Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘I will not let them touch me,’ Kate said.

  ‘You cannot stop them. If you resist, they will beat you savagely until you submit. I have experienced rape and sex with violent, drunk, fat, and smelly men before. I know what they’re capable of.’

  Kate sobbed and dozed as the kilometres passed by. The vehicles stopped only for sustenance, fuel and prayers. It was dusty and hot and the roads became progressively worse.

  In the early hours of the morning, just before daylight, they reached a remote location from where they could see no signs of civilisation.

  ‘I think we have stopped,’ Helen said. ‘There appears to be some sort of camp.’

  ‘What will they do with us?’ Kate asked again. Helen was becoming annoyed with the constant questioning.

  Abacha came round to the back door of the car, dragged them out, and made them sit on the ground. Hands and feet bound, they suffered the glaring eyes of the insurgents in the camp, and the pawing from many. Abacha saw what was happening.

  ‘Leave them alone! Their fate is a decision for our leader, Mohammad Murtada. Anyone who harms them will suffer his wrath.’ It had only a momentary effect on those assembled.

  ‘You have set a dangerous precedent,’ said Mohammed Murtada, the leader of the insurgency. ‘I am not pleased. A few local girls will raise some concerns, but it is only rhetoric from the West and the Nigerian military; they cannot do much. White women and we will have the weight of the Western military coming down on us.’

  While Abacha was distracted, some of the men started ripping the clothes off the woman.

  ‘Don’t touch us!’ Helen screamed. ‘Your leader has killed some of you for touching us. He will kill you.’

  It was to no avail. Deprived of women apart from the occasional captured black schoolgirl, and never having touched a white woman, they were out of control.

  ‘Help, help us,’ Kate screamed at the top of her voice.

  Abacha heard and came running. He quickly grabbed the women and pulled them to safety. Still some of the men came following at speed, oblivious to Abacha and Murtada.

  ‘Stop or I will shoot,’ Abacha shouted.

  ‘We want the women,’ one of the men shouted. ‘They are our right, our gift from Allah.’ With that, Abacha levelled his AK47 and emptied its barrel. Five died before he regained control of the situation.

  Chapter 8

  Mohammad Murtada was an intelligent man, the most determined of the Islamic fundamentalists: Intelligence that had allowed him to gain the leadership of an organisation that did not value education or at least a Western education.

  At the age of thirty-five, Allah had spoken to him in a dream. He had commanded him to reject Western influence and to embrace Sharia.

  His upbringing as the second eldest son of a wealthy trader in Kano, in the North of Nigeria, was in stark contrast to the austere life that he led now. Gifted with a good education and a command of languages, he spoke fluent English and Arabic. He had joined, embraced and, in a matter of years, achieved the leadership of an organisation rooted in the dark ages. An organisation whose primary tenet was the abhorrence and total rejection of the education that he had received.

  He had left the confines of a comfortable life in the suburbs as a dignified and upright man in his mid-thirties. In time, and with the demanding lifestyle of a jihadist constantly on the move, his personality and appearance had transformed from distinguished and agreeable to dishevelled and unpleasant.

  ‘Abacha, you have brought immeasurable trouble for us. You should never have brought these white women here. Better they were dead at their compound than alive here.’ It confused Abacha; he saw them as valuable assets, not as difficulties.

  ‘I thought you would be pleased. They will bring a good ransom, and the trader will pay highly for the fair-haired woman.’

  ‘I am not pleased. You have not considered the situation. Do you think the Western governments will allow their women to be taken?’

  ‘They are infidels. What can they do? Besides, they are only women.’

  ‘Then you are more stupid than I imagined. Do you not realise the strength of their militaries? Heathen, non-believers they may be, but they have weapons of which we can only dream. They will make our life extremely difficult.’

  ‘Then I was wrong.’ Abacha did not understand, but Murtada was wise, he was not.

