The three boats were ready, sheltering behind a sandbank close to shore waiting for the light to dim. The sky was cloudy, the moon largely concealed, and the security on the platform would be complacent. The oil companies always felt more secure when there was open sea separating them from the coast.
‘How did production go today?’ Fred Hewitt enquired. This was to be his last job as Operations Manager. He was in his fifties, still looking good for his age, and fast approaching retirement back home in Akron, Ohio. After some twenty-five years out on oil platforms and rigs around the world, he had seen enough. He had a hundred acre farm that he intended to run some cattle on, grow his own vegetables and live a simple life, as self-sufficient as he could make it.
‘The centrifuge on number four rig gave some trouble, but we soon fixed it up,’ replied Gerry Wrightson. ‘I can’t wait to get back on terra firma.’
He, like Fred, had spent too many years sitting out in the sea in some depressing part of the world. Not that he had much to show for his years of working. It was invariably three weeks on, two weeks off.
Unlike Fred, who always took the opportunity to go home to his wife, Victoria, the three kids, and four dogs, Gerry headed for the fleshpots of the world. Two weeks of whoring, drinking and over-indulging, and there was his pay down the drain. Still, he enjoyed it, but now he regretted that he had not put some aside for the eventual rainy day. His lifestyle, coupled with the exotic tattoos and the earrings that some whore on a commission had talked him into when he was drunk, gave him the look of a loser. Still, Fred had to admit, he was the best Maintenance Manager on any of the Exxon rigs.
‘How long is it before your next break, Gerry?’ Fred asked.
‘Two weeks.’
‘Where is it this time?’
‘Bangkok.’
‘You must have run out of places and girls there. How many times is it now?’ laughed Fred.
‘It must be at least ten or eleven. I always seem to end up there. Believe me, you can never run out of girls there.’
‘I don’t know where you get the energy from.’
‘I get the energy from them. They are very obliging.’
‘It is your money they are after, not your charm.’
‘I know that, but for a few weeks it’s harmless and then I can handle another three weeks on this old heap of metal. For the first week I’m glad of the break, now I can’t wait to get back to them.’
‘These raids on the rigs in the Delta are disturbing. Either of you guys worried?’ Harry Greenock asked. He was the drilling superintendent on the rig. The North of England was home, and he longed to return. The climate was just too hot and even if the weather in the UK was abysmal, he preferred the drizzling rain and the damp underfoot. Even the slushy snow in winter, the car sliding across the road, appealed to him. England, the home of the British pub, and there was nothing he cherished more than a pint or two down at the local watering hole.
‘As long as the company takes us on and off by helicopter, then I’m okay,’ Fred replied.
‘I’m okay, although I don’t like the ride from the heliport to the airport in Port Harcourt, even with the security,’ Gerry answered.
‘That’s how I see it,’ Harry said, ‘the ride to the airport.’
All three, experienced as they were in matters pertaining to oil and its extraction, were naïve in the cunning and stealth of Soboma Tom. As they spoke at the end of a long day, Soboma and his cohorts were closing in on the platform. Security was tight and it was good, but it was not tight enough for the events that were to unfold within the next thirty minutes.
‘We want the Westerners unharmed and alive.’ Soboma gave his last instructions before they commenced their rapid advance. ‘Don’t shoot any of them, even if they shoot at you. They’re worth at least one million dollars each, possibly two, and I am not going to have one of you excluding us from that money.’
He knew he had to drum it in constantly. Willing, enthusiastic, and invariably brave – at least, braver than him – they were not too bright. A Kalashnikov, or an AK47 in their hand, and they would be showing off to their colleagues.
‘Ten minutes and we move in fast,’ he continued. ‘Remember, they’ll have good security. We head for the central platform and the main office. You can see it standing proud.’
As darkness came, the boats moved in quickly, Soboma in the lead. However, as his driver knew, once they were close to the docking bay, he had to ease the throttle and let the other two boats reach the ladder leading up first.
Security on the platform was good, mainly ex-Nigerian military, although this time with Exxon’s Security Chief, Barry Duffield on board, they were at their most diligent, their most professional.
Duffield, in his forties, hailed from Sydney, Australia and, as with all oilmen, he was weary of the travel, the isolation that accompanied the job. There was no weariness with the salary that he received. He had spent it well; a couple of investment units in central Sydney provided a reasonable return, together with a house up on the Northern Beaches for his family. Every two to three weeks he was out of the office and out to an oil rig somewhere. The last one was in the South China Sea, this time, Nigeria; next time, he was not sure.
‘Security is not bad,’ he had confided to Fred Hewitt earlier in the day. ‘They need some more discipline, stronger adherence to the guidelines, but overall not too bad.’
It may have been good, but it was not perfect. Soboma had the advantage of a contact at Exxon’s office in Port Harcourt, a friend from his childhood whose life had taken a different road.
Emmanuel was a good person but, with a burgeoning family, his wife expecting again, he needed the money. Exxon, for all its visible wealth – the office manager drove around in an armour-plated Range Rover – he was barely able to put food on the table. He had tried to be honest and decent, but those that he attempted to look up to treated him with indifference.
