totally scared of what will happen if you don’t do exactly what they say, etc.’
When I use that tone of voice at home it drives Mum mad, but I knew it was my best means of reassuring her now: it’s me at my most infuriatingly cocky, not remotely worried, never mind scared. I even risked a proper wink at the camera on the word ‘etc.’
Barrel-man let that pass too. Perhaps he was focusing on the miniature version of me displayed on the phone screen rather than the real thing, and missed the wink; I don’t know or care. As he lowered the phone I shot a sideways glance at Mo. He was staring at me with his mouth open a fraction.
‘What?’ I said.
Mo didn’t say anything. I realised I was smiling with my eyes as well as my mouth now. He definitely got the sarcasm intended for Mum, but mercifully it seemed he wasn’t about to point it out to Barrel-man. I softened towards him further. He seemed to be actually on our side for real. Why then wasn’t he smiling back? How could he be so obviously in on the joke and apparently unable to see the funny side of it?