  ‘Yes, but now we must deal with the situation. It is too late to take them back,’ Murtada said. ‘We must attempt to gain some advantage of the situation. You are right. The slave trader will be interested in the fair-haired woman. The other one we can try and ransom back.’

  ‘What is the condition of the women?’ Murtada asked.

  ‘They are safe and isolated from the men. The fair-headed woman is very nervous; the dark-haired woman is calm. There was trouble when we captured them; the fighters were unable to control their hands. I shot one of them in the head.’

  ‘You see the trouble that these women cause. A black female is of little concern, but white women will drive any of the men in the camp mad with lust.’

  ‘The one I killed in the compound was one of my best fighters. On the trip here, I nearly beat another to death for the same reason.’

  ‘It is up to you to ensure that your men fear you more than the passion they feel for these women. Any problems and I will hold you responsible.’

  ‘I will ensure they are safe and secure.’

  ‘I wish to see the women now,’ Murtada commanded. ‘I want to know that the risk you have placed us under will be compensated by a suitable financial gain.’

  Abacha took Murtada to a small building on the far edge of the camp. Mud brick and surrounded by a wall, it offered some privacy from the prying eyes and the amorous advances of the men. There were close to two hundred men in the camp, and none would have maintained control for very long. Even Abacha’s retribution for violating his orders would only serve as a minor deterrent. The two women had received food and water and they were free to move around in their confined enclosure. The guards posted at the entrance constantly undressed them with their lecherous glances.

  ‘What is happening?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Kate, you keep asking,’ Helen replied. ‘I assume they are figuring out what to do with us.’

  ‘Do you think my father knows?’

  ‘Probably, but what can he do?

  ‘Are they going to rape us?’ Kate obsessed over her possible violation.

  ‘I don’t know. You saw the young women on the way in. I think they came from the Christian School attacked a few weeks back. Some appear to be with the men. At least, that was how it appeared.’

  ‘Will they do that to us?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ replied Helen, exasperated by Kate’s questioning. ‘I just don’t know. Worrying about it will achieve nothing.’

  Murtada entered alone into the enclosure where Helen and Kate were confined. ‘I apologise for your treatment,’ he said in perfect English. ‘I will endeavour to ensure that you are both kept comfortable.’

  ‘Why are you holding us? Why did you kill our friends?’ Helen said angrily.

  ‘Please Helen, he speaks English.’ Kate had misinterpreted fluent English for a compassionate man. She was severely wrong. He was not concerned about how they were. He knew the repercussions if they were poorly treated or physically harmed.

  ‘My father will pay well for our return.’

  ‘Kate, say no more.’ Helen could sense the foolishness, the naivety of what she was saying.

  ‘My father is Bob McDonald. He has a lot of business in Nigeria.’

  ‘Where is he?’ said Murtada.

  ‘I don’t know. I assume he will be in Port Harcourt now. He will pay well for our return.’

  ‘Then he will be contacted.’

  ‘If you do not send us back immediately, he will send people to free us.’

  ‘He would not be wise to attempt. You have seen what my people are capable of. If ther
e is any attempt, rest assured that the two of you will be killed before you could be freed.’

  ‘Kate, don’t you see?’ said Helen sharply. ‘He speaks English, but he is as savage as those who killed our friends.’

  ‘You are wiser than your friend,’ said Murtada with a slight smile. ‘I would not kill you, or anyone else personally, but I would have no hesitation in ordering your execution. You are merely women and Christian women at that. You are an asset that I now need to rid myself of.’

  It was clear to Murtada that the dark-haired female was more knowledgeable about the realities of the world. The fair-haired woman was innocent, naïve and simplistic; she may even be a virgin. He would tell the slave trader that she was.

  ‘The food and water we have been given is making us ill,’ Helen said. ‘We need medicine and a doctor.’ Both of them were suffering from severe stomach cramps and diarrhoea.

  ‘We are both ill,’ she added. ‘We cannot keep any food down for more than a few minutes.’

