The first of the federal negotiators have turned up. Yesterday DFAT’s James and Emily arrived as well as Catherine, who was introduced as an expert on Somalia.
‘So how did you come to know so much about Somalia?’ Mum asked her. ‘Did you speak the language when were you there?’
‘No, I studied Somalia while I was at university,’ she replied.
The look on Mum’s face was priceless, and the DFAT crowd saw the faux pas they made. We don’t hear from Catherine again after that meeting.
The calls are infrequent. By now, all of the immediate family are at Mum and Dad’s too. Si, the three kids and I are camped in the one room. The AFP is a bit wary of this – there are too many people around. But I’m completely fine with it; it’s tight and unified and we are together when we need to be. I want the kids close by so we can be as honest as possible with them about what is going on. Ignorance is not bliss in our household.
The school and our community are being amazing. One of Ham’s old neighbours drops food in every day to feed the masses. He makes the most delicious bread. ‘Figure you have to be able to cook bread if your name is Fred,’ he tells us.
Mum finds it gratifying to cook for large numbers. It’s reminiscent of harvest days when she used to feed a cast of thousands in the paddocks. She would pack up two separate casseroles, chat potatoes and bread rolls, along with card tables and cutlery and crockery, for Dad and all the others contracted to get the wheat off as soon as possible – before it rained and turned it from premium-grade to chook feed.
I am on a knife’s edge, always waiting for the next call. I hold off to pee for as long as possible so I’ll be spared the indignity of bolting from the bathroom, strides around my ankles, if the phone rings. Likewise showers: in and out, with an emergency extra-long sloppy joe kept nearby to pull on if necessary. I can’t even finish my meals, and that’s unheard of for a tuckerbag like me. My stomach has no room left. It’s all devoted to knots.
By day five I am starting to clue in to the major differences between the AFP and QPol. They are completely separate entities and it seems to be difficult for them to work in each other’s jurisdictions. They can’t access the same information on their computers. To me it seems as if there’s poor communication between the forces. I keep overhearing phrases like ‘lack of security clearance’. Mum and I madly try to eavesdrop. We regroup in her room and swap the stories we’ve heard.
On Thursday the two AFP negotiators, Adrian and Dave, head off towards the beach for a chat. While they’re out, Ross and Kev sit us down to tell us they are being pulled from our case. I am shocked. Dad looks dumbfounded and Mum is incredulous. These guys are crying – they want to work on this case to see it through, and I desperately don’t want them to go. Adrian and Dave arrive back and can see instantly what’s gone on, and they are not happy. I suspect that if Ross and Kev hadn’t told us, they would have just been rostered off, never to appear again.
I’m pissed off and having trouble understanding the reasoning behind the move. A cop is a cop is a cop, surely? Adrian’s trying to talk me through it: the QPol guys just don’t have the security clearance to work the case. Everything I’ve learnt so far about negotiating has come from Kev and Ross, and they can’t help us any more because of some piece of paper? All my ideas about the boys in blue swooping in to save the day are crushed. It’ll be like I’m doing this on my own.
Friday is Ross’s last day. He brings his wife out to meet us. This is the personal touch I need to get through this. In the meantime I know I need to have Adrian and Dave on my side so they can help me and direct me through future calls.
Sunday, 31 August
Having my family nearby now feels as if it’s a physical need. And it’s just too hard relaying messages back and forwards to everyone.
Kev has called in to wish us well. We are sitting, talking away from the others, in the upstairs kitchen over near the next-of-kin (NOK) phone (we call it the bat phone), which is all hooked up like a piece of medical equipment with wires and lights. I am twitching all over. Every time I sit, my right knee jiggles up and down; the water in the glass on the bench ripples with the vibrations. I quiz him.
‘Kev, what’s going to happen when I get a bad phone call?’ This has not been discussed before. I know I’m probably jumping the gun, but I can’t help thinking of a call where Nige is screaming incoherently down the line or I hear the sound of automatic gunfire.
‘Nic, you’re getting ahead of yourself.’
