I never could read where the relatively happy-go-lucky Ibrahim and the ever-curious Julabib (who may have wanted to film a beheading) stood: probably wherever Jack was. But that was not the case for other members of Jack’s staff, most notably Ahmed, who had wished us ill from the outset.
Eventually, in the gathering dusk, the members of the council trooped back, right past us, without saying a word or acknowledging our presence in any way. They had their habitually quick dinner and all was quiet. We were on tenterhooks. What had been decided?
A couple of long hours later, Omar One emerged from the dark and hunkered down before us. He did not appear happy, but we couldn’t tell if he was angry at us or with some of his colleagues. He was sure as hell angry at Canada. He began by reiterating how perfidious Canada had been throughout the negotiations, stressing the lies he said they had been told and the unfulfilled promises made. He repeatedly insisted, stabbing his finger at me, “They do not want you back. They do not care the least about you. They hope you will stay with us, or, more likely, that we will kill you.” But—and then I suddenly paid close attention—”We will not do that. We have decided to free you, and by God, Canada will feel our wrath.” And I have no idea what else he said but it went on for some long time.
This annunciation, on 11 April, probably about 10:00 p.m. on Day 119, was the perfect enactment of one of my myriad obsessive mantras: “… and, therefore, we have decided to free you.” It had just been said.
We were to be freed; nothing else mattered a damn.
When Omar departed, Louis and I shared a cautious, long, firm two-handed handshake. We had been waiting four months for that moment. Usually we were pretty leery about believing anything they said or promised, but somehow I was confident that these were straight goods.
I had no idea what Omar’s preambular screed was about or whether any of it made any sense. I didn’t care. It was irrelevant. We were going home. Paraphrasing Keats just a little, that was all we knew and all we needed to know.
The next day, Easter Sunday, Omar struggled toward us dragging the big, black, plastic thirty-litre water container and told us to clean ourselves up. That was of course welcome because we had not been able to wash for more than three weeks but, more relevant still, it seemed to prove that Louis and I had not simply entertained the same fantasy the night before. We had assumed this would happen prior to the liberation moment.
I said to Omar, “This washing invitation is great but we don’t want to squander this valuable water, so should we save it for a few days or use it right now?” He knew precisely what I was about, of course, and with one of his relatively rare smiles replied, “Use it now.”
On Monday, 13 April, Day 121, nothing was happening and the negative body language of our abductors was eloquent. Louis was despondent. Within a short space of time Louis and I convinced ourselves that, yet again, everything was going to rat shit. Notwithstanding our rules, I attacked Louis for creating the biggest damn rabbit hole ever, and then dived spiralling down after him. He was usually better at avoiding these free falls but not in this case. In an effort to escape the mood of growing despair, I began doing hard laps on our track in the full heat of the day, thereby undoing the salutary effects of the washing the day before. Eventually, I returned to where Louis sat under our tree and we talked ourselves back to the rational surface.
It seemed to each of us, simply through reading the mood of our abductors, that the promise of freedom was about to elude us again. We began to assess what could have gone wrong, for clearly, although they had not said a word to us, a wheel had come off somewhere. We reviewed everything we had seen and heard over the past few days to determine whether we could have missed or misunderstood some vital element. Eventually we concluded that, yes, something had gone wrong, but no, the decision to liberate us had not been faked. So there had been progress, and even if the moment of our liberation were to be significantly delayed, we strove to convince ourselves that we remained on a positive track.
On Tuesday and Wednesday, Days 122 and 123, time stood still. We hardly saw our captors. Great Expectations was eerily quiet. Before dawn on Wednesday, 15 April, I awoke to a loud crunching sound and a huge wet muzzle drooling onto my face, as a large camel chewed away on the thorns a few centimetres above my head.