  ‘It is the same food and water that we have,’ Murtada responded sharply. ‘You need to adjust to local conditions. This is not the decadent West.’

  ‘It was you who said that we were to be secure and comfortable,’ replied Helen. ‘It will be of no advantage if we are dead.’

  ‘You are correct. I cannot allow you to die.’

  The rebel leader issued an immediate order to the guards at the entrance. ‘Get a doctor. I cannot have them in this condition. Also, clean clothing and warm water for washing. Get some of the captured women to come and look after them.’

  Within the space of a few days, Helen and Kate’s treatment, although measurably improved, was far from ideal. The accommodation, roughly constructed was comprised of two rooms, with a basic kitchen and a toilet that consisted of a hole in the ground outside. Walled in and held securely, the two women supplied with some food – rice and chicken mainly – and bottled water. The women assigned to look after them did the cooking and their health improved. With their renewed strength and vigour, however, came the inevitable grief. Kate was often in tears.

  She should have not been at the mission in the first place, Helen thought. Grieving as she was, she suppressed her feelings. She had decided she would grieve later; for now, she needed to stay resolute for the two of them.

  It was some time later that Murtada met with Abacha. ‘They will bring a good ransom, especially the fair-haired one. We will conduct an auction with her father – she gave me his name – and the slave trader. The dark-haired one is older, and not so beautiful or innocent; he will not want her.’

  ‘What does he do with them, the slave trader?’ Abacha asked.

  ‘I have not asked. I prefer not to know.’

  ‘Have you thought how much to ask for the fair-haired woman?’

  ‘You ask too many questions. That is not of any concern to you. Your interest is to ensure that they are secure and unharmed. The fair-haired female will attain a substantial price, I am sure of that. Apart from that, it is for you to take your responsibility seriously. Too many men have already died because of these women. I do not want anymore.’

  ‘Normally I would take one of the females as a reward,’ replied Abacha. ‘I would have taken the fair-haired one for myself.’ He was angling for Helen.

  ‘Do not even consider it,’ Murtada replied.

  ‘May I have the dark-haired female?’

  ‘Yes, but she is to be treated well. She will still command a substantial ransom, and whether she is raped or not will not impact on her value.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘She is yours until the ransom is received,’ added Murtada. ‘But remember, if she is harmed or marked by your brutality, then I will have you killed. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’ Abacha was delighted.

  ***

  ‘Leave her alone, you filthy swine,’ Kate shouted, trying to drag Helen away from the firm grip of Abacha.

  ‘Kate, don’t interfere,’ Helen said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘He can do nothing to me that I have not experienced in the past. I can calm him down; control him. He will ensure we are well-treated as a result.’

  ‘But, he’s going to rape you.’

  ‘It is only rape if I resist, and I have no intention of allowing him to use force.’

  ‘How can you let him touch you? He is foul. He killed Zebediah, Mary and Duncan.’

  ‘I know what he did. Just calm down, we are going to survive. It’s only my body he wants.’

  Kate, devastated, relented. She knew of Helen’s past and, besides, she was a more resilient character than she would ever be.

  In the confines of his hut, the murderer of her friends attempted to take Helen the way he had with his wife and the schoolgirls they had captured in the past.

  ‘Stop!’ she screamed. Having got this attention, she sat him down firmly on a chair and gave him the full treatment of her skills. She was tender, loving, gentle, and he loved it. He had never experienced anything like this before. She had shown nakedness, whereas before he had to enforce it. She had kissed him in return, instead of his mouth hard against the woman’s until forced open.

  She pretended to enjoy the experience, but could not with the man who had been responsible for the deaths at the mission and the kidnapping of both her and Kate. Besides, she had decided long ago that men and sex no longer had a part in her life; any pleasure in the physical act driven from her after years down by the docks in Liverpool.

  She showed him how to savour lovemaking, that it did not need to be force and subjugation, and then penetration until his lust was sated. With Helen, the ecstasy prolonged for hours.

