by Andy McNab
‘His life is in your hands now, Liam,’ said the Al Shabaab leader, and placed a pistol on the ground at his side. It was a Glock, one clearly stolen from the section. ‘Will you save it? Or will you throw it away?’
The reality of what he was offering crashed into Liam and he screamed, but his throat, so dry and sore, barely emitted a note. He remembered what had happened during his training, but this time it was for real, and he knew full well that Azeez wasn’t just playing games.
‘Tell me, Liam. Tell me what I want to know, and you will save your friend. Tell me.’
‘I can’t,’ Liam eventually managed.
‘You know, I think you can . . .’ Azeez reached for his pistol and pulled back the cocking slide.
‘No, you’re not listening,’ said Liam. ‘I don’t know the location. Not exactly . . .’
And it was the truth. He had a rough idea, but that was all. He’d been more focused on the job than anything else.
Azeez placed the pistol close to Carter’s head. ‘This is my gift to you, Liam,’ he said, voice silky smooth and honey sweet. ‘The life of your friend!’
Liam, tears in his eyes, torn apart by panic and fear, glanced down at Carter. He could do nothing, say nothing. He was helpless.
‘Liam?’
Liam caught Carter’s eyes, mouthed, ‘I’m sorry . . .’
Azeez pulled the trigger.
17
‘Liam!’
The voice was one he recognized, one that sounded exhausted but relieved to see him. Liam raised his head, though it pained him to do so, his whole neck seemingly now made of nothing but bruises.
‘Pearce?’
‘Too fucking right it is,’ Pearce replied, his voice dry and hacking.
Liam couldn’t speak, had no words. After seeing Carter murdered right in front of him, he had been beaten again before being dragged not back to his hole this time – which was some relief – but to the shack he and the rest of the section had first been placed in. The rest of the lads were there too. And from what he could see in the moonlight, they all looked in a shit state.
‘Carter . . .’ Liam managed. ‘I—’
‘We heard the shot,’ said another voice. It was Biggs. And for such a big man, in both size and personality, he seemed shrunk somehow. But the fight still remained in his eyes, diamond hard.
‘Azeez . . . he shot Carter,’ Liam explained, fighting tears and failing badly. ‘I couldn’t do anything to save him. I couldn’t!’
‘I know,’ said Biggs. ‘I know.’
And then Liam finally gave in to it. The torment of the days and nights they’d been captive, the beatings and the hunger, the empty hopelessness of it all, the terror of not knowing if the next interrogation would be his last and, finally, the brutal murder of Carter. He sobbed and the tears flowed freely, tracing white lines down his soiled face.
‘Let him be,’ said Biggs to the others around him, and Liam felt a firm hand on his back.
When there were no more tears to cry, and Liam had at last crawled out of the black sorrow that had so quickly overwhelmed him, he sat up and took in the state of the other soldiers. Black eyes rode proud on faces cut and bleeding. But not one of them yet looked ready to give in. Indeed, now that they were all back together again, they seemed almost fired up by it, ready to keep fighting.
As Waterman explained, they had all been separated. ‘Like you,’ he said, ‘we all got taken off, thrown into a hole. The beatings and the questioning, we all had it.’
‘They put us on our own to try and break us,’ said Liam.
‘Exactly,’ said Biggs. ‘And it didn’t work. You were the last to return. I think Azeez had just had enough, which is why he did what he did to Carter.’
‘I want to kill that bastard,’ said Liam.
‘If there was a queue, then you probably jumped to the front, mate,’ said Pearce, leaning in. ‘What he did to Carter, and that he made you watch it? Death’s too good for him, but it’s what he fucking well deserves. And a slow one.’
Cordner crawled over.
‘How’s life?’ Liam asked.
‘I’m gaspin’ for a draw,’ said Cordner. ‘I’d smoke cow shit wrapped in bog roll right now.’
‘That’s a lovely thought,’ said Liam.
‘Wouldn’t make his breath smell any worse, though,’ said Pearce.
