‘There is something that I have not told you,’ Bayo said.
‘Yes?’ Harry replied.
‘I have not spoken of this before, but I must be honest. It may give you reason to doubt me.’
‘I see that as unlikely, but tell us anyway.’
‘The leader of the group I am infiltrating. I know him.’
‘Murtada?’ said Aluko surprised. ‘How do you know him?’
‘He was a leader in our community,’ replied Bayo. ‘He comes from Kano. He came to my wedding.’
‘Why would he have come?’ Aluko was concerned.
‘He knew my father from childhood.’
‘Does this place any complications on our plan?’ Phil asked.
‘I met him briefly. It was before he had taken the leadership. I may be able to assimilate easier into the camp if I remind him.’
‘Aluko, what are your thoughts? You’ve known Bayo for some years,’ Harry asked.
‘I trust him. If it helps in the rescue, then I say we go with Bayo.’
Bayo, a wiry individual, small in stature, and quietly spoken hid underneath that modest exterior a determined and resolute personality. He was the ideal person for the job ahead.
Harry instructed Bayo on a plausible story. ‘You’re a dissolute Muslim living in Lagos, trying to provide for your family. The disparity of wealth and the corruption abhors you, and they dismissed you from your job for wanting to pray five times a day. They even cheated you out of your last three months’ pay.’
‘Dismissal, non-payment of salary happens all too often,’ Bayo replied.
‘We’d give you a mobile phone.’
‘It’s best if I do not carry anything that may break my story.’
‘Will you take a personal GPS tracker?’ It is not too large. If you are challenged or the situation looks dangerous, just dump it.’ Harry asked.
‘It places an additional risk on me.’
‘We need a reliable fix on Helen’s location. GPS coordinates would be best.’
‘How can I do that? It will be dangerous to take any electronics into the camp. They are bound to search me.’
‘Can you hide a small location GPS beacon outside the camp?’ asked Harry. ‘Go back later for it?’
‘I will try.’
After a few days of intensive training in covert operations, Bayo was ready. A willing and capable student, his lack of skills made up with courage and determination.
***
It was after Friday prayers that Bayo left for the northeast and Helen. The bus, old and full of rattles made reasonable progress for the first one hundred and fifty kilometres. The road continued to deteriorate, rendering the vehicle progressively more unreliable. He had purposely taken the cheapest bus, and with unrelenting predictability, it would break down. Anxious hours spent in the hot sun, while a bunch of amateur mechanics attempted to patch it up, only for it to lumber on to the next breakdown.
It was clear to him, as the vehicle inched its way to Baga and Helen, that the effects of the Islamic fundamentalists were all too apparent. The villages they passed through were becoming more conservative, more run-down, more devoid of people, especially females.
It disturbed him. As devout as he was, he did not aim to suppress his wife. She dressed conservatively but she had a voice, an independent spirit, a right to go on the street, to go to the shops, and at home, a right to express her views.
The few churches he saw, neglected and, in some cases, burnt to the ground, while the few women he did see, covered with their eyes focussed on the ground.
The Nigerian military he rarely saw and, for the last hundred kilometres before arriving in Baga, conspicuous by their absence. It was as if he had left his country. It felt to him alien and intimidating. Fifty kilometres out from Baga, they encountered their first roadblock. Boko Haram was very much in control. It was a case of everyone off the bus, baggage searched; they were quick to confiscate anything desirable and demanded payments for the upkeep of the roadblock. At least, that is what they said. Bayo was under no illusions; he saw it go in their back pockets.
‘Why are you here? You are not a local,’ an unpleasant, short man with crooked teeth and overpowering bad breath asked.
‘I have come from the south,’ replied Bayo. ‘I am a devout Muslim. I wish to embrace your cause.’
‘You look like a spy. Your dress, your manner is not of the north. You may not even be a Muslim.’
‘I come from Kano.’
‘The military try to infiltrate us. We kill them quickly. It would be best if I shot you now.’
‘Then, you better tell your leader that you shot Bayo, the son of his childhood friend because you couldn’t be bothered to check.’
‘Do not attempt to threaten?’
‘I tell the truth.’
‘Lies, it’s just lies. Only a fool of a spy would use our leader’s name in an attempt to save himself.’ He instructed two of his fellow road-blockers, busily sitting on the side of the road playing with an iPad they had just confiscated from a hapless teenage boy to bind Bayo.
No doubt, they will destroy it later, Bayo cynically thought.
‘Let the bus go,’ the man instructed. ‘This one stays with us.’
Luckily, Bayo had dumped the personal GPS tracker out of the window fifty metres down the road; the locator beacon, however, remained in his bag. As much as they had rifled through his belongings, they failed to notice the concealed pouch in the inner lining. They found five thousand Naira, the local currency, after that they lost interest.
‘Get the truth out of him,’ the crooked toothed man shouted.
‘You will regret this when I meet with Murtada.’
‘You will tell us the truth, and then we will kill you. He will congratulate us for intercepting a spy. Maybe, he will give us one of the schoolgirls as a reward.’