‘I know but…’ I want Kev to give me as much good advice as he can before he goes. I’m cramming for my dealing-with-kidnappers exam.
‘Nic, if – and it may never come to that – if you get a call like that, these guys will be prepared for it and they will go through this with you. Don’t work yourself up about something that in all probability may not happen.’
I’ve stopped the leg jiggles and am now rapping at my sternum. Short sharp staccato taps. After tonight I will have a deep purple bruise there – a 50-cent-sized piece of tenderness. From this point on, every time I tap there the memory of that stressful time comes flooding back.
Now the AFP has fully shifted into the house, the NOK phone unit is moved downstairs. It’ll be better for me when calls come in the middle of the night. And with all the family staying upstairs, it’ll give the Feds an area slightly removed from us.
That night after Kev leaves we’re asked our first really ugly question – but it comes from the cops, not the kidnappers. What is our family’s collective net worth? What the fuck? We have been told all week that the government doesn’t pay or facilitate ransoms, yet here are the AFP asking about how cashed up we are. Don’t they get how conflicting this is? All the Brennans are sitting in the same room. We glance at each other, trying to read each other’s minds. Ham jacks up first.
‘Where is this coming from?’
‘Higher up.’
Adrian asks us how much money we can have available in twenty-four hours. There’s a collective realisation that this could get Nige out. Yep, we would be paying a ransom but it could all be over quickly. But ‘instantly available’ money? That is a bit tricky. We are all mortgaged up to the eyeballs. After putting our heads together, a bit of redraw here and busting out of a fixed-term deposit there, we figure out we have twenty-five grand.
‘So how much are the Lindhouts putting up?’ It was an off-the-cuff question from Dad, a throwaway line.
‘Nothing.’
We all stare at Adrian.
‘So this $25 000 is for Nigel, right? What are they going to do about getting Amanda out?’ I say.
‘These two cases – Nigel and Amanda’s – are joined at the hip. We are negotiating for their joint release,’ Adrian replies.
‘Let me get this straight,’ I say. ‘Our $25K is for both Nigel and Amanda? The Canadian family aren’t putting anything into the pot?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Well, we don’t have anything either,’ says Dad, sitting back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. We nod in agreement.
There’s a bad feeling in my gut.
‘Geoff, they have no money,’ says Adrian.
‘What, they can’t even scrape up twenty bucks to chip in? That’s a couple of days’ worth of durry money, boys.’ This is Ham’s response.
Adrian and Ham lock eyes.
‘No. And we are asking all of you not to have any contact with the Canadian family, and in particular not to discuss money with them.’
My sinking feeling gets a whole lot deeper. I can’t absorb what is being said.
Ham is on to it pretty quickly.
‘So, boys.’ God, he can make ‘boys’ sound so condescending. ‘To sum it up: you’re asking us to cough up twenty-five thou for both Nige and Amanda. And because we are such nice guys it’s a prezzie from us, but we are not even allowed to contact Amanda’s parents to tell them what nice guys we are?’ Ham is bristling with sarcasm.
How do you a
nswer that?
‘Perhaps it’s something as simple as the RCMP [Royal Canadian Mounted Police] not having had this depth of discussion with Amanda’s parents yet. They may not be in the same place as you are. But it has been clearly requested that you do not contact Jon and Lorinda,’ Adrian says.
This placates us enough for now. Once again we huddle for a group discussion. The majority decision, which is our basis for working through this entire ordeal, is that we’ll pay. If we have to pay for Amanda as well, so be it.
Nigel
Mogadishu, Somalia
Saturday, 23 August
It’s our fourth day in Mogadishu, and I’ve organised to go on patrol with the Ugandan AMISOM (African Union Mission in Somalia) troops this morning. I’m really looking forward to it as it’s going to be just Abdifatah Elmi, the local cameraman Amanda has hired, and me. Amanda has decided not to go on this early-morning trip; she just wants Abdi to get shots for her. He’s a bit nervous about going out with the troops – the ongoing political situation means he could be compromised if he’s seen in their vehicles. Abdi is a lovely guy, married with kids. He’s pretty keen to know whether Amanda and I are married, though, and I just keep ducking the question. He’s also commented that Amanda is ‘very strong’ and that this can create problems in his country.