Then on Thursday, mid-morning, a phone rang shrilly somewhere behind those bushes. It was something we had not heard for more than four months and it sounded just like home. I wanted to shout, “I’ll get it,” but someone got there first. About twenty minutes later our abductors began to gather behind the screen of bushes and trees separating us, and then a couple of them emerged into the empty space in front of us and emptied their AK magazines into the mountain beyond. Without a look at us they returned behind the bushes. Five minutes later we saw them mounting the heavy machine guns on two of the three trucks then in camp, but they were in no hurry and seemingly without purpose or provocation.
While this was happening, the taciturn Ali emerged from the bushes to our right with his ever-present PK machine gun on a sling over one shoulder and a belt of ammunition flapping from the breech. He worked the charging lever and began to spray the open desert behind us with fire until, after ten or twelve rounds, his gun jammed, whereupon he retreated back behind the bushes. A few minutes later, Abou Isaac could just be seen above the bushes, standing, feet wide apart, in the bed of one of the trucks loading the heavy gun. Then he pointed it toward the top of the nearby mountain and started to blast away: pom-pom-pom, small clouds of dust erupting from the cliff face just below the summit, perhaps 350 metres distant. Eventually, the same thing occurred from the other truck but that gun seemed to jam after three or four rounds.
All this was pretty bizarre but utterly unthreatening. Eventually Omar One strode to where we were sitting under our tree to remark, without any conviction or sincerity, that he wished to apologize for the disturbance. He explained that he was sure we would understand that every now and then they had to cook off old, deteriorating ammunition. “Come on, Omar,” I replied, “do you really expect us not to recognize a feu de joie?” With a faux-sheepish grin, he allowed as how it was indeed a feu de joie—albeit the most dispirited and desultory one I could conceive of—and, of course, we pressed him to explain what it was about. Without much further prodding, he told us, “The delegation is on its way from Bamako with your negotiators.”
“What delegation and what negotiators?” we asked. “Do you mean the Red Crescent?”
Now smiling mockingly, he replied, “Why would we have anything to do with those Western stooges? No, they are the negotiators sent by the presidents of Burkina Faso and Mali, and they are coming to get you. We will be leaving in ten minutes.” With that he walked away, leaving us to contemplate this surprising and happy news. Soon, but in more than ten minutes, we left Great Expectations with little haste for what we assumed would be some kind of desert version of Checkpoint Charlie.
We drove far and for most of that trip I remained in a euphoric haze. We stopped as evening approached in a pretty exposed place, which we confidently named Last Stop. But by then we really should have known better. The next morning Louis and I did our full four-kilometre walk over an innovative track and at its conclusion, with a little formality, we shook hands, believing that it was our last walk.
Shortly after we set off that morning—Louis and I both assigned to Omar One’s truck—we were handed blindfolds and told that soon we would be required to wear them for our own protection as there were things we really did not want to see, for seeing them would place our lives in jeopardy. We said we understood and soon, for the first time while in transit, we put on blindfolds. Omar verified that they effectively prevented us from seeing anything. I don’t think we wore them for much more than an hour but I can’t be sure.
When we stopped around noon Omar said we were in Algeria, but I have no reason to believe that was the case. He then explained with more menace than we had heard from him in months that t
his location was extremely dangerous and we had to be very careful indeed about not exposing ourselves to scrutiny. We had seen no other place like this one, much closer to a bona fide oasis with lush, healthy acacias and high, sharp grasses and bushes. The three-truck convoy had trouble working its way into deep cover. We couldn’t see “their” camp from our designated prison but it was no farther away than usual. We christened this camp Not Yet.
That afternoon I went loin and at a critical juncture I perceived movement in what in a car would have been my blind spot. Turning my head slightly, I saw a large camel’s knee at my lowered eye level, less than a metre away. Following the knee upward, not surprisingly, I found the camel and perched way up there was a Tuareg in full regalia staring down at me through a very narrow opening in his turban, an ancient rifle strapped across his back. He watched what must have been a remarkable sight for a while, then slowly, soundlessly, and in stately fashion moved through the oasis and out onto the heat-blasted plain.