The sound of friendly voices, and the immediate soldier banter, lit something within Liam that brought him back on line. There was still hope here, he realized. And he needed that now more than ever.
‘So what now?’ he asked.
‘Well, I’m not sure we’ve time to dig a tunnel,’ said Pearce.
‘I overheard Azeez talking about something when I was being dragged out of the hole, this one time,’ Cordner commented. ‘He mentioned a negotiator.’
‘What do you mean?’ Liam asked.
‘While we’re out here in the shit,’ Cordner continued, ‘back home all hell will have broken loose. All channels of communication will have been explored and I’m guessing they’ve managed to find one and open it enough to get Azeez to speak to a negotiator.’
This news was like a shot of espresso to Liam’s weary mind. ‘You mean they’re trying to get us released?’
‘I can’t see anyone in the MOD getting any sleep at the minute,’ said Cordner. ‘This kind of stuff, well, it’s bad for business, isn’t it?’
‘But Azeez’s not going to let us just walk out of this, is he?’ said Liam. ‘He’s not an idiot. This is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to him!’
‘True,’ said Pearce. ‘But a negotiator is just a small part in a big engine. Who knows what the fuck is going on behind the scenes?’
‘It’s probably buying us time, and that’s a plus,’ said Airey. ‘The longer we are alive, the better chance we have of something happening that’ll give us the opportunity to turn this around.’
Considering their circumstances, Liam was impressed to hear his mates being so positive. ‘You saying we have an escape plan?’ he asked.
Biggs shook his head. ‘No, not yet. We’ve all been separated, and that’s probably another reason why – they didn’t want us ganging up and breaking out.’
‘So why are we back together now?’
As if in response, the shack door was kicked flying and a group of gunmen came charging in, yelling and jabbing everyone with the barrels of their AK47s.
Liam was on his feet and herded outside with the others. His first thought was that this was it; they were being led outside to be mown down by Azeez and his shiny new SCAR. But then he saw the truck in front of them.
Liam had no idea what make it was, though judging by the numerous random body panels and odd wheels, it would be impossible to trace it to an original. It was a large flatbed truck, probably a seven and a half tonner, with a canvas hood, and had probably spent its life being used to carry everything from farm equipment and animals to furniture and Al Shabaab militants. Now it was going to transport a group of knackered, beaten soldiers from the British Army to God knew where.
More shouts came from the terrorists, and Liam and the others were quickly pushed into the back of the truck. Inside, the floor was in places non-existent and the ground below them was clearly visible. Once they were all in, their equipment was thrown after them, though noticeably without their weapons.
‘Well, at least they’re sensible enough to know to hang onto quality kit when they see it,’ said Pearce. ‘Though I’m not best pleased about the idea of some Al Shabaab twat bedding down some time soon in my doss bag.’
‘Mate, that’s a bonus! Your doss bag’s a fecking biological weapon!’ Cordner joked.
The truck shuddered as the engine wheezed into life with a sound like the undead breaking free from the grave. Then it moved, jostling Liam and the others around with all the care of a rattle in the hand of a griping baby.
Moving off, Liam stared out of the back of the truck. Something caught his eye
in the darkness. A shadow, lying on the ground, still and lifeless. It was Carter’s body, left for the wildlife.
The truck moved at a snail’s pace, hampered by a rough track, darkness and an engine that wanted to give up every time the tyres struggled. The thrum and rumble of movement was hypnotizing and Liam fought against sleep. He had passed the stage of exhaustion and a strange force inside him was keeping him awake. So again he traced their direction, making a mental note of the geography of where they were driving through, any features that stood out that would help him find his way back, should he ever get the chance to make a break.
When the journey eventually came to an end, Liam reckoned they had travelled only a few miles, but it had taken what seemed like for ever. It was still dark, but dawn was creeping its way across the Somali landscape.
With the truck stationary, the rear was dropped open, the harsh clang of it swinging down echoing painfully in Liam’s ears.
‘Out!’ The barked order was accompanied by hands reaching inside to haul the soldiers from the truck.
