Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘We will be successful,’ Bayo replied confidently.

  Abacha knew a frontal attack would draw the maximum response from the soldiers. It was a suicide mission for the first two or three going in, and Bayo was to be in the first two or three. If he died, so much the better, if he lived, and proved to be a dedicated Islamist, he would be a threat to Abacha’s position as a Senior Commander. Better, he was dead.

  Bayo realised that Abacha had deemed him expendable. He still had not relayed the knowledge he had regarding Kate; he had to live. Clearly, there must be a better way to secure a military base than blindly rushing at the gate.

  Abacha had moved to the rear, intending to wait a few minutes after Bayo had stormed the front.

  ‘We will be mowed down if we rush the gate,’ Bayo said to the eight fighters with him.

  ‘Abacha ordered us to attack,’ said one.

  ‘Then he is wrong. Do you want to die?’

  ‘If we do not follow his orders, he will kill us for disobedience,’ replied another. A disparate group of individuals, they saw Abacha as their superior in both intellect and authority.

  They would rather commit suicide than disobey him, Bayo thought. What use are they to me? If they want to rush the front gate, so be it. I will not.

  At the nominated time, one of the trucks ramming it broached the gate. The frontal attack group moved in, all except Bayo, who had climbed the wall on the left side of the entrance. The soldiers guarding the military base quickly responded. Of the eight fighters, five fell in the first two minutes. Two of the army personnel gunned down in the confusion.

  ‘Commence the attack.’ Abacha had heard the shooting and he felt sure that with the soldiers’ attention diverted, he would have the upper hand

  Bayo found an office to one side of the yard. There was a satellite phone and it was charged. He needed to be on a roof for it to work. Quickly, he saw some stairs leading up.

  He dialled the team, Harry answered. ‘I found one of the women. She knows we’re coming.’

  ‘We picked up the locator beacon. A rescue team is on the way. What did you find out about Kate?’

  ‘She is with a Sheikh Idriss, an Arab from Chad. Apparently, he lives in the capital and buys local girls to sell as wives in Cameroon.’

  ‘You need to get out of there as soon as possible.’

  It was then that Abacha glanced up at the roof. He saw Bayo with a phone. Always a good shot, he levelled his rifle and shot him straight through the heart.

  ‘I intend to leave…’ Bayo would never see his newborn son.

  Chapter 17

  It was up to Harry to pass on the information from Bayo. The noise of the gunshot and Bayo’s scream of agony had told him that the brave volunteer had died at the hands of Boko Haram. He chose not to mention it when he contacted Steve with an update. ‘Kate is in Chad. We have a precise location on Helen.’

  ‘When can we rescue Helen?’ Phil asked. He was with Harry waiting in Abuja. He was ready to move forward to a rescue.

  ‘Let’s aim for seven days,’ said Steve. ‘We need to find Kate first.’

  ‘You’re right,’ replied Harry. ‘Rescue one and the word gets through to the other’s captor, it could be precarious.’

  ‘How do we deal with Chad? I don’t know anyone there,’ Steve said.

  ‘I do,’ Harry said.

  ‘You never cease to amaze.’ Phil did not understand Steve’s comment; he was not privy to the details of Harry’s illustrious ancestry.

  ‘Ahmed Sahoulba,’ said Harry. ‘His father was the Chadian Ambassador in Paris.’

  ‘How do you know the son of the Chadian Ambassador in France?’ Phil asked.

  ‘It’s a long story. We spent time at a ski school in the French Alps. We still keep in touch, meet up occasionally.’

  ‘Your family must have been loaded,’ Phil said.

  Harry had just turned fifteen at the time, and breaks from boarding school always presented difficulties for his father, the honourable Earl. A jealous, possessive man with a rampant, horny teenage son did not gel, especially now he had a new wife. Harry’s mother had died when he had reached the age of nine, tragically in a car accident the night the Earl had passed her over for his mistress, who was soon to become his second wife. The latest, his third, an attractive brunette he had met in a seedy strip joint, was no more than five years older than Harry was, and sexually precocious.

