The Price of Life

by Nigel Brennan

  Kellie

  Newcastle

  January

  The phone has been officially moved back to Canberra. The move, however, comes with a promise that it will be manned twenty-four seven. Any calls will be patched through to Nic at Moore Park. I’m certainly not convinced this is a great option but we have no choice; it’s what the Feds have decided and that’s that. This deflates all hopes of Nige and Amanda being released any time soon.

  I find myself constantly playing the devil’s advocate, looking for both sides of the story. The Feds move the phone and I try to rationalise the decision to family members. I really need to put a positive spin on these events; the negativity is overwhelming at the moment, and I am having trouble talking with most of the family.

  Being one step removed from Nigel makes me look at things differently, and it also makes me less tolerant of some behaviour. I’m outside the bubble: I can understand the family’s disagreements, but I am also able to see the time wasted discussing things that really aren’t important. Of course, I realise that without these discussions no one in the family can move on to the next issue, as each piece of the puzzle needs to be examined and then put on the board before they can get on with next.

  January is traditionally a relaxing time, a fresh start to the year. All I want to do is take fifteen steps back from the Brennans, including my husband. Every person I speak to asks about Nigel. All Matt’s family ever talk about is Nigel, and I want to think about and do something – anything – that doesn’t involve him. I am taking a huge step and opening a café and shopfront for my catering business. What better way to avoid a stressful situation than to bury yourself in a different one?

  Matt and I have long discussions about the new business. I’m very grateful that he shares my enthusiasm. And not that he has ever said so, but I think he may be enjoying the distraction too. At the same time I’m feeling incredibly guilty that Nic is still fighting a constant battle with the AFP and DFAT. I have totally copped out: living a fair distance from Moore Park, I don’t have to deal with the intense day-to-day running of the show. And now I am totally absorbed in something else and, to make me feel worse, I am actually enjoying it.

  I question myself and my loyalty to Matt’s family, but I also need to be loyal to my own family. Matt cannot work due to his shoulder injury so I need to take charge and bring in the cash. Why, at thirty-six, do I feel like I am drowning in issues? Is this a pre-midlife crisis? If I am feeling like this, I can’t even pretend to imagine what Nigel must be feeling in Somalia, or how Heather and Geoff feel with the everyday reality of a missing son.

  Nicky

  Moore Park

  Sunday, 11–Monday, 12 January

  The negs are starting to tell us how it really is. They don’t want to be here any more and we all know that as soon as they head to Canberra, we will get bugger-all info. It will become like a missing-persons scenario or a cold-case murder – Nigel will just be a file on someone’s desk.

  The phone and the negs will be at Bargara for the first two weeks of the new year, and then there will be a mid-month review. We are to consider and discuss where and when the family update meetings occur and whether an agenda should be presented and followed. At this point the negs are getting a 9 p.m. phone update from Canberra. They then pass on the relevant information to the family. They would prefer it to be a weekly family meeting via phone call. Mum is really unhappy about this.

  ‘Heather, you can call us any time of the day,’ she’s told.

  That’s the sound of us being palmed off. I’m guessing that where they have us now – as far away from the action as possible – is probably where they wanted us four months ago.

  The negs tell us at the family meeting that the strategy is now to put all the money on the table and push. The whole US$250K will be offered directly to Adan.

  On 12 January Adan gives confirmation he’s received the offer by the Nairobi neg cell.

  A journo from Somalia’s Shabelle news network has spoken to Nigel and publishes their conversation. The phone to Canberra runs hot: who is he? How do we get in contact with him? And, more importantly, how was he able to contact the HTs so easily when we are having such trouble? Can he be used as a TPI or is he part of the gang? A million questions, none of which gets answered, apart from a response to say they are trying to locate and organise a debriefing with him in Nairobi. It feels like we are just running into one brick wall after another.

  Tuesday, 13 January

  Adan sends an email to Lorinda. In pretty strangled English he tells us that danger is coming to Nigel and Amanda and that we are not to contact him again until we have US$2.5 million. He signs off with ‘have a good day’. All that’s missing is the.