‘You insult the name of Allah with your disgusting mouth and your impure thoughts.’ Bayo realised he was in for a savage beating.
‘Only a soft, lily-livered Christian would care about a female. They are there for our benefit.’ shouted the man.’
‘A female is to be respected. What you do is contrary to Islam.’
‘It is clear that a captured female is for those who take her. You are a Christian, pretending to be Muslim.’ The man looked around at the two who had been playing with the iPad. ‘Beat the truth out of him.’
By the side of the road, Bayo received a savage beating. It was good that he was stronger than he appeared. Rifle butts, pieces of wood, fists in the guts and face would have sealed the fate of a weaker man. Bloodied, and barely conscious, the questioning recommenced.
‘Who are you?’
‘Adebayo.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘I have come to join Boko Haram.’
‘Lies! You are lying.’
‘It is the truth. Ask your leader, ask Mohammad Murtada. He will tell you who I am. He came to my wedding.’
‘He came from Kano. How could he have gone to your wedding?’
‘I told you before. I come from Kano.’
The mention of Kano caused his interrogator to pause, Bayo had mentioned it earlier, but the man had been both too stupid for it to register, too intent on inflicting a savage beating. Within his limited intellect, there dwelled the possibility that the man he had just ordered to be savagely beaten was telling the truth.
‘Ease his bindings,’ he commanded. ‘Give him some water.’ He looked at Bayo for a moment. ‘If I assume you are telling the truth and I am not convinced yet, what will you tell our leader when you meet him?’
‘I will tell him that I have come to join Boko Haram.’
‘No, I am not referring to that. I am referring to the treatment you have received here.’
‘I will tell him that you were diligent in your responsibility of not allowing potential troublemakers into the region. That you were attempting to flush out spies.’
‘Will you do that?�
��
‘Yes, I give you my word.’ Bayo saw no reason to mention the savage beating to Mohammad Murtada. He was there to locate Helen and to find out where Kate had gone.
‘If you are lying, then those at the camp will deal with you. If you attempt to escape my people, they will shoot you without hesitation.’
‘I will not give them a reason.’
Held securely in the back of an old Toyota truck, the vehicle moved slowly along the bumpy track. They passed Kukawa as they headed to the camp, close to the western shore of Lake Chad.
‘I need to pray.’ He had seen the camp, not more than five hundred metres from where they were. The vehicle had run out of fuel at the optimum moment, and his captors were busily attempting to fill the tank from an old metal can that had been on the back of the vehicle.
‘You can pray at the camp, it’s only a ten-minute walk from here.’
‘I must pray now. It is time.’ They had noticed that their captive was dedicated in his prayers, more determined than they were.
‘Five minutes only.’
‘That is fine.’ It was his time to prayer; it was also the ideal opportunity to place the locator beacon under a rock. He hoped that he would be able to get back in the next few days and activate it close to Helen.
After he had completed his devotions and loosely bound, they took him from the truck and led him to a small area near the centre of the camp.
‘Why are you here?’ Abacha asked.
‘I have come to join.’
‘Why should I believe you? Maybe you have come to cause trouble You look too well fed, too smart for me. I don’t trust you.’
‘Ask Mohammad Murtada. He will vouch for me.’
‘Yes, I was told that you know him. I hope your statement is correct. Otherwise, you will die quickly.’
‘It is true, I give you my word.’
Murtada was not in the camp, and would not be back for another day. In the meantime, Bayo remained under guard in a hut on one side of the camp. It was dirty and smelled almost as bad as his interrogator at the roadblock, but they showed him a degree of civility and provided him with food and water.
The next day, Murtada returned to the camp.
‘There is a new arrival,’ Abacha said to him. ‘He claims he knows you from Kano. His father was a childhood friend of yours.’
‘What is his name?’
‘Bayo.’
‘I know plenty of men who call themselves Bayo. Have you interrogated him?’
‘Not yet although it appears someone else had done before he arrived here.’
‘You should have roughed him up, checked his story.’
‘If he is who he says he is then I would not want to be responsible for beating the son of one of your friends.’
‘It would have made no difference to me,’ said Murtada. ‘Let me see him.’
Bayo observed that Murtada’s hut was larger and certainly cleaner than where he had spent the last day. It even had an agreeable smell.
‘I don’t know you. Who are you?’ Murtada said.
‘I am Adebayo, son of Audo Bayero. You came to my wedding.’
‘I go to many weddings, but the name of Audo Bayero is familiar to me. How do I know you are his son?’
‘My father told me that you both attended a madrassa in Fagge district. You were friends.
‘So did a lot of other people. I will need more convincing facts than that.’
‘At weekends a group of you would go fishing on the banks of the Kano River. You always caught the most fish.’
‘That is true. I was always the best; simpler days long past. Your father, assuming that I accept your story is correct, would not approve of your being here. He would certainly not approve of my actions and those of my group.’
‘My father would not recognise the need for violence as a solution.’
‘Then why do you not share the views of your father? You are showing him disrespect.’