I get up at six and go downstairs. I make a coffee and sit in front of the TV while I wait for Abdi; I watch as Steve Hooper wins gold in the pole vault at the Olympics. When Abdi finally arrives, he tells me there has been a mortar attack near the Ugandan base and he can’t get on to the major who was going to take us out with his troops. The plan has fallen over. It’s a bit disappointing but I know that today’s other scheduled visit – to the Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) camps just outside Mogadishu on the road to Afgooye – is going to be well worth it. Amanda’s keen to join us for this trip.
When you enter a country in conflict, you virtually put your life in the hands of a fixer, someone who knows what’s happening on the ground and has contacts so that you can cover certain stories. They also take care of accommodation, transport and the security detail. Amanda found Ajoos Sanura using her contacts in Iraq. He comes highly recommended and is also working with a team from National Geographic.
I talk to Ajoos and he says that everything has been sorted for our trip to the camps, including the extra security detail we’ve paid for because we’re going into a militia-run area.
Just before nine, Ajoos introduces Amanda and me to a new driver. Wary of last-minute changes, I pull Ajoos aside to question him about this, and he explains that this driver knows the people we will be meeting – he’s from that area. Pascal, the National Geographic photographer, tells me to take care; they have been out to the camps before and while it is reasonably safe, we should keep our wits about us.
About forty minutes before we leave, I start to get a queasy gut. Is it the food or just nerves? Something just doesn’t feel right but I try to ignore it. I leave my wallet and passport in the hotel owner’s room, under the bottom draw of the filing cabinet, the same place the two National Geographic guys have put theirs. Back downstairs I listen as Amanda calls her dad, asking him to transfer funds into the country, as the work money she has been counting on has yet to come through.
Ajoos and the National Geographic pair leave about ten minutes before we do, heading to Merca, a port city, but starting out on the same route as we’ll be taking. Everyone piles into the four-wheel drive, Abdi between Amanda and me, the new driver and our old driver in the front and the two security boys in the back.
Just as we reach the city limits we come to a halt, and the boys in the back jump out. I ask Abdi what’s going on. He says they have to stay here, that it’s not safe for them to go any further because they are seen as part of the Transitional Federal Government (TFG).
He says, ‘They will wait here until we come back.’
Ajoos hadn’t told us this part of the plan and it doesn’t sit well with me. ‘Hang on, Abdi. I don’t understand.’
‘Because we go into a militia area they cannot come, otherwise they will be killed,’ he says.
My gut’s telling me to get out of the car right then and there, but instead I ask him, ‘Where is our security then?’
‘We have to travel a short distance to where we will meet them.’
We had organised for three extra security personnel today, believing we would have five in total. To now travel unprotected seems like madness. Abdi assures me that this is the only way we’ll be able to go into the militia area. I look at Amanda, and we decide to continue, both keen to make it to the IDP camps since the first few days here have not been that fruitful, work-wise. I look over my shoulder as our two guards disappear in a cloud of dust.
The four-wheel drive hurtles down the bitumen road, and the arid African bush flies past us. I haven’t yet had a good look at the photos I took yesterday; now is my chance. My attention flips between the scenery and the viewfinder on my camera.
Abdi and Amanda are talking; he’s asking again if we are married. She changes the subject and starts to sing Ace of Base’s ‘All That She Wants’. This is Abdi’s ringtone, and he quickly joins in. It’s nice that he’s so friendly, relaxed and comfortable with us. Our two drivers don’t speak English.
As I’m deleting images from my camera, I think I hear Abdi say, ‘This could be a problem,’ but I don’t really register it. I look up to see a little Suzuki Vitara parked on the left-hand side of the road ahead, its lights flashing. Our security detail, I think. Our vehicle slows down but my focus is still on my camera. We pull up on the opposite side of the road to the Suzuki. I put my camera away and look up. We are completely surrounded by gunmen. My heart skips a beat.