  This email is good news, so I’m told. Adan has resumed contact with Lorinda. Then we are told by the negs that ‘Adan is still around but we are looking at alternatives, eyeing people up to see who is appropriate’. At least they didn’t say ‘assessing and reassessing’. I hate that phrase. If someone had said that, I think I would have screamed till my veins swelled, distended and burst. The other thing I find out when I ring Lorinda is that she is still ensconced in the NOK cell with negs. Maybe that’s the benefit of not making waves – you don’t get your privileges taken away.

  Wednesday, 14 January

  James and Ben are due here today.

  Mum is having a really hard time of it and boycotts the meeting; she feels it’s just a great big useless talkfest. I see her point but it’s also one of our few chances to glean information. I wonder if later on the AFP will use mock-ups of our meetings to help train recruits how to deal with hostile families. These two have become so good at it they don’t even look like they are sweating and we are in central Queensland in the middle of January.

  James tells us about the number of contacts they’ve been trying to pin down, but because of the political strife in Somalia most of this work has proved fruitless. The politics of the place is enough to do your head in. It’s hard to keep up with who’s on top what with the Ethiopian troops and clan in-fighting, but it seems Al-Shabaab, a recognised terrorist group, is on the ascendancy, which is bad news for us, not to mention the Somalis.

  The country is in a state of flux, we’re told, as everyone battles for control of the state; and the shifting sands make finding allies incredibly difficult.

  We find out that the RCMP has identified a new Somali TPI. This information has not been discussed with Lorinda, we’re told.

  ‘Why is this?’ Dad asks.

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps she hasn’t asked. All I know is I am aware that at this stage this new TPI has not been discussed with her,’ is the reply.

  ‘You had better let us know when that happens,’ says Dad, ‘because you know how uncomfortable I am about discrepancies such as this.’

  Ben navigates the conversation back to the TPI. ‘Engaging him is complex and difficult. As a result we will be limiting the use of other TPIs, possibly including Adan. There is no discussion with Adan in regards to this TPI.

  ‘The current political situation, as we have just discussed, makes negotiations very difficult. The TPI is brokering the deal; that is his purpose.’

  I don’t understand how Dave in Nairobi can indicate to the HTs that although the AFP is part of the government, the government will not pay a ransom.

  Nigel

  The Light House

  Early January

  The new year ticks over but it’s just another day in hell, really. There’s no sign of change. To deal with the isolation I focus my attention on my daily exercise routine. Assam and Donkey sporadically come in and join me; and although they are my captors, it’s hard not to enjoy their company. After two months alone I am craving stimulation, even if it means dancing with the enemy.

  Amanda is not as fortunate. While running circuits in her room, she injured her ankle. This has hurt her mentally more than physically. I can tell she is struggling.

  At times she com
es to the window, asking, ‘Nigey, when are we going to get out of here?’ It becomes a question I loathe, mostly because I want an answer too. When I reply, ‘I don’t know, babe,’ she berates me for not being more positive, and walks away in a huff. She always comes back to apologise, though. We both have our moments of frustration and depression, moments when we need the other to be compassionate.

  Several days later I hear Skids and a few of the boys in Amanda’s room. My nerves are rattled by Amanda’s shrill scream. Suddenly my door swings open. Jamal stands there, and orders me up.

  ‘Go,’ he says indicating Amanda’s room. I’m surprised as I enter. They are all standing around her, looking sheepish. It’s nice to be in her presence but I can see by her face she’s in pain. I’m concerned about what’s just taken place, and what’s about to take place. I’m on tenterhooks as all eyes are fixed on me.

  Jamal asks me to look at Amanda’s ankle. It’s swollen. When I gently place my hand on it, it feels hard as a rock. Amanda tells me they had her crouching down and jerked the ankle around. Hence the screaming. I give them my medical opinion: they shouldn’t touch it; she needs a pressure bandage, ice and to elevate the leg to reduce the swelling. Jamal disagrees, saying, ‘In Somalia we do like this.’ He then pulls and twists his foot forwards and backwards. ‘Then walking is better,’ he continues. I shake my head, repeating that it will only get better with rest and ice. Jamal translates this to Skids, who waves me back to my room.

