Jules told me that he would get messages to our wives back in Canada and that our safety would henceforth be his primary concern. This too was welcome news coming from the first Canadian to whom we had spoken during our captivity.
Having heard that Louis and I were talking to a Canadian ambassador, Omar grabbed the phone from Louis and began screaming insults and threats at Jules, to the effect that ours was an untrustworthy country, a gang of hypocrites, which had behaved “dishonourably” at every turn of this affair. He was really working up a head of steam, at least in part for Belmokhtar’s benefit, but it became very ugly, with a variety of unpleasant and specific threats being made against us. I can only imagine what it must have been like for Jules at the other end.
When Omar wound down, switching to Arabic, he spoke to Mustapha Chaffi and as he did so he worked his way down the dune, out of our earshot, and we could barely see him striding in and out of the cones of a truck’s headlights at the base, his other arm pumping up and down as he loudly and passionately remonstrated with Chaffi. (Surely, then, we must have been using the sat-phone.) We assumed that he was laying down terms for our release.
After the call to President Compaoré in Ouagadougou, it was time to try our wives again. Back up the hill came the cellphone, supposedly replete with juice, and I gave it another go. This time I called Mary’s cellphone first and she answered on the second ring. “Mary, it’s Bob.”
“Who?” she replied. Not a good start. Then, surprising me with a skill-testing question, she asked, “What do your grandchildren call you?”
Just as I was about to scream, “Don’t mess around!” I understood what must have been going on in her mind.
“Danda,” I meekly replied and she sobbed, “Bob, is it really you?” and I choked out something to the effect that indeed it was.
I cannot recall all the details of that call. At first she thought I was free because of my thoughtless drafting of the text message. After I had disabused her of any such hope and Mary had established that I was not some ghoulish prankster, or worse, it was such a relief, so very cathartic to tell her how much I loved her and the girls, of how deeply I missed them, and to take her through my evening ritual vis-à-vis her and members of our family.
Then I told her how I regretted causing those I loved most the turmoil and pain they must be experiencing. I asked how she and the girls were holding up and she reassured me that everyone was well and keeping it together. She told of how they had all (Mary, four daughters, their men, and the three grandchildren) spent the first two weeks camped out in Linton and Rob’s small house in Toronto and how, since then, she had constantly been on the move between Toronto, New York, and London to ensure that everyone was supported and remained positive. She reported that the family was stronger and more cohesive in the face of this trial than ever before.
I asked her how my brother-in-law was doing in Vancouver. He’d had a run-in with cancer just as I was leaving Canada and Mary informed me that all was well. She also told me that our friend Daniela was recovering slowly but steadily from a terrible E. coli infection she had contracted in Sudan, where she was the deputy head of the UN World Food Programme operations in that benighted country. Mary then reassured me yet again that she and our larger family were all well.
She asked me how I was holding up, and I explained that all things considered, I was well enough but had experienced health issues. “Like what?” she interjected. I said that I was having stomach and bowel problems and my most immediate fear was of a ruptured bowel. She didn’t get it. “You mean, diarrhea?” she said.
“No, quite the opposite,” I insisted. Mary knew well that I had regularly battled various intestinal infestations during my many trips to Africa and found it difficult to absorb the fact that nothing like that was the problem.
“Did you get the medication I sent and the letters?” she asked.
“No, we have received absolutely nothing from anybody, beyond some wonderful cartons of desperately needed food and vitamins from President Blaise Compaoré.”
“Compaoré!” she exclaimed—knowing full well of his and my history—”Why would he do that?” So I explained that our captors had informed us that all other negotiators, and particularly Canada, had been disqualified in the eyes of our AQIM abductors or had disqualified themselves. Only Compaoré was still in the game. He was, according to our kidnappers, “our last chance.”
Mary found this difficult to take in. “Surely you mean President Touré of Mali?” she replied. “Mai and I sent our letters and medicine through him. He has been wonderful.” I told her again that we had received no letters. She then insisted that President ATT was fighting hard to win our freedom. It was all confusing and not a little upsetting.
At this point I could feel Omar One, who was standing right beside me, becoming agitated. His body language screamed, “Get to the main message!” I doubted he could hear much of Mary’s end of the conversation. (I was having enough trouble myself with the phone glued to my ear as the wind whistled about me, which no doubt made it difficult for Mary as well. Also, I had no idea whether they were recording the whole thing but, of course, I had to assume so.) Omar was nonetheless following what I had to say as well as circumstances allowed.
So I said to Mary, “Listen, this is not just hard on Louis and me but it is evidently stressing our kidnappers to the breaking point. AQIM clearly didn’t expect this to last as long as it has. They are not equipped for it. They are becoming ever more threatening and unstable. They say they have lost all confidence in their Canadian interlocutors. You must convince whoever is acting for us in the Canadian government—if indeed anybody is—to pick up the pace, to get this thing over with. I don’t know how much longer we can survive in such circumstances and I don’t know how much longer our captors can, or will, put up with it and us.”
“What, precisely, are you telling me?” she asked. So I went through essentially the same routine again.