Soboma Tom may well have been a criminal, but he was more honourable than the company Emmanuel worked for. Soboma would hold to his word, and ten thousand dollars in local currency was a fortune. How could he resist? He could not bear to go home and see his children complaining of being hungry, his wife in discomfort with a difficult pregnancy. She needed to be in a good hospital, and now he could give that to her.
‘Anyone black, shoot, whether they are holding a gun or not. White, do not shoot,’ Soboma shouted as the first boat made contact with the rig. At least ten of Soboma’s men killed in the first couple of minutes; it was not going well.
‘Get up there and take control!’ he screamed at the other fighters, who were cowering behind a metal structure down one level from the main deck. ‘Either you go up or I will shoot you from down here.’
With such incentive, they moved forward. The two in the lead, dead before they had moved ten metres. Barry Duffield had felt obliged to enter the fray. As the head of security, he could not stand up in front of his superiors at the inevitable grilling over the incident and state that he stayed safe in the office.
Soboma had seen the white guy and he did not want him dead.
‘Leave the white guy with the gun to me,’ he shouted.
He had to admit it was not a bad shot; he managed to hit Duffield in the shoulder. Incapacitated and in severe pain, he would make a good ransom.
With the security subdued, they took the main office with little trouble. Three Westerners, as well as the Westerner with the gunshot, made four.
‘We need more whites. Find two more,’ Soboma commanded. ‘Look in the living quarters down below.’
In two minutes, three of his fighters returned with a couple of frightened men.
‘Where are you from?’ Soboma shouted.
‘Canada,’ the taller individual replied.
‘America,’ the other said.
‘They’ll do. Secure the area; we leave now. Six is enough.’
Chapter 11
The morning after the kidnapping of the men
off the oilrig, Steve Case received a phone call from Sam Anders, Deputy Head of Exxon Security.
‘I need your team down in Nigeria.’ It was rare that management phoned personally.
‘They’re busy with a rescue in Southern Iraq. What’s the problem?’ He realised the reference to the team could only mean one thing – a kidnapping. He had met Anders back in the States a few years earlier. They had been thrashing out a contract for Counter Insurgencies Ltd to take the lead role in the ransom negotiation and the rescue of Exxon’s personnel worldwide.
‘There’s been an attack on one of our sites. Six expats have been taken.’
‘Send me the details and I will get the team working on the situation. I can have them there in three days. Any ransom demands?’
‘Two million dollars each, or else they’ll send body parts as an incentive for us to pay. They appear better organised, more educated, more ruthless than those we have dealt with in the past. If they say body parts, then I believe that is what they will do.’ Anders was obviously agitated and anxious. He had been a calm, impassioned negotiator when Exxon had been discussing a business relationship with Steve previously.
Steve would have expected Barry Duffield, Exxon’s head of security, a friend of the family to make the phone call, not Sam Anders.
‘Who will we meet in Port Harcourt?’ he asked. ‘Will it be you or Barry?’
‘Certainly not Barry, he’s one of those kidnapped.’
‘How did that come about?’
‘It was coincidental. He was making a random check on one of our platforms.’
‘Coincidental sounds too easy. Your Head of Security will command a high ransom. I suggest you check all the people in your office that could have passed information. Look for unusual behaviour, obvious signs of newly-acquired wealth.’
‘When can you be here? We need to act quickly.’ Anders was impatient for support.
‘The ransom and rescue team will be available within three days.’
‘Is it the same team that we know from Iraq? Is Yanny with them?’
‘The same team, and yes, Yanny is with them.’
Sam Anders remembered Yanny from a previous meeting. He, like most men, went week at the knees in her presence. In her mid-thirties, she had a unique and distinctive beauty, the result of a German father, and a Senegalese mother.
Her mother promised since childhood to the youngest brother of the last King of the royal house of Jogo. Her father, Hermann Schmidt, the senior engineer for a large engineering company upgrading the container loading facilities at the port. They met, fell in love and married after a short courtship. Fatou, Yanny’s mother, immediately disowned by her family. At the age of seven, Yanny and her family relocated back to Hamburg in Germany.
She remained there until her early twenties. Academically gifted, she graduated from the Hamburg University of Applied Sciences with a bachelor’s degree in Foreign Trade/International Management. She was part way through a degree in International Business when approached by German military intelligence.
‘Warum willst du mich?’ Yanny asked.
‘Please, English,’ Major Baumgartner had said. ‘It gives us a little more security to discuss openly, and I am well-aware that your command of the English language is flawless. So, are your French and Arabic?’ Seated in the library at the University, there were people who would feel the need to eavesdrop for no apparent other reason than sheer nosiness.
‘What do you want with me?’ she had asked. ‘I have never shown any interest in the military. I’m studying international business.’
‘It is not the military per se that requires you.’
‘Why? What could I possibly bring that you must already have amongst your enlisted personnel?’
‘You have certain attributes that are unique. One being your command of languages, and we would ensure that you would receive intensive training in the language where we require you to go and secondly, your distinctive looks. It will allow you to go undercover into a society where a blue-eyed German man or woman could not.’
