Fractured: International Hostage Thriller

by Clàr NÕ Chonghaile

  A second later, Nabakoba was at my side.

  “Please come with me, Mrs Walters.”

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “He says he has information about your son. But we cannot let him in yet. You must speak to him.”

  “But I don’t know who Peter knew here,” I said, feeling inadequate, a bad mother again who did not take enough interest in her son.

  “Maybe you know more than you think,” Nabakoba said over his shoulder, his pace quickening as we passed the medical centre and approached the razor wire strung between two columns sprouting from the walls surrounding the base.

  “There he is,” Nabakoba pointed.

  On the other side of the wire stood a tall man with deep-set eyes, carrying a little girl. Standing behind him, hiding in his sparse shadow, there was a small, fine-featured woman supporting an older woman wearing a white veil. The older woman’s eyes were tiny, wrapped like raisins in folds of flesh.

  “Can I go and speak to them?” I asked Nabakoba. He nodded and ushered me past two soldiers in a narrow alley of sandbags that weaved towards the gate in the wall.

  I stood in front of the little family and held out my hand to the young man. He turned slowly, handed the little girl to the woman behind him and extended his arm to mine, offering his wrist with his hand hanging limp. He did not smile, his face was neither friendly nor hostile.

  “My father was killed when your son was kidnapped,” he said in a low voice that trembled at the edges. “I am Ahmed. My father was Guled Adan. He worked with Peter. And he was his friend. He was shot when they took your son.”

  I had not expected this, and suddenly I was ashamed of my negligence. Of course, I had heard of Guled. Edward had filled me in on the details of the kidnapping, as far as anyone knew them. I had heard of the fixer who was killed, and had felt sad and somehow responsible, and then I did not think about it anymore. I was as guilty of dismissing collateral damage in my life as any military general. And yet, I did not know this man. I had never met Guled. I thought back to the last conversation I had had with Peter, a few nights before he left.

  “It’s only for a couple of weeks, Mum,” Peter said, sprawling long-legged on my couch.

  “I’ll be with Guled. He is going to sort out security. It’ll be fine. Mind you, Michelle’s not too happy. We were supposed to go to the Loire Valley this weekend.”

  He smiled, almost naughtily, and I laughed, rejoicing in this professional complicity that required a hurt third party to really work.

  So, yes, I had heard of Guled, but I had not bothered to put a face, or a family, to the man who had perished, driving my son around Mogadishu.

  “I am so sorry for your loss,” I said now. “My prayers are with you and your family.”

  “We have little use for prayers here,” the young man said quietly, jerking his head back towards the potholed street that stretched from this fortress into the city.

  “I have information about your son. But you have to give me something too.”

  The little girl writhed in the young woman’s arms. Her mother pulled the toddler’s pink hat down further, crushing tiny beads of sweat on the child’s forehead.

  I turned to Nabakoba. “I need to talk properly to this man. Can he and his family come inside?”

  “I must ask for permission, and they will have to be searched. Let me call Colonel Mugweri.”

  We stood staring at each other as we waited – an old woman, a bird-like man and his family.

  “Is that your daughter? Your wife?”

  Ahmed nodded, the slightest tilt.

  “And your mother?”

  Again, a faint nod. I studied the older woman. She was probably younger than me, but grief had aged her face, drawing the wrinkles deeper. Or maybe it wasn’t grief. Maybe it was just time, unadulterated by expensive creams promising to stop the clock while only managing to slow it slightly.

  Nabakoba came back and nodded the little family past the soldiers manning the gate. The little girl’s eyes were wide with fear, but she did not make a sound. When her mother put her down to be searched, she hid her face in the folds of the woman’s gauzy blue skirt. She never said a word but her tiny hands seemed to be shaking. A puddle formed in the sand around her bare feet. I wanted to scoop her up in my arms, and hold her to me, but how terrifying that would be for her. I would not use this child to salve my own guilty conscience.

  Nabakoba ushered us to a block of pre-fab offices, half hidden behind green sandbags, and into a small room with three cream plastic chairs and a stained white plastic table.