“We have appalling food. Both of us have health issues. It’s getting a lot hotter and our kidnappers are showing more and more aggressive signs of extreme instability. Canada has got to find a way to end this thing or these zealots will put an end to it themselves.”
Then, getting to the crux of the issue, she asked, “What do you want me to do?” I replied that I could not know what was and was not going on in Ottawa or anywhere else, particularly with regard to the status of any negotiations. She had to satisfy herself, I said, that everything possible was being done, and being done expeditiously; that the government was using every channel, every contact, every friend, every wile to get us out of there. If she considered that more pressure were required, she would have to decide whether it made sense to engage our many friends in the media or to approach the parliamentary Opposition with a view to raising the profile of our desperate and increasingly perilous situation.
Turning slightly away from Omar, I carefully told her that only she could be the judge of when or if such additional pressure were required or would be useful, but I wanted her to know that I was giving her my full proxy to take that decision. I told her that I would fully accept whatever risks such a course entailed. I asked her if she was getting advice from our friend Ted Johnson, as I believed that his counsel would be of great help to her as she contemplated a perilous and last-ditch public pressure route. She assured me that he was playing just such a role.
I knew that Mary understood what I was and was not saying. I suspected that she would know that I was saying it because my captors needed to hear me do so and also, and rather differently, because I thought there could well come a time when the government would go no further unless severely prodded. In such circumstances, it would be a very risky venture with the potential for all sorts of unforeseeable consequences, but even those risks, she would understand, might be preferable to doggedly pursuing an unproductive tack to its unhappy conclusion.
Mary had been a journalist. She knew that there could come a time when such pre
ssure was required, and now she knew she had my moral power-of-attorney. I had placed the decision entirely in her hands.
What she told me on the phone, however, was that the effort being mounted on our behalf was massive. Our many friends in the public service and the foreign service were rooting for us and working tirelessly to get us home, giving up time with families over Christmas and weekends, and they would, she said, get it done. “But,” I asked, “would it be in time?”
She told me the Prime Minister and the Foreign Minister were directly engaged and that many of our friends in other countries and the UN system, current and retired, had offered support. Kofi Annan had been among the first to offer to do anything that might prove useful. Needless to say, this was what I wanted to hear, but I also wanted her to know that she was “weapons free” to deploy any tactic she thought was required, whenever it was needed.
I also asked her to ensure that whoever was doing the negotiating was aware that President Compaoré was playing a central role, at least as far as our abductors were concerned. He had managed to get us a deeply appreciated shipment of essentials, which could not have come at a more opportune moment, and she should let others know that I had just spoken to him and that the President had assured me he would get us out of there.
She then surprised me by telling me she was in Florida but would be immediately returning to Toronto to tell Linton and Justine of this remarkable call and would then by phone fill in Ruth in New York and Antonia in London. I urged her to stay in Florida for a few more days, insisting that she not allow her life to be utterly dominated by these difficult circumstances—but she said she needed to be with the girls.
With considerable regret, I told her that I ought to let Louis have another crack at phoning Mai, but in case that did not work asked Mary to phone Mai to let her know of the call and that Louis was as well as could be expected.
As I signed off I said something to the effect that I was sorry I’d miss Henry’s third birthday. Our New York grandson’s birthday was in two weeks’ time, which was symbolic for Louis and me as it would fall on Day 100. And I added, “In case I don’t see you again, I’m so glad I have had a chance to tell you what a wonderful wife and mother you have been, how happy you have made me, and how very lucky I have been.”
Her reaction to this mawkish moment was swift and uncompromising, “What do you mean, if you don’t get back? Of course you are going to get back. You would not believe the enormity of effort being deployed to get you and Louis home. We will bring you home, probably in time for Henry’s birthday. Don’t you let your guard down now.” Mary asked me to try to call her back once all other essential calls had been made but I said that I doubted it would be possible.
I knew that despite being a formidable woman, Mary did not necessarily have the capacity to ensure I would be home in thirteen days but I was heartened that she was so positive, so assured, so very determined to make it so. Her passion and spirit were salutary and I felt better, more confident, and more determined than I had felt since 14 December.
When I handed back the phone to Ahmed, he checked it and declared that there were insufficient phone credits to permit another call. “No problem,” added Julabib. “We’ll get some more.” And with that he skipped down the dune, hooked up his laptop, and e-mailed somebody in Algeria to instruct them to buy more credits. This took a fair amount of time, which left me to reflect on the conversation I had just had with my wonderful and inspiring wife. It also left Louis to stew over the fact that he had still not enjoyed such an opportunity. I could see the toll it was taking on him and my assurance that Mary would let Mai know he was all right did little to ease his disquiet.
Over an hour later the phone came back up the hill with more credits and again it was Louis’ turn to give it a try. He got through to Mai at their home almost immediately and had a good long chat with her and their eldest daughter. I moved along the dune a few paces to give him a little privacy. At the end of his conversation, I could see from his face that he too had found an element of closure.