  Before I am marched back I ask Jamal to see if Skids will allow Amanda and me to spend some time together. The old guy ponders my request. Jamal translates, saying, ‘Okay, in the afternoon you can see each other, now go back.’ I’m hiding my pleasure as I’m walked back to my room.

  That afternoon, as promised, we get a forty-five minute respite from our rooms. We sit at the back of the courtyard, enjoying the sun. The strain is evident on Amanda’s face. Even though we’ve talked to each other endlessly over the last weeks through our windows I feel like a schoolboy. There’s shyness as I try to meet her eyes and I am unable to find the words as she rests a lump of ice on her ankle. Eventually we feel comfortable again and rant on, mocking the boys. It seems that just as we are getting into the swing of it, time is up and we are ordered back to our rooms.

  For a moment it was as if we were alone in the world. It’s gutting to be ripped apart again, back to staring at those four walls. Worse than not having spent any time with her at all.

  It takes nearly a week of agitation before we are allowed this privilege again. This time they give us six hours together, four o’clock is our deadline. I join Amanda in her room, and we share our food, talk and even pray together, which seems so strange after doing it alone for so long. Amanda tells me after we pray that she doesn’t bother doing the prostrations any longer; she’s surprised I’m still keeping up appearances. I find this extremely concerning. If they were to find out, she’d be royally screwed, but she doesn’t seem too worried about it.

  At one point I drag my mattress into her room so I can get more comfortable; the concrete floor is too cold and hard on my emaciated body. I then notice Abdi standing in the doorway of their room on the other side of the hall, motioning to get my attention. Our eyes meet.

  He shrugs his shoulders and holds his palms up: ‘What’s going on?’ I shake my head side to side: ‘Nothing’. We begin our game of charades, passing information to each other, the whole time watching the front door for movement.

  Abdi enquires if we have spoken to our families and asked for money. It’s clear they won’t be going any place either until the group gets cash from somewhere. I gesture that they won’t grant us any phone calls. I ask if the three of them are okay. He replies, yes, but that it is taking too much time. No argument from me. Now feeling that we have been pushing our luck, I bid him farewell.

  The closer we get to four o’clock, the more my anguish starts to build. Again I wonder whether the pleasure of seeing Amanda is worth the pain of being separated.

  Wednesday, 14 January

  I hear one of the boys in Abdi’s room, then the sound of them shoving things into plastic bags. I begin gathering my possessions, expecting any moment to be hustled into a car and moved. No one comes. I stand at the door, trying to see what’s going on but there’s only the dark hallway.

  Feeling brazen, I creep out of the room and move to the edge of the hall, before kneeling and sticking my head around the corner to look through the balustrades. I see Abdi and the other two being marched out the front door with their belongings. I go back to my room. Something doesn’t feel right.

  Minutes tick by. I knock to go to the toilet. Assam comes, asking what I want. He motions for me to go to the toilet. On my way back I sneak another look around the corner. Assam is pulling the mattresses out of Abdi’s room and throwing them on the verandah, where the boys lie down on them, laughing to each other.

  In Somalia when locals are kidnapped with foreigners, chances are they will be killed. I feel sick. As the minutes and hours roll on, I become certain something awful has happened to our colleagues. I try to second-guess what’s happening until I fall asleep.

  The following morning when Jamal comes in with breakfast I ask, ‘Jamal, where are our three Somali friends; what’s going on?’

  He replies blandly, ‘They go,’ then leaves the room.

  After breakfast I knock to go to the toilet. When Assam comes down I call him into the room, hoping he might be a bit more forthcoming.

  He tells me, ‘They were released last night; they go back to their families.’ I can’t believe my ears.

  ‘Are you sure? Why did they let them go?’

  ‘Yes, they have been released. It is too expensive to keep them. Now go to the toilet.’