  The Earl, no matter how much he exercised, no matter how many performance-enhancing drugs could not keep up with his young wife’s incessant demands. He could not satisfy her, but Harry may have and he would have been easy prey. The Earl was not taking any chances. He knew she was there for the money and title, but he still expected fidelity on her part – or, at least until he had tired of her.

  ‘I’m sending you to a ski school in the Alps,’ his father, the Earl Hampden had said.

  ‘Can’t I stay here for once?’ Harry, the sexually ready virgin, asked. He had seen the brunette and she was making passes at him.

  Ahmed and Harry had met the first day at the ski school and formed an extraordinary and deep friendship, one the son of a member of the English aristocracy, the other a Chadian Ambassador. Harry was there because he was a threat to his father’s sexual activities; Ahmed because his father was too busy with affairs of state. Regardless of the honourable reason of one and the lasciviousness of the other, both were resentful of their treatment. Weeks spent discussing the validity of the English aristocracy in a modern capitalist system, prolonged discussions on Islam in a secular society, and both aiming to seduce some of the beautiful teenage women during their four-week sojourn.

  ‘There are those in my country who profess a deep devotion to Islam,’ Ahmed said. ‘Yet they conduct activities contrary to what you would regard as acceptable.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Harry.

  ‘The Koran states that a woman is to be treated with respect, yet there are some who subjugate, suppress their women. Keep them in locked houses; treat them as no more than chattels.’

  ‘My father shows them little more respect,’ said Harry bitterly. ‘They are purely for his entertainment.’

  ‘But they have freedom of movement, and he ensures they are looked after well financially. Is that not true?’

  ‘Yes, you are correct. I am just angry that each holiday he shuffles me off to somewhere or the other.’

  ‘If he had not, we would not have met,’ Ahmed said.

  ‘That is true.’

  ‘I have heard that, within my country, slavery still exists,’ continued Ahmed.

  ‘Slavery?’ said Harry surprised. ‘I thought that disappeared last century?’

  ‘That is an official stance, but feudalism, the selling of children as domestic servants to tend animals, is still there. They portray it as indentured labour, but I do not believe that to be the case. My father, a wise man, confided in me that it still occurs.’

  It had been a few years since Ahmed and Harry had last met. It came as a surprise, a pleasant surprise when Harry contacted him.

  ‘Ahmed.’

  ‘Harry! Where are you? I would recognise your voice anytime. When are you coming to visit?’

  ‘I’ll be there in the next few days. Is that alright?’

  ‘Of course it is all right but why the rush? It’s not like you to be so impulsive.’

  ‘I need your help,’ said Harry. ‘It’s a matter of great importance.’

  ‘You can rely on me,’ replied Ahmed.

  ‘You may be offended by the reason I am coming.’

  ‘I cannot see why.’

  ‘Ahmed, there is a white woman we believe has been bought by an Arab from Chad.’

  ‘That is distressing news.’

  ‘I know I can rely on your confidentiality,’ continued Harry. ‘It is important that this does not become widespread knowledge until she is rescued. It may be dangerous for her if it is plastered across the Internet and on the TV screens.’
<
br />   ‘My discretion is assured.’

  ‘She was taken by Boko Haram, sold to the Arab.’

  ‘Are there any more details?’ asked Ahmed.

  ‘What we have is that the trader lives in N’Djamena and his name is Sheikh Idriss.’

  ‘Idriss is not an uncommon name. I will make discreet enquiries on your behalf.’

  ‘Sorry that my visit is to be business, not social.’

  ‘Any opportunity to get together and talk is welcome. I have a sad feeling that, if what you are saying is true, it will reflect badly on my country.’

  Two days later, Ahmed phoned Harry. ‘I have a potential name.’

  ‘I’ll be there tomorrow.’

  ‘I will give you the name now, Sheikh Idriss Deubet. To my shame, I have met him on several occasions.’

  ‘How much have you found out?’