  Nabakoba left to fetch Colonel Mugweri and I excused myself to call Don. The family barely acknowledged our departure. Ahmed was standing by a window looking into the yard where Ugandan and Burundian soldiers were oiling their guns, kicking around a flat football, or working on some stranded armoured cars. The older lady sat on a chair, staring at her hands in her lap. The younger woman had her daughter on her knees. She had removed the pink hat and was stroking her dark, curly hair and whispering in her tiny ears. The child was not smiling, but she was no longer shaking.

  I could hear Don asking me questions down the line.

  “They are here. At the base. I don’t know what information they have. I am waiting for the colonel to come. But how am I supposed to tell if this is really Guled’s son? Don’t you have any records, Don?”

  “You know how it is, Nina.”

  Don’s voice was faint and scratchy but I could feel his impatience.

  “This was an arrangement made by Peter himself. Of course, he claimed expenses for Guled. We have records of that but we didn’t have any details beyond the man’s name. And his location. You know the way it works, Nina.”

  “Okay, okay. Sorry. But are you going to do something for the family? You have to, Don.”

  My voice was harsher than I meant it to be. I was not angry with Don, not really. I was angry with myself. I had ignored these people since arriving in Mogadishu. I had been so immersed in the story, Peter’s story, that I forgotten that this was not just his story, or my story. There were other people involved.

  I had broken every rule I had ever made as a journalist. I prided myself on always trying to safeguard the dignity, the humanity of the people in my stories. I didn’t want to treat them as quote machines, fluffy details, or necessities that demanded little more than the journalism equivalent of bagging and tagging. But here, I had forgotten Guled, or at least not given his story its due. I had treated his death as a detail.

  “Of course, we will do something for them,” Don said, his justifiable hurt at my anger cutting through the static.

  “But we will have to investigate a little more. Edward can help us with that. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He went out this morning and I haven’t seen him since. I’m going to look for him after this. I have to go and talk to Ahmed now, Don. I’ll let you know what he says.”

  “Be careful, Nina. This could be a scam. I’m sure people know you are there. This guy, Ahmed, might have nothing to do with Guled, or with Peter.”

  “I know,” I said impatiently. “But Don, he is here with his whole family. That suggests something else, doesn’t it?” I said, hoping I didn’t sound as desperate as I felt.

  Don was silent. I clutched the phone to my ear, losing myself in the hypnotic crackles and hisses of the invisible world between us. My fingers were sweaty and the phone kept slipping. I was outside, hugging a wall, trying to disappear into its meagre shadow.

  “Talk to him and call me back,” Don said and hung up.

  I headed back to the almost-bare room where all my hope was now stashed. As I opened the door, I heard confident footsteps.

  “Nina!” Edward was striding towards me. He was sweaty and dusty, and he looked more at home now than when I had first met him at the airport in London. He had swapped the shirt for a dark green T-shirt with sweat stains under the arms, and faded chinos that might have been dark brown o
nce but were now a feeble beige. He wasn’t wearing a flak jacket and yet somehow he looked, not invincible, but hard to harm.

  “What’s going on?”

  I shut the door again and filled him in quickly.

  “This could be a trick…”

  “I know, I know,” I interrupted impatiently, tired of having the obvious pointed out to me at every turn.

  “But we should hear him out. Where have you been? Okay scrap that, you won’t tell me. What have you learnt?”

  “I’ve confirmed that Peter escaped. It happened last night. The good news is Wanlaweyn is not too far from here, and if he is heading to Mogadishu, he should not be travelling through Al-Shabaab territory. The bad news is we don’t know exactly where to look, and this is Somalia so we are never quite sure where Al-Shabaab are, or indeed who they are. And then there are the militias, the clans and bandits. And we don’t know who he is with. Maybe this man will be able to tell us more, but in any case, I’m going with AMISOM towards Wanlaweyn as soon as we’re done here.”