They tumbled like coal tipped out of a sack, falling into each other as their legs struggled to stop them crumpling to the ground, numb from the journey and unresponsive.
A clatter of rifle fire sprayed overhead. Liam looked up to see Abdul Azeez standing in front of them. His clothes were now smeared with Carter’s blood and his calm demeanour added to the coldness which seeped from him. Behind, hidden in the greying darkness, was what at first glance looked like a derelict farmstead. There were a number of brick buildings, all with tin roofs.
Liam switched himself on, eyeing everything around him. He counted five buildings, all of them tucked in close around a central area of dirt about the size of a small car park. Beyond the perimeter of the buildings was thick brush and rocky outcrops, a clump of trees concealing the farmstead from prying eyes. A sense of dread crept up to Liam and twisted his gut. He had no doubt that, as far as Abdul Azeez was concerned, this was the end of the road for his prisoners.
‘This,’ said Azeez, ‘is your new home.’
The man laughed then, and Liam hated him even more. A rifle barrel jabbed him in the side, forcing him to move. Herded like sheep, he and the others were marched towards the buildings.
‘I knew it was worth complaining to the management,’ said Pearce. ‘See? They’ve upgraded us. Result.’
Liam was about to reply when out of nowhere a rifle butt swung in and caught Pearce square across the side of his face. The force of it knocked his head round to the right and he stumbled, but managed to stop himself dropping to his knees. When Pearce stood up again, Liam saw that the blow had opened up a gash down his cheek. He also saw the soldier clench his fists and stare at the man who had hit him. They were all at a point now where it would take little to make them snap. He hoped to God that his mate could hold it together and not retaliate.
‘No talking!’ yelled the gunman. ‘No talking or you will die!’
Liam saw Pearce take a step towards him, but Biggs reached out and rested a hand on his arm, shaking his head.
Pearce held back, but only just.
‘Walk!’
Bloodied but unbowed, they moved on towards the buildings. Once they were inside, Liam could see that the farmstead had been filled with cages, each just large enough to allow a man room to stand in a crouch and to lie down. The cages were dirty, rusted things, the floors covered in greasy, muck-stained sacking and cloth. But almost worse than that was the smell. It was a stink of human waste and sweat, of people left to rot, and it stung his eyes. The taste of it in his mouth made him heave, but with nothing to chuck up all he did was cough, his stomach bucking hard and painful.
‘You’re fucking kidding me,’ said Biggs. ‘We’re not dogs.’
One of the gunmen grabbed him and pushed him into the first cage, locking it shut behind him. Then one by one the others were locked into their own cages.
Liam waited his turn. He had to be compliant now, but keep an eye out for an opportunity. And when it came, he would take it. Then, as he was forced to walk on down the line of tiny prisons, he saw that some were already occupied. He grabbed a look-see and almost gasped. It was the KDF hostages he’d seen back during the CQR. He stumbled past a massive guy who looked as though he was barely conscious. There was a mark on his head: Odull’s brother, Liam realized with a sudden rush of adrenaline.
As Liam ducked to enter his own cage, a hand grabbed the elbow of his right arm.
‘Not you,’ spat Abdul Azeez. ‘There is something else I wish you all to do, and you can be the first, Lance Corporal Scott.’
Glancing back at his mates, and still trying to process what he’d just seen, Liam was led away from the cages by two gunmen, one on either side of him, and taken through another door, which was quickly slammed shut behind him. What he saw on the other side confirmed his worst fears about where they now were.
Attached to the wall was a large piece of black cloth, about the size of a flag. Written across it were Arabic words in white paint that Liam didn’t understand. But he didn’t need to. He knew exactly what was going to happen next – the video camera placed opposite the flag was enough of a clue.
‘Kneel in front of the flag, facing the camera.’ Azeez’s voice was all silk and smarm.
Liam hesitated, but the rifle barrel in his back got him moving. At the flag, he slowly lowered himself to the floor as around him four of Azeez’s men took their positions, covering their faces with scarves, each of them brandishing their weapons with pride.