‘I have come from the south. The Christians dismissed me for wanting to pray five times a day, and they failed to pay me for my last three months’ employment. They are aiming to suppress our beliefs. I cannot allow that. Hopefully, my father will understand my views in time.’
‘Many here are disrespecting the views of their fathers,’ replied Murtada. ‘It is unfortunate, but in time they will come to believe in the worth of our cause.’
He turned to Abacha. ‘I believe he is the son of my friend. He may have his liberty within the camp. Let him train with our men. If he is suitable, take him on a raid at your earliest opportunity. The worth of a man is only proven once he has been bloodied.’
The training, intense, the competency of his fellow foot soldiers, poor; it was difficult not to show his superior skills. He proved to be an accomplished actor and, within a week, all accepted him. He had first seen what appeared to be a white woman on the third day. He had only seen the back of a heavily covered female, but there was something about the way she stood erect and the way she walked. She was on the other side of the camp. To move closer would have raised suspicion.
The small group were taking a break from training and sitting under a tree drinking tea, laughing and joking. Lamido, a good-looking individual who could not have been more than fifteen, was showing off to his adult friends.
‘The fair-haired woman the trader took. How I would have worn her out,’ he bragged.
‘You’re just a boy. You would not have lasted five minutes. It’s a man she needs,’ another joked.
‘The trader will know the worth of her. He paid plenty, from what I heard.’ A tall, slim man, with a scar across his face, said.
‘Who is the trader?’ Bayo casually asked.
‘We only know him as the trader,’ Ado, the scar-faced individual replied. ‘He comes here sometimes, buys some of the girls.’
‘They call him Sheikh Idriss,’ Lamido said quickly, bragging again. ‘He comes from Chad.’
‘How do you know that?’ Ado asked.
‘I overheard Mohammad Murtada talking to Abacha.’
‘You’ll not make manhood if you listen in on their conversations.’
‘Is he right?’ Bayo attempted to show disinterest.
‘That’s all he knows, and all we want to know,’ replied Ado. ‘We don’t stick our noses in, or ask questions.’
‘He comes from Ndjamena,’ the young braggart said.
It was clear to Bayo that he had completed his activity in the camp. All he had to do now was to place the locator beacon close to Helen, to let her know help was coming.
How am I going to get the information down south as to where the other woman has gone? he thought.
He could not just walk out of the camp to pick up the locator beacon. He would have to wait for the right opportunity. The chance came after Friday prayers.
It was only five hundred metres away, but in the confines of the camp, it may well have been a thousand kilometres. In the informality of the afternoon, the camp was less restricted, movement not so carefully monitored. He and a group of newfound friends took the opportunity of a walk in the area close by the camp. Bayo steered them in the right direction.
‘I need to go to the toilet,’ he said. Facilities were limited in the camp; a latrine was behind the nearest tree or in a hole in the ground. His desire to head off the track would not raise concern. Quickly, he retrieved the locator beacon and hid it in the back pocket of his trousers.
Helen was startled when she heard English spoken. ‘Help is on the way. Act normal and stay prepared.’ The last person who had spoken fluent English had been Murtada. Standing to one side of her was a small, scruffy man with a rifle over his shoulder.
‘You…’ she started to speak.
‘Don’t talk to me. Act angry. Tell me to go away.’
She was quick to understand. ‘Keep away, you filthy little man.’
‘She told you quick enough,’ said one of his friends. ‘Abacha is screwing her; you’re playing with fire
there.’ They laughed and joked at his expense.
‘If he catches you, he’ll have your nuts,’ said another.
The last laugh, however, was to be on them. He had planted the activated locator on the roof of the hut. Now all he had to do was to get out of there.
His way out came sooner than expected. Abacha addressed the group the next morning.
‘There’s a small military detachment about ninety kilometres to the south. We are going to hit it. There have an armoured vehicle and some heavy duty trucks we could use.’
‘Are we taking Bayo?’ Ado asked.
‘He’s going to lead us in.’
‘It’s his first time. Is he ready?’
‘If he’s not, he’s dead.’
It was clear to Bayo this was to be his baptism of fire. He had to survive; he had to get a message to the team.
‘Okay with you, Bayo?’ Abacha asked teasingly. He was still not convinced. It may be one thing to be the son of a family friend of Murtada’s; it was another to be a dedicated Islamist.
‘I am fine. When do we go?’
‘In one hour.’
The journey took the best part of the day. The convoy of three trucks diverted at the sign of any habitation. It was imperative that as few people saw them as necessary, someone would tip off the authorities if it were to their financial advantage. At four in the afternoon, and five kilometres from the military post, they halted.
‘It should be easy,’ Abacha addressed the group. ‘We’ll go in at dusk when they’re settling in to their evening meal. There are two entrances, and neither is well guarded. I will head in through the rear; Bayo will lead in through the front. All clear with you?’ He directed his eyes at Bayo.
‘It is fine with me,’ replied Bayo.
‘You’re too confident for my liking. I don’t trust you.’
‘Murtada does.’
‘I know, but you need to prove yourself to me. If you are successful today, then you will also have my trust.’
Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set Page 82