  Inside, Ahmed was still staring out the window. The little girl seemed to be sleeping against her mother’s chest. The old woman had not moved. For a fleeting second, I wondered if she was dead, and then her eyes flickered towards me. It was the briefest of glances but I felt she was reproaching me. I had borne the boy who had taken her husband. What would she do now?

  Ahmed turned and glared at Edward.

  “Who is this foreigner? I want to talk to you, not to any government.”

  “He is here to help me, Ahmed. He has been looking for Peter too. He does not work for any government,” I said, realising as I said it that I was not quite sure if this was true. Edward said nothing. He stayed a few steps behind me.

  The door squeaked open and Colonel Mugweri and Nabakoba came in, somehow filling the room with grunts and shuffling. The little girl woke up. I guessed she must be about two.

  “I am Colonel Mugweri. Welcome to the AMISOM base.”

  He held out his hand to Ahmed. They were about the same height but Mugweri was bulked up by Kevlar, with an extra inch added by his heavy boots.

  “I am Ahmed, this is my wife, Ubah, my daughter, Lila, and my mother, Aisha. I can take you to Peter Maguire but I will not travel with soldiers. I can take the mother and her friend, we will travel with my clan, and in return, you will offer places on this base to my family.”

  The words came out in a rush, as though Ahmed was afraid he would forget a piece of his plan if he hesitated.

  I glanced at his mother. She was looking at her son, and I thought I saw a faint smile around her lips. His wife looked scared, her eyes flicking from side to side as if she was watching a table tennis match. I guessed she did not speak much English.

  Edward, Colonel Mugweri and I all spoke at once, our words fizzing in the silence that followed Ahmed’s speech.

  “That sounds risky,” said Edward.

  “I’m afraid I can’t agree,” said Colonel Mugweri.

  “Let’s go.”

  Colonel Mugweri glared at me.

  “With all due respect Mrs Walters, this is not your decision to make. I cannot make such guarantees on one man’s word, whose identity we have not even confirmed.”

  “I agree with the colonel,” said Edward. “It could be a trap. It is not safe out there. Let me go with some soldiers. We’ll get him back.”

  “My son is out there,” I said. “I am willing to take the risk. And I trust this man,” I added, nodding at Ahmed. He did not react.

  Colonel Mugweri shook his head.

  “I will not permit this. If the authorities were to hear about it, I would be fired. And his condition for cooperation is impossible. We cannot offer safe haven to civilians. We’d have the entire city in here. Or what’s left of it. It’s out of the question.”

  I turned to him, willing myself to stay calm.

  “I will be their guarantor. I will take responsibility for them. I give you my word I will sort it out with your bosses, with the Somali authorities, with the British, with whoever you damn well please. When I have my son back, I will have nothing else to do. But now, I do not have time to argue with you. Peter is out there. He has escaped. This man can take us to him. We can bring him back. I don’t think, with all due respect, that you can stop me. I am not a soldier. I am free to do as I like.”

  “You are our guest. You must obey our rules.”

  Colonel Mugweri almost growled the words, no longer the gentle giant.

  I ignored him. I would not be held back now.

  “I will come with you, Ahmed. I will take care of your family afterwards. They will not leave this place without me. I give you my word. How do you know where my son is?”

  Ahmed opened his mouth but he looked scared now, as if he had drained his reserves of courage and confidence with his audaciousness in coming here.

  He looked at Colonel Mugweri who was still scowling. Edward gave him the slightest of nods.

  “He is with a man called Abdi. Abdi is one of my relatives. We belong to the same clan. Abdi was with the kidnappers, not Al-Shabaab. The others who were to sell him to Al-Shabaab. Your son is now with Abdi in a village, about 50 kilometres from here. But you cannot go without me; they will not accept you, and they might even fight you. I have also heard that Al-Shabaab are looking for him so if you want to go with me, we need to go now.”

  “Al-Shabaab do not control the territory in that area,” Colonel Mugweri interrupted.

  “Al-Shabaab are never where you expect them. They move like ghosts,” Ahmed said quietly. “And do you really think they are the only ones who will harm him? If so, then you have learnt very little about our country.”