At this point Belmokhtar asked us, rather breezily, “Would you like to call anybody else: journalists, politicians, anybody?” I looked at Louis but he signed no, so I said that I would like to speak to my wife again. Sure, said Belmokhtar. But again Louis’ call had used up the available credits.
Then out of the blue someone, I think it was Ahmed, said, “Why not try this?” and handed me Louis’ government-issue BlackBerry, which we had not seen since just after our capture. With my newly acquired one good lens I checked its battery charge level, which was fully topped up. I punched in Mary’s cellphone number and within moments was talking to her again.
Since the last call, she had returned to Ted and Sharon Johnson’s condo, packed, and waited for a taxi. When the cab arrived she explained that she was in a terrible rush to catch the last flight to Toronto. The cabbie was gazing at her strangely. Looking down she realized she was still wearing her bathing suit, which required a further delay as she grabbed the suitcase and went back in to dress. This time I reached her in the back of the taxi just as she was approaching Orlando airport.
Mary and I really did not have a great deal more to say to each other beyond, that is, everything. I reiterated that she should tell somebody about the Compaoré connection and mentioned that, however strange, AQIM had threatened to send us to Afghanistan, “where,” Omar One had insisted, “they really know how to deal with people like you.” And yet again I asked her if she thought the government was doing enough to win our release, and again she said yes. Not being able to help myself I reiterated our earlier conversation to the effect that we had had a good life together, we had made and brought up great kids, and that I loved her deeply and would forever.
She put a stop to such maudlin wallowing once more by insisting that there were lots of things we still needed to do together, places to see, more grandchildren to behold, and I must not give up the belief that soon we would be doing those things.
She then said, “They won’t let me through security with my cellphone to my ear, and unless I go through now, I’ll miss the plane.” So what, I thought. This conversation (which I thought could well be our last) is more important than any damn plane, but at the same time I understood that we had really said all we could usefully say, that anything more was likely to reduce us both to further tears, and that she did need to find refuge in the support and comfort of our daughters. So we said goodbye again and cut the connection.
I handed the phone to Louis but he had made all the calls he wanted to make. So I asked if Louis’ trusty BlackBerry might be used to call my eldest daughter, Linton, in part because, among our daughters, her memorable number was the only one I could recall. Belmokhtar waved, sure, sure, so I called her in Toronto. She was just walking in with a bag of groceries in each arm, and when she heard my voice she cried, “Who?!” Then she shouted, “Dad, Dad, I’ve been waiting so long for this call.”
With a large gulp, I had to reply, “But darling, this is not that call, so let’s just chat.” I explained that I had just been speaking to Mary, who was on her way to Toronto, but I had been allowed another call and wanted to let her know I was okay. She was confused and so palpably distressed it nearly broke my heart. But she had her wits about her.
Linton asked “Are you alone?” and I replied, “No, I’m with Louis and our driver, Soumana.”
“Nobody else?” she inquired, and finally the penny dropped.
I carefully replied, “No, that’s it. There are just the three of us. I’ve seen nobody else.” From that point on I knew that a rescue scenario would become a distant, in extremis option, for Ottawa would now know for certain that we were not co-located with the four Europeans taken on 22 January. The managers of our case would understand that the likelihood of simultaneous rescue missions launched against two separate targets being successful was almost nonexistent.
There followed a short, almost chatty conversation during which she brought m
e up to date regarding what had been going on within her family, focusing on her two little girls. Then the pauses got longer and the choking began at both ends. Neither of us could summon any further enthusiasm for small talk. I said, “You’ve made me a very proud dad,” and asked her to tell her sisters the same thing, and then goodbye.
She said, “I know, … I know, … I understand, goodbye.”
I replied with a stifled, “I know too,” and we faded apart and I handed the phone to somebody and stumbled up along the dune’s summit and felt utterly, completely devastated. I had no reserves left, just an aching emptiness, and was overcome by a profound sorrow.
For weeks I hated myself for putting Linton through such torment but eventually became reconciled to the positive aspects of our conversation and was glad we had spoken. Aside from upsetting her, at least the call had served to transmit the fact that the seven hostages in AQIM hands were in two wholly separate locations.
When I handed the BlackBerry back to Ahmed, Belmokhtar told Louis to call somebody in the Canadian Foreign Ministry, “somebody in the government.” Louis told him that all government offices would be deserted at that hour. (It was probably around 8:00 p.m. in Ottawa.) “That doesn’t matter,” said Jack, “Leave a voice message.” Louis thought about this carefully and dialled his former boss, Scott Proudfoot, the head of the Sudan Task Force at DFAIT. When the phone switched to voice mail, Louis began to leave what must have been the strangest message Scott had ever retrieved from his voice mailbox.
Before he got very far, Omar snatched the phone away and began to shout into the phone a threatening, menacing message, something not dissimilar to what he had said to Jules Savaria a couple of hours previously: Canadians were liars, they had not been negotiating in good faith, there would be dire consequences for Louis and for me, our blood would be on their hands, and finally an all too evidently improvised “We are contemplating sending them to our friends in Afghanistan where they know how to deal with people such as this.”
A Season in Hell Page 22