  For Abacha, he felt euphoria, a feeling he had not experienced before. He felt tenderness and a fondness for this dark-haired white woman. He did not know what it was, but it was love. She only wished him dead, but she still had to protect Kate and herself. Once free of his clutches and safely ensconced back into civilisation, she would have been glad to hear of his death.

  Chapter 9

  Soboma Tom was a criminal. However, he did not see himself as such. He believed he was a visionary leader, a freedom fighter for his people in the south.

  Life had been tough in the Agip waterside shantytown in Port Harcourt, Nigeria. His father he never knew; he could have been one of the many men his mother had entertained over the years.

  ‘Get off to school,’ his mother would always say, but she was not often there. She may have been interested, but she still had to put food on the table, keep a roof over their heads. Schooling from the age of five to nine was infrequent; after that, it was virtually non-existent. Naturally smart, he was literate and could do his sums. By the age of eleven, he joined his first street gang; he became an area boy, that peculiarly Nigerian term for a group of hooligans.

  ‘You can start by begging down in the centre. Look as though you are starving and desperate. If you get a chance, when they open the window to give you some money, grab whatever you can.’

  His introduction to a life of crime was to the point. Dele was the leader of the ‘area boys’ in the shanty town where he lived. A swaggering, tall and skinny elder of sixteen, he had the look that appealed to Soboma.

  Dele carried a knife. ‘I’ve carved up a few with this. I even killed one old man who wouldn’t give me his car.’ He proudly bragged as though it was a badge of honour.

  Soboma was not shocked. He had seen violence – you could not avoid it living in an impoverished shanty. He had even experienced it; he had walked in on his mother with her latest client, an unpleasant swarthy man who went by the name of Blade.

  No one seemed to know his real name, but he was vicious and the name fitted his claim to fame: swift with a knife and always ready for a fight. His mother, Fortune, had been on top of him, her pendulous breasts bouncing up and down; he was breathing heavily when Soboma innocently walked in.

  ‘I’ll kill you for interrupting me when I’m busy,’ Blade screamed.


  ‘Sorry, it was an accident. Please don’t hurt me.’

  ‘Leave him alone. He meant no harm.’ Fortune tried to intervene.

  Quick as a flash, Blade jumped off the bed, grabbed Soboma by the arm and thrust a knife aiming for his throat. Soboma was fast. He was only six and he got away with a small cut on the shoulder. Fortune leapt in to defend him; she received a swift kick in the face and a knife to the abdomen. Two weeks in the hospital and then there was another man on the same bed with her. She had to earn a living.

  By the age of sixteen, Soboma, a natural leader, had his own group to hassle cars, pick the pockets of careless people, and extort money from foolish old people that were out at night. He now had a knife, like Dele’s, only his was bigger. He had not killed anyone yet.

  His mother died of AIDS by the time of his thirteenth birthday; he did not miss her greatly. She had never been a good role model, and anyway he had moved out three years earlier.

  He had one redeeming trait: he liked to read. This, coupled with his naturally good intelligence, gave him a solid if unusual education. He was certainly smarter than his fellow hooligans, most of whom were barely literate.

  ‘It is time for me to take the leadership.’ He had issued a challenge to Dele for the control of their local group of area boys. Dele, past his prime at twenty-one, and besides, the group already looked to Soboma for instruction.

  The leadership decided by a knife fight. First to concede would be the loser. Down by the docks, a hidden patch of ground where they would not be disturbed. The local gang, over thirty members, assembled to watch the proceedings.

  Dele was nervous. He knew Soboma was going to be a tough nut to crack. He knew he would have to kill him. Soboma, equally nervous, was at least sober; Dele had consumed some Dutch courage, courtesy of a bottle of whisky.

  ‘First to concede is the loser’ Bobby, a member of the gang, was to be the referee, not that there would be much need of interpretation of the rules of engagement. There was only one rule: concede or die.