Azeez walked towards Liam and handed him a sheet of paper. ‘You will read this,’ he said. ‘When it is done, you will be taken back to your cage. Do you understand?’
Liam nodded. He was conscious of how these videos could go two ways: either a straight hostage demand – or an execution.
Azeez stood behind the camera. ‘Read now, please.’
Liam held up the piece of paper. On the side facing the camera was the day’s date. If it was correct, it meant that he and the rest of the lads had been held for a week. That shocked him. A whole week of his life just gone. And all he had to remember it by was nightmares that were real.
‘Liam,’ said Azeez. ‘Read. I do not wish to have to ask you again.’
Liam read: ‘I am Liam Scott of the British Army and am a hostage of Al Shabaab. I am being looked after well. I beg the British Prime Minister to halt all support of resistance to Al Shabaab. My life is in your hands. This demand must be met within seven days.’
With the words spoken, the video was paused, and Abdul Azeez gave a nod. Liam was lifted off the floor.
‘You’re a natural, Scott,’ said Azeez, as Liam was taken back through the door. ‘The camera loves you. The world will see you through it. You will be famous!’
Liam held his stare, but stayed quiet.
‘You do not fear me, I see. That’s good. I admire it. But it will serve you no purpose, I assure you.’
Liam imagined himself leaping forward on top of Azeez, driving him into the wall behind him, hammering his head up into the man’s chin to break his face, then tearing into him to rip his life to shreds.
‘You are meant to die, you see?’ Azeez continued. ‘We do not expect our demands to be met, but we do expect the world to shudder at our acts. It will learn eventually to leave us alone. Sometimes, brutality serves a purpose.’
Liam was then marched to his cage, the door shut behind him as he stumbled forwards. He turned to see Pearce led out for his own moment of fame. Liam thought about what he had just said, the lies that no one would believe and the deadline that would never be adhered to. The British government never gave in to terrorist demands. Period.
Even if Al Shabaab’s calls were met, he didn’t trust Azeez one bit. And that meant that once those seven days were up, he and the rest of the section, and the KDF lads too, were dead.
Liam knew that they were going to have to get themselves out of the shit. He also knew that when he next got into that r
oom with the camera, he wouldn’t be leaving it.
18
The cage stank. Every time he moved, the rags beneath him would release a new blast of the foul reek into the air, filling his nostrils with a stomach-churning aroma of vomit, sweat and excrement. Liam breathed through his mouth to limit the awfulness of it, but the smell was so thick he could taste it in the back of his throat and it clung there, infecting him inside and out.
The cages, though next to each other, were all separated by thin sheets of corrugated metal, adding to the isolation that Liam felt. He could hear the others shuffling around, breathing, but that was it. With a guard constantly patrolling, speaking to each other was impossible. And the guard made sure of this by occasionally jabbing a rifle barrel into the cage or spitting insults.
In an attempt to stop himself seizing up completely he tried to do regular stretching exercises, but it wasn’t easy. His body was racked with pain and he couldn’t stand fully upright in the tiny cage.
With no windows, Liam had no idea if it was day or night. The room itself was never in complete darkness – a bare bulb hung from the ceiling on a grubby length of dangerous-looking flex. The light it emitted was flickering and sparse, but it still stabbed at his tired eyes like a strobe on the blink. The guards rotated every couple of hours and used the opportunity to hurl insults at their prisoners, rattle the cages, threaten them, so any sleep that had been stolen was quickly broken.
Food came twice daily on a metal plate, along with water in a broken plastic beaker thick with dirt. Liam never gave himself time to think about what he was eating, guzzling it down before his tongue registered any taste. If he looked too closely at it he knew there was no chance it would get past his lips. But at least it was better than the worm he’d spat out back in the hole. He found himself fantasizing about army rations, pretending that each mouthful didn’t taste of puke at all, but the best boil-in-the-bags in the world. In his exhausted state it was hard to keep track of time, but Liam kept a tally of meals by tearing off a small section of the rotting floor with every plate that was brought to him. Each piece of material brought them closer to the end of the seven-day deadline.