After I had finished, I reported to the sentry what I had seen and Omar was sent out to investigate. Perhaps twenty minutes later he came to ask me for some antibiotic pills as the camel-man had a child who had a severe bronchial infection. I knew that if what appeared to be our looming liberation did not pan out we might well need those pills, but I really didn’t have a choice in the face of a sick child, so I handed over a handful of the pills Mary had sent me.
In the early evening, Omar passed by on some errand or other and I stopped him and asked, “Any news?”
He exploded. Without preamble or explanation, he began screaming at me for the first and only time: “You have no right to ask such questions. I told you that I would let you know if there were news. You are prisoners in our great struggle to do God’s work, and rid our lands of your vile presence, yet you keep trying to extract valuable tactical information from me. This will not be tolerated. There will be consequences!” And with that he stalked off toward les frères. With a worried look on his face, Louis approached and asked, “What the hell was that all about?”
“I’ve no bloody idea,” I replied.
A couple of hours later we saw a row of figures working their way slowly toward us through the tall grass. It was the council—the seven senior members of the group present in the camp. When Jaffer, the camp emir, reached us, he said—through a very sombre Omar One—we needed to have a serious discussion. So once again we all sat and they formed another semi-circle around us. Jaffer began, “Omar has told us of your unacceptable question—it cannot be tolerated.” As I opened my mouth to respond he raised his palm toward me, shutting me down. “We have treated you well, but that will change all too quickly if you continue to show disrespect for our rules and seek to violate our trust,” he continued. “You know that our religion prohibits us from lying and yet you continue to probe for information, information which would be damaging to us and indeed to you. Should such behaviour be repeated, there will be instantaneous consequences. You must stop trying to wrest operational details from us at this extremely tense moment.”
Nobody else said a word, and seeking to defuse the tension, I assured them that had not been my intention and promised we would ask no further questions of this sort. They seemed satisfied that they had made their point and trooped off, but as they left I thought I saw Omar Three give me a conspiratorial wink, as if to suggest things were not really that bad.
On Saturday, Day 126, after our walk Louis disappeared loin. Waiting, I believe, for such a moment, Omar One quickly approached me and, not looking at me directly, announced, “In view of Louis’ mauvais caractère the brothers have decided that should things not work out as planned, and as I indicated they would last week, it will go very badly for Louis. He will pay a very heavy price, very heavy—it has been decided!”
I was aghast and reminded Omar that it was I, not Louis, who had been the cause of the incident the previous evening. With a dismissive wave he said, “That’s been settled! It is of no importance. We thought, however, you should know what we have decided.”
I have no idea why they felt I should be apprised of such a decision. It could be simply that they wanted to unsettle me, but somehow I think it was more than that. In all his stories of battles and honour in the field, Omar had made much of the fact that war could be undertaken only once a clear declaration had been issued. In the same vein, I knew that it was standard practice for Al Qaeda to issue warnings, however vague and general, to their intended targets. I think that the transmittal of this appalling decision was therefore a declaration of this nature. In effect, I had been given due warning so that I could not subsequently claim surprise or even that I had been duped or deceived. I also have no idea whether they expected me to transmit this news to Louis but again, I do not think that was the point or that they cared much one way or the other.
Throughout our captivity I had thought it was likely our Al Qaeda kidnappers would consider killing somebody in order to truly get the attention of those with whom they were negotiating. I had heard the stories, read the books, and knew more than I really wanted about the history of “extreme kidnapping.”
The branding of Louis for expendability—in a manner that would justify his subsequent execution—did not have anything to do with whether they liked him or respected him less or me more. Rather, it was a cold calculation based on their own cost–benefit accounting. If, in order to attract the requisite world attention, effectively pour encourager les autres, they needed a bloody gesture, they would start with their least valuable asset. And I was certain that if Louis’ murder didn’t achieve the desired effect, it in no way would protect me from a similar fate further down the line. This had been done before and would be done again.