  “I’m going with this man,” I said. “Edward, you can come with me or not. Colonel, we have to do this. I will not sit here when my son is so close.”

  Mugweri glared at Ahmed.

  “Why are you doing this? Why do you want to help this woman? Her son is the reason your father was killed.”

  The words were like knives. I looked at Ahmed. He replied to Colonel Mugweri but his eyes were fixed on mine. And I could feel Aisha’s eyes on my face too. I knew that I deserved this scrutiny.

  “My father liked Peter. He hated Al-Shabaab. I know it was not Al-Shabaab who killed him. I know who they were, but that is my problem. I will take care of that. And that is why you need to take care of my family. I have work to do after this. But my father will not rest in peace if I do not help Peter. He was our guest, he stayed in our home. He was a friend. My father would have defended him. I am my father’s son.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered, fighting to rein in the tears of gratitude and shame that were filling my eyes.

  “Can you give us an escort to the edge of the city?” Edward asked Captain Mugweri. “Can we do that, Ahmed?”

  The thin man nodded, slowly.

  “I will meet you outside the new port. May I go now? I will get my own transport,” Ahmed said.

  Captain Mugweri nodded. “Daylight is fading. We have about three hours until sunset. I want you all back on base by then. That is not a request.”

  Edward nodded.

  Ahmed walked to his mother, held her frail hands between his for a few seconds, then kissed her bowed head. He did the same with his wife, and with Lila. But as he was walking to the door, Lila leapt from her mother’s lap and ran to him, wrapping her tiny arms around his legs. She was sobbing. Ahmed lifted her, held her to his chest, rubbed her back and whispered in her ear. She lifted her head, nodded sadly and pulled his ear. He smiled and his face was transformed. He put her down again and she walked slowly to her mother, climbing onto her lap and burying her face in the folds of her robe. Ahmed was still smiling at her as he left the room.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ABDI

  When I went back to the thorn tree with Mukhtar, the prisoner was asleep, his head tilted to one side.

  “You have brought us a tough man then, eh, Abdi,” Mukhtar chuckled as we drew cl
ose.

  Mukhtar kicked the foreigner’s dusty, bruised feet.

  “Wake up. This is no time to sleep.”

  The prisoner stirred but it took some time for his eyes to open. Maybe he did not want to come back to this world, to the sunrise that would soon banish the shadows and shades of the night. I too would have liked to lie down under that tree and sleep. I wouldn’t want to wake, and maybe if you didn’t want to, you wouldn’t. Could you sleep forever if you believed you had no reason to get up?

  The prisoner stood shakily. He rubbed one of his thin hands over his long face.

  “You are starting to look like Al-Shabaab,” Mukhtar grinned, pointing to the hair spreading across the white man’s chin and cheeks.

  “Maybe you could join them. They have people from your world too. But if you did that, you would probably be killed by the militias. It is difficult to cheat death in this land. It is not yet clear to me if your time is up, or if you are meant to go free. We will know in a few hours, I suppose.”

  The prisoner seemed not to follow Mukhtar’s words although my cousin’s English is excellent. He studied in Canada when he was a teenager, came back when Siad Barre was still in power, and later taught English at Mogadishu University for a few years until a mortar crashed into his home, killing his wife and six-year-old son, and scorching the flesh on the right side of his body. In our family, we call him The Professor, although I think he never actually had that title. He is not the oldest clan member in this village, but his learning means that most people defer to him. He has been abroad, he has lived in Mogadishu, he has taught, he can quote from the classic Somali poems as well as other African authors, whose names I learned in school before education became a luxury we couldn’t afford.

  “My name is Peter Maguire.”

  The prisoner stepped forward and extended his hand to Mukhtar, who smiled like a man enjoying a private joke, before stretching out his scarred right hand.

  “I am Mukhtar Salah. Or you can call me The Professor. You must come with us now. We must talk to the other clan members and decide what to do. Abdi, the son of my cousin Faduma, may she rest in peace, has presented us with quite a dilemma. This should be interesting.”