At my window is a big guy pointing an AK47 straight in my face, only the window between us. All of the gunmen are in civilian clothing. Muslim head cloths cover their faces so that we can see only their eyes. Fear floods my entire body.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask Abdi.
He manages to reply, ‘I don’t know,’ just before the car doors are swung open. Everything happens in slow motion. We’re pulled out of the car, pushed to the ground, arms and legs spread, kissing the dirt before being yanked back to our feet. All five of us are forced into the backseat of our car with the big guy. Completely numb, I can’t breathe. My brain is unable to register what’s taking place. Amanda is on my knee as we’re jammed in like sardines. The big guy has both of our bags and I’m more concerned about my camera gear than anything.
Amanda asks Abdi, ‘What’s going on?’ but before he has a chance to reply one of the guys barks, ‘No talking.’ Amanda again asks Abdi what’s happening to which he replies, ‘Don’t talk, don’t talk.’ I can’t see much as everyone’s packed in on top of me. The car lurches forward, following the Suzuki, and we peel off from the main road onto a dirt track, travelling at high speed as we weave through the rough terrain. I’m trying to brace myself with my arms on the roof so as not to get thrown around. My heart hammers away. The big guy demands everyone’s mobile phones and switches them off. I can’t reach mine.
There are two guys behind us, AK47s pointed directly at our skulls. I’m terrified each time we slam over a bump that a gun will go off.
Suddenly we come to a stop in the middle of desolate scrub. Amanda is ripped from the car and ordered into the Suzuki. I feel like I’m in quicksand, alarmed that we’ve been separated. I start to ask a question but am again ordered not to talk. The big guy gets in beside me and slams the door as we take off in hot pursuit of the Suzuki. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck keeps rattling around my head, and I’m trying to calm myself and ride the adrenaline hit.
We are now following something like a goat track as we drive cross-country over the top of bushes, swerving and accelerating. After five or ten minutes we again come to a screaming halt, and this time I’m pulled from the car and thrown into the back of the Suzuki with Amanda. I’m relieved to be next to her but seriously worried
about what will happen to Abdi and our drivers. There are five guys in the car with us, two behind with AK47s pointed at our heads, one next to Amanda and two up front. The guy in the front passenger seat is the only one who doesn’t have his face covered, and I’m wishing that he did. I’m sure that being able to identify him is going to get us killed.
Amanda tells me that this guy’s name is Ahmed and that he speaks English. He has already asked who we are, what we are doing in the country and said they are going to hold us and take us to their commanders. At least they are not going to kill us immediately. We ask the guys behind us to stop aiming their guns at our heads but they ignore us. Amanda then forcefully asks Ahmed to order them to lower their weapons as it’s not safe. She tells him we are not going to try to do anything. Ahmed complies. He is very calm.
I’m cold with fear, unsure what has become of our colleagues. We hit a bitumen road then hurtle through a small town, the main street lined with rustic tin-shack shops and a market area flooded with locals.
We turn off onto another dirt track; IDP camp—style structured housing lines both sides of the road, along with the signs of foreign non-government organisations (NGOs). About forty-five minutes after we were picked up, we zigzag through a tiny village and finally stop between two walled compounds.
As the guy next to Amanda gets out, the gates of the compound on the left-hand side swing open. They have been waiting for us. This has all been planned. Our vehicle darts into the courtyard and the gates slam behind us.
We are ordered from the car, and Amanda asks if she can go to the toilet, which is just to the left. In the courtyard there is a lean-to corrugated-iron shed, and a bigger building. I’m marched into the building, which has three rooms running from right to left across the back wall, and placed in the far left room while Amanda does her thing. There are a number of dirty mattresses on the floor and I’m ordered to sit on one up against the right-hand wall.
Amanda is escorted into the room by a guy who was seated beside her in the car. We would later know him as ‘Ali’. He scared the shit out of me from the moment I saw him in the Suzuki – his is quite a solid build for a Somali and his eyes are pure hate. He orders Amanda to sit against the back wall.
The Price of Life Page 3