  ‘Not a lot. I knew he was a trader, livestock mainly. I have someone here that you will meet. I trust him to search around, stick his nose in where it is not wanted. He informed me of rumours of the trading of black girls and some boys from Northern Nigeria. The name that kept coming up was Deubet.’

  ‘It sounds possible,’ said Harry. ‘Do you have any more details?’

  ‘No, we decided not to ask or act suspiciously until you arrived. You are more proficient in these matters than we are.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll probably be bringing some colleagues.’

  ‘They’re welcome.’

  ‘One’s female.’

  ‘We are an enlightened family. She will be most welcome.’

  Chapter 18

  Kate’s introduction to the place that was to become a home for the foreseeable future was more pleasant than she had expected. ‘Comment allez-vous? Je m’appelle Fatima.’ It was the first friendly face, the first smile that she had seen in two days.

  ‘Je vais bien, merci, et vous?’ It was an adequate response, and close to the limit of Kate’s French skills. Her least favourite subject in school, and now the one she needed the most.

  ‘Je vais très bien.’ Fatima delighted as she was to see the new arrival, was full of trepidation.

  ‘Je m’appelle Kate.’

  It was unclear to Fatima as to why the beautiful white-haired woman was there.

  Has he acquired a new wife? Maybe, she is a concubine. To her, she looked like a porcelain doll.

  It was in her late teens that Fatima had become the second wife. The marriage, arranged and, being the second wife of an affluent man, a member of an honourable and respected family was all she desired. He had paid an unusually high price to her father, a moderately successful businessman in the north of the country. A modest person; she did not see her beauty, her charm, and her education as necessarily desirable traits.

  Those first seven to eight years with the Sheikh were ideal, and she had the opportunity to travel to Europe on many occasions. The first wife, a good person, suffered the rigours of five children and was prone to illness and fatigue. To Fatima, the Sheikh was her husband and she learnt to love him, the feeling reciprocated, she was sure.

  It was the conclusion of the eighth year that a transformation in his manner occurred. Of his five children, four had been daughters and they enjoyed remarkably good health. The fifth child, a sickly boy of ten, died suddenly, a result of a severe bout of malaria, compounded with intestinal problems. The Sheikh grieved for three months.

  His nightly visits to her declined to once every two or three weeks. Her body, she realised, was not the firm and tender delicacy of well rounded and firm breasts and curvaceous hips that she’d had as a teenage bride; instead, it was sagging and bulging. She assumed that was the reason.

  ‘You are worthless to me,’ he said angrily on a visit to her bedchamber.

  ‘I do all that I can to please.’

  ‘My only son has died and you are unable to give me another son.’ She had tried to fall pregnant over the years but it was not to be.

  ‘Then you should take another wife.’

  He heeded Fatima’s advice and another marriage was conveniently arranged to a young, teenage girl of good breeding stock It was remarkable how close in appearance to her she was. A sullen-faced female, she rarely smiled and it became apparent over the next few years that the Sheikh did not favour her with the regular visits Fatima had once experienced.

  ‘She is charmless and frigid,’ he complained to Fatima on one of his visits to her.

  ‘She has given you two healthy sons.’

  ‘I must accord her the respect that the mother of my sons is due, but I find her company dull.’

  ‘Then visit me as you see fit. I understand that you must spend most nights with her. You have two sons; there is no reason as to why you should not have more.’

  ‘A man is judged by his sons,’ the Sheikh, a proud man, said.

  To Kate, Fatima was a beautiful woman with her mixed African and Arab heritage – olive skin, her hair dark, and a face full of allure. Her figure was voluptuous, even plumpish.

  With Fatima, Kate soon came to feel the ease that she had experienced with Helen. The two women quickly bonded. It came as a revelation when Fatima spoke a few words of English.

  ‘I can speak little English,’ she said.

  ‘That is good,’ replied Kate. ‘My French is very bad.’

  ‘No, your French is better than my English.’