‘Are you saying this is dangerous?’
‘Yes, extremely dangerous. You would, however, receive the best training, the best support possible – and, of course, all your academic studies, current and future, will be fully covered by the government.’
‘Danger is not necessarily the major issue, but I will need full details and an open and candour disclosure of what is required.’ She had an adventurous spirit, and study, no matter how much she enjoyed it, after so many years, was becoming tiresome. She needed a break and this appeared to be an ideal opportunity.
‘Next week is a break at the university,’ said the Major. ‘If you can come to our office in Berlin, we will explain. All expenses paid, of course.’
‘I will be there,’ Yanny was intrigued by what she had heard and excited at the possibility of meeting the Major again.
Six months later, she was in Afghanistan, fluent in Pashto, and exceptionally well trained in the use of weapons and hand-to-hand combat. An admirable fighting machine, she would don a burka and go undercover. There had been two lovers at the University, neither long term. Major Baumgartner was to be her third at the end of the week in Berlin.
For her, it was love, for him as well. The Major was to die in Kabul three months later, the result of an explosive device placed under the armoured vehicle he was travelling in on the outskirts of the city. Vowing never to fall in love again, there was the occasional one nightstand, before a major operation that could result in death.
‘You realise what we’re asking of you?’ Colonel Smyth of the British Army had said. ‘You understand the risks? We may not be able to rescue you.’
A veteran of several campaigns in Afghanistan, he realised that a woman suitably clad and with a submissive manner would be able to get in closer to sensitive Taliban positions. They derided women and as much as they would hurl abuse and throw stones, even hit with a rifle butt, they would not come too close in case she was unclean, menstruating.
‘Your ability to integrate into the local community is uncanny,’ Smyth complimented. ‘I have never seen anyone else as capable as you at such a deception.’
‘I understand different cultures,’ she replied. ‘I came from a family background totally different to the Western ideal. I do not aim to understand how the local society operates; I just sense it and adjust. My fluency in Pashto is almost perfect, although my accent sometimes raises comment. Apart from that, I am virtually indistinguishable.’
‘We need you to go down into Helmand Province. There is a small village in the Upper Gereshk Valley, about forty-eight kilometres from Lashkar Gah, the principal city in the region. We believe there is a substantial bomb-making facility located in the mosque. We want to knock it out, but there are too many civilians close by. The best way is to get in close on foot and identify precise locations; a drone will deal with removing it. Are you willing?’
‘In the past, it’s always been surveillance from a distance. On some of these, I have received severe beatings with rifle butts, been pelted with stones. Is it critical?’
‘We are planning a major offensive, the biggest so far. We need to ensure the ability of the Taliban to respond is curtailed. We cannot risk a random bombing; there would be too many casualties. A drone will do the job if you give us very precise coordinates. The locals have no great love for the Taliban, but they would embrace them if we kill too many of their innocent relatives.’
‘I will do it, but I need a male relative with me. Anyone you trust?’
‘Najib can be trusted. The mission starts in two days.’
It was with the forewarning of danger, the fragility of her life that the usually calm and sensible Yanny felt the need to rebel, the need to party, the need of a man. She had met a handsome individual at the German restaurant in Kabul; his surname she never asked, and she barely remembered his Christian name the day after, seriously drunk as she had been that night. He was American,
attractive and available; they hit it off instantly.
The next morning, she left him curled up in bed and headed off to her assignment. It was to be some years in the future that she would realise the person interviewing her for a position as an operative of Counter Insurgencies Ltd was, in fact, the same man from that one-night stand. She had been attracted to him then, initially as a lay before a mission; however, at the interview, she realised the attraction had been more than a fleeting moment. For her, she saw love, but Steve Case in the interim had met Megan, now at home looking after his two children. It was complicated and embarrassing. Steve calmed the way.
‘Yanny, I want you on the team. The past is a wonderful memory, a wild night where we both gave it to the moment. No one will ever know.’
***
‘We’ve just received part of someone’s ear, complete with earring,’ Phil Marshall said.
‘It’s Gerry Wrightson, the maintenance manager. He is the only that matches the description,’ Yanny replied.
It had been ten days since Steve’s team had arrived in Port Harcourt. Well-seasoned, they had been together for a few years.
Phil Marshall, the oldest of the team in his mid-fifties, was especially handy with a knife, not squeamish to use it. He had worked undercover in Afghanistan and Iraq with the Special Air Service Regiment, an elite branch of the Australian military. He was adept at adopting local dress and mannerism, and picking up the local languages. With a tendency to overcompensate in his physical and sexual prowess to deny the ageing process, he was susceptible to the charms of the local women of the night and fond of a few beers. A laconic, laid-back character of medium height with dark hair, he had a ruddy complexion indicative of the outdoor life that had been his childhood, and an accent straight out of a Crocodile Dundee movie.
‘This is getting serious,’ said Yanny. ‘We have six hostages and it appears that three have been mutilated. This is unusual behaviour for Southern Nigeria. It’s purely money with these guys, yet here they are damaging the merchandise.’
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