  I’m elated. This is a good sign for us; things are moving forward. I talk to Amanda, and she says she’s been told the same, but as the day drags on we begin to question this version of events. If they’ve been released, why haven’t we been moved? Surely Abdi would inform someone of our whereabouts.

  In the afternoon Donkey comes in. I ask him about our friends, and he tells me with great pleasure, ‘They have been handed over to Al-Shabaab.’ He then raises his finger to his throat and mimes slicing across it. The fact they were Muslim means nothing to these people; they will justify it by saying Abdi and the drivers were working with infidels.

  We had safety in numbers, but it’s now just the two of us. Both Amanda and I are convinced that now we have no other option but to run.

  Nicky

  Sunshine Coast

  Monday, 16 January

  I get a 6 a.m. call. ‘Alley Cat, wake up.’

  ‘Hhhr, Ham. What is it?’ Obviously, I’m awake. His call’s just done that.

  ‘Abdi’s been released.’

  ‘What!?’ My red-wine hangover is gone. I’ve found the miracle cure. Ange had invited us down the coast for the weekend to stay with her dad and his partner so we could get away with the kids for a couple of days. It is, after all, the Chrissy holidays and we haven’t gone anywhere or done anything. And last night, as you do with friends, we nudged a couple of reds. I hadn’t felt so relaxed in months.

  The story is on Google alert. He relays the sketchy details: Abdi and the drivers were released near Bakaara market. Apparently their release was negotiated by a local clan leader. Abdi was separated from Nigel and Amanda after they were captured and doesn’t know their whereabouts. He can’t identify his captors either.

  I’m delighted for Abdi and the drivers but I wish so much that it could have been Nige. I have a bit of a cry, the by-product of self-pity.

  Ben rings half an hour or so after Ham. I suspect he’s torn about ringing too early and not wanting someone else to pass on the news of Abdi’s release. If DFAT has learned nothing else about us, it’s that we don’t like to be surprised by these sorts of reports.

  ‘Where’s Abdi?’ I ask him. ‘Have you guys heard from him?’

  ‘No,’ replies B
en.

  ‘Okay, what about the other two? Or Abdis wife or father?’

  ‘Nicky, they will be trying to find him. Understand that we don’t know his role. If, in fact, he was in on it. If he has gone to ground, his life and that of his family will have been threatened. He may know the identity of the kidnappers and that puts him at great risk.’ After the call with Ben I have another cry. Silent tears as I look up at the ceiling, wishing my heart away that it was Nige who was free.

  Si and I pack up the kids and head back to Moore Park for a Nippers carnival. I feel emotionally battered. The first thing I hear is the club’s president bemoaning one of the teams. ‘Of course, our under-twelves is the underperforming team of the club,’ says Lee to another parent. Like coming out of a dream, I realise that’s our team they’re talking about: Si is the manager of the under-twelves. I run blindly to the dingy bathrooms behind the clubhouse and grab wads of toilet paper, crush them into my mouth and scream and scream and scream. I sit on the loo, a heaving, sobbing wreck.

  I pore over the news articles that come in over the next couple of days, bearing in mind they are unconfirmed ‘open source’ reports. Abdi has said very little about Nige or Amanda, certainly nothing suggesting their whereabouts. He didn’t know where he was taken to and he hadn’t seen his colleagues as he was held in a different location to them, and he rarely heard his captors talk about Amanda and Nige. Abdi also said he wouldn’t recognise his captors and that he wasn’t mistreated.

  Speaking to Somali journalists, he says he thought he would never see his family again. I’m guessing that man has been given a good scare. I’m happy he’s back with his wife and kids.

  Friday, 23 January

  A news article attached to our Google alert hits a raw nerve. Some idiot from the Somali-based journalists’ rights agency has written that the ransom has been dropped from US$2.5 million to $100K. What a moron; if only it were that low. It’s a pretty dodgy bit of reporting. There’s some speculation that Abdi was released after his tribal group threatened to attack the kidnappers.