  In a very short period, and with use, Fatima’s linguistic skills became apparent. An enthusiastic student at school, she had regarded English as one of her favourites, although formal schooling finished soon enough at fourteen.

  ‘A woman’s place is in the home, rearing children,’ her father had said.

  ‘Father, I want to study,’ she pleaded.

  ‘You are to be married. What use will an educated woman be?’ A moderate and agreeable man, his was a culture that failed to understand the validity of what she was requesting.

  After her marriage, the Sheikh provided her with learning materials and access to an English-speaking radio station. She used her time well, and her English, heavily accented with traces of Arabic and French, understandable.

  Kate had to admit her surroundings were more suitable than the dirty little camp, and substantially more luxurious than the Pastor’s Mission had been. Opulent in design and construction, and furnished to the highest standard, it was a haven.

  ‘What is this building?’ she asked Fatima that first day.

  ‘It is the women’s quarters.’

  ‘Women’s quarters? Do you mean a harem?’ Kate replied. ‘I didn’t think they existed.’

  ‘It is reserved for women only. The only man permitted to enter is the Sheikh.’

  ‘He has concubines?’

  ‘No, he has only the three wives and their children. Sometimes, there are some black girls around the back, but we do not see them.’

  ‘What are they for?’

  ‘They are part of my husband’s business.’

  ‘What business is that?’

  ‘He sells them for marriage. That is all I know. Sometimes he visits them at night.’

  ‘That sounds awful.’

  ‘All marriages are arranged in my country,’ said Fatima.

  ‘They have been stolen, kidnapped from their parents in Nigeria,’ replied Kate. ‘I am sure of it.’

  ‘If what you say is true, then I could not approve.’

  Some days later, attired in elegant and traditional clothes, Kate resolved to visit the black girls locked in the rear of the building.

  ‘I want to talk the women in the back.’

  ‘It is not possible,’ said Fatima. ‘Sheikh Idriss will be angry.’

  ‘I need to know what is going to happen to me.’

  With Kate determined, Fatima could only make one decision. She would go with her. Besides, if what she had said was true, then how could she regard her husband with any more than contempt and derision?

  Had not Kate been kidnapped? Surely, he
knew that. Surely, he did not care, she thought.

  ***

  It was late at night, when all the others were asleep in the women’s quarters that Kate and Fatima snuck quietly along the narrow passage to talk to the black women.

  ‘Kate, I am Aisha, we have spoken in the marketplace. My father was a merchant there.’ The voice was familiar; the English clear and precise, the face concealed in part by the heavy grille on the opening at the top of the door.

  ‘You came there once or twice with the other woman,’ she continued. ‘She was also white, but her hair was dark.’

  ‘Helen.’

  ‘Yes, Helen, I remember now. Is she here?’

  ‘No, she is still with the attackers of the mission.’

  ‘That is what I heard.’

  ‘How many of you are here?’ asked Kate.

  ‘We are ten.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ Fatima asked.

  ‘We were kidnapped, brought here by force.’

  ‘Tell us your story,’ said Kate. ‘I need to know my, our, fate. Fatima wishes to know the truth.’

  Some light filtered into the room where Aisha and her companions were confined. Slowly adjusting to the available light, it was clear to Kate and Fatima that Aisha was an attractive young woman, of about fifteen years of age. Her friends, concealed at the back of the room, seemed equally young, equally attractive.

  ‘We were at school,’ explained Aisha, speaking through tears. ‘It was an excellent school about fifty kilometres from your mission. It was late at night when they came in force and with many weapons. There were over one hundred pupils, all female, they took them all.’

  ‘What about the teachers? Where are they?’ Fatima asked.

  ‘Two of our teachers attempted to stop them with broom handles. The men killed them with machetes.’

  ‘And the others?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Our beloved teachers… they dragged the six that were still alive out of the classrooms.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘It is too horrible,’ said Aisha, crying. ‘I cannot speak of it.’

  ‘I will,’ said one of the other girls confined in the room. ‘My name is Victoria. I will tell you.’