Also, these thugs needed to demonstrate that they were prepared to go the distance to protect their newly acquired Al Qaeda trademark. They had to demonstrate to their “great emir” in the Tora Bora and jihadi brethren throughout the world that the Al Qaeda franchise in North Africa was strong and in good hands.
They also, however, felt the need to offer some ersatz Islamic justification for their decision and selection. Their rationale was idiotic, unfounded, and brutal, but the underlying logic was unassailable, however disturbing. First had been Louis’ alleged Jewishness, which had begun in the context of the ongoing Israeli Operation Cast Lead in Gaza. Then they had attempted to build a catalogue of trumped-up offences to demonstrate that he had a mauvais caractère—coughing all too obviously when I was going somewhere he thought I shouldn’t go in a discussion with one of them (which, incidentally, made me feel like whacking him), hurling a dish in (justified) anger at Ant Hill when they had issued conflicting instructions. And there had been very recent, equally ill-founded accusations that he had been peeking beneath his blindfold in the truck. But these were only justifications for what they had decided to do anyway.
On that Saturday morning, 18 April, at Not Yet, I sought rather desperately to convince Omar that Louis’ character was very respectful and gentle, more so than mine. I allowed that while Louis would on rare occasions get frustrated and then freeze up, becoming increasingly inarticulate and seemingly aggressive, he remained a decent, sensitive, God-fearing individual. I insisted that Louis was genuinely interested in Islam and had time and again demonstrated sympathy and understanding toward our captors.
Omar was uninterested in what I had to say. He had come to deliver a message, not to debate it. Their minds were made up.
As soon as Louis returned, Omar beat an unusually hasty departure, barely acknowledging Louis, who clearly sensed something was amiss. For the first time in eighteen weeks, during which there had been total, sometimes brutal, honesty and absolute frankness between us, I prevaricated. I brushed off his inquiries by explaining that Omar had wished to follow up on the council’s visit the previous evening to further insist we avoid asking “tactical questions.”
I was terrified, literally short of breath, powerless to stop what appeared to be an avalanche thund
ering down upon us. Louis had five kids, two of them still in high school. Mai didn’t work outside the home. I was eight years older than he was. My kids had left the nest. Mary had an outstanding employment record. Half of my pension, in addition to hers, and my life insurance would not be too shabby. It was not fair. It made no sense but I understood all too clearly that there was nothing I could do to change their logic.
Further, a week previously we had been told that we would be given our freedom. We were so very evidently involved in some pre-release dance, but the music seemed to have stopped. If they were telling me this, then surely something had happened that our kidnappers did not think would be soon recoverable. But I couldn’t discuss any of this with Louis.
I knew that, given the enormous and building strain to which this interminable end game was subjecting us, such dark knowledge could not possibly be of any benefit to him. Further, I was not at all sure he could handle such information. Who could? And with any luck—a commodity that had been in short supply—the wheel would be repaired, whatever problem had developed in the release scenerio would be solved and the whole episode could be written off to my own overly fertile imagination. I am not sure if I should have withheld such information from my friend but I justified it to myself on the basis that, had the circumstances been reversed, I hoped he would have made the same decision.
The lesson I took from this episode was that as soon as I determined that our passage to freedom had been well and truly blocked, it would be time to update our rather inchoate escape plans. I also realized that at some likely not distant point I would have to share this information with Louis in order to convince him that escape was worth the all too evident risks.
Late that evening the whole camp was moved from deep within the oasis at Not Yet to its edge. A huge, absolutely flat and empty expanse of desert stretched before us. Our sleeping position was right beside theirs on the edge of this sea of sand. They were extremely vigilant, and the heavy machine guns were mounted and manned throughout the night. For the first time, we saw distant lights moving about across the desert.
A Season in Hell Page 26