The Price of Life

by Nigel Brennan

  Then a big stick is waved at us: if we do anything outside this strategy, we may fatally undermine the credibility of TPI 14’s source. These constant digs at us for trying to find out what is happening on the ground really irk me. We are sick of leaps of faith. Every time we are asked to make one, we fall into a fucking crevasse.

  Over the next week we get some really good feedback from TPI 14 and his source via the Feds. There are reports that Nigel and Amanda have been seen, Amanda in a box-like dress and Nigel wearing a sarong. There are six main hostage takers. There are reports they’re considering a drop in ransom to US$750K, and the source is pushing to get it down to US$500K. Their aim is to get the ransom down to below US$200K. I don’t care if it’s US$500K; we could get that amount. Just get them out, I tell the AFP.

  TPI 14’s source will at some stage have to get a POL. He has asked for the names of Nigel and Amanda’s grandparents, but this strikes me as being pretty easy. That is, it could have been interrogated out of them months ago.

  There is lots of conflicting information. On one hand we hear how techno-savvy these kidnappers are and how they have the ability to Google us, and it was even implied to us early on that they may be clever enough to hack into our computers. Then we are told they are a bunch of inexperienced kids, the equivalent of Papuan rascals, which sounds endearing but isn’t.

  A little bit of information can be a dangerous thing. We all go into research mode and through a process of elimination try to work out who TPI 14 might be.

  Nigel

  The Beach House

  Wednesday, 20 May

  I feel ready to face Romeo. He knows more about Islam, but I am better educated. It’s time to take down this twenty-four-year-old petty tyrant.

  With him now sitting in front of me, I show him Ayats to support my argument. I know I have to walk a fine line, not seeming to question his faith but also not letting him get away with anything spurious. I throw verse after verse at him, mainly about how one Muslim cannot take the property of another, but he’s always got a quote to trump mine. Then I ask him flat-out about Ahmed’s promise that he wouldn’t take money from our families.

  He blatantly lies to me. ‘I didn’t hear Ahmed say this, but they can take money from your family because they are Christians.’ I think of quoting an Ayat I found about the evils of hypocrisy but resist.

  Instead I say, ‘If you take money from my family, I will have to repay them. Can’t you see that you are then taking my property and it clearly states in the Qur’an that this is against Islam.’

  He sits there shaking his head. ‘You don’t have to repay this money to your family because they are disbelievers.’

  ‘But the Qur’an says we must be dutiful to our parents even if they are not Muslim.’

  Taking the Qur’an, he flips to a page and then points to an Ayat about Ibrahim dissociating from his heretical father.

  ‘You see, when you go back to your country, you can have nothing to do with your family because they are not Muslim,’ he says bluntly. I try another angle, badgering him about the wickedness of greed.

  I can see his annoyance; I’ve overstepped the mark.

  ‘This money will be used for Jihad; the soldiers will not get any of this money,’ he says. I feel like telling him to stop bullshitting me. I know they’ll all get a share of the war booty. They’ve spent too much time and presumably a bucketload of cash holding us so there’s no way they are going to give up now.

  I realised months ago that money was their only motivation; it didn’t matter what I said or did now, I wasn’t going to be able to change that ugly fact. It was worth a try but I now back-pedal, sensing that I have seriously pissed off Romeo.

  Softening my voice, I explain, ‘I only ask these questions because although I’ve been a Muslim for nine months, I know nothing about my religion. I just want this to be finished. I want to find a solution so that you can go back to your family. I want to go to mosque and talk to an Imam and learn. I’m sorry; it’s frustrating for all of us to be here.’ He seems to relax at this.

  ‘Inshallah, you will learn the Qur’an; you must be patient. Allah will find a solution, soon it will be finished.’

  It’s pointless to fight any more; with no options left, I resign myself to towing the line.

  Kellie

  Newcastle

  Wednesday, 27-Sunday, 31 May

  The world according to the Brennan family is officially crap. Ham and Heather are hell-bent on using Mick F but the rest of the family isn’t on board.

  May is the biggest month of the year for my business. For the last three years we’ve held the catering contract for the Dungog Film Festival (DFF). This is always great fun but takes me months to plan and coordinate. And this year is obviously more stressful than usual.

  Funny things happen to a family in crisis. Sometimes you splinter in different directions but if you’re lucky you stick together, more than you have ever done in the past. Nic and Amy always come to help out at Dungog; but this year Ham and Matt are joining us too. Ham is running the bar, and I am running the kitchen. We’ve never done this before.

  It hasn’t stopped raining for days and the ground is very soggy. I arrive in Dungog on Wednesday morning to set up the kitchen in the marquee being built on the pony-camp ground. The ground has been churned up by the large earth-moving equipment they’ve used to construct the marquee. There are trucks arriving with alcohol, cool rooms, ovens, tables and chairs, and none of them can get through as they will definitely get bogged. I have a huge trailer on the back of my car and I’m waiting patiently for my turn to unload. I get a phone call from Ham and Amy, who can’t get out of Grafton due to flooding. They are making plans to get to Dungog another way. It seems in every task I undertake there is some obstacle.

  Ever since Matt and I left the farm in 2005 the things we’ve set out to do have always become complicated. The day we decided to leave the farm was the day I found out I was pregnant. When beautiful Stirling was born in December, I was hit with a bad dose of postnatal depression. Then I landed a job with a clothing company that involved lots of upfront costs; the company turned out to be dodgy and I lost all of our savings. The following August I found out I was pregnant again, only to be told that our baby had severe deformities and we had to terminate.

  So I guess you could say we have had a string of bad luck, but Matt and I just try to get on with it and do what we need to. I believe these obstacles are here to test my resolve and strengthen my character. One day things will turn around, I’m sure.

  Ham and Amy finally arrive and we are all at home having dinner. Heather calls with what she believes is a brilliant idea. Since news of Nigel’s kidnapping first broke, Australian Story has been asking if we’d be interested in participating. Heather had put them off, until now. She’s phoned Kristine Taylor from the show and told her that Nigel’s siblings are together for the weekend in Dungog. Heather informs us that the crew will be arriving on Sunday to start filming. Hmmm, we will still all be working on Sunday night; this will be interesting, I think.

  Thursday night is opening night and we are preparing to feed 500 guests a three-course seated meal. Ham has the bar sorted and the kitchen is ready to rock and roll. It is still pouring with rain.

  I have thirty staff members and they pull off dinner with the precision of an army passing-out parade. With all hands on deck, we rearrange the kitchen to resemble an army mess washing-up station: we have 1500 plates, 500 wine glasses, water glasses, champagne glasses, knives, forks, and spoons to clean. All the while the rain keeps flogging down and we trudge through mud and slop. Our feet are soaked and our shoes ruined and this is only the first night.

  It is 4 a.m. by the time my head hits the pillow and I am absolutely exhausted. Thank god tomorrow is only prep for Saturday night.

  The next day Nic gets a phone call from Ben; he explains they need her to talk to Nigel. The AFP is confident things are progressing with the kidnappers and tell her she needs to c
ome to Canberra ASAP. This sets the family buzzing; it will be the first time anyone in the family has spoken to Nigel for eight months.

  Before this phone call, we were laughing and joking and enjoying ourselves. I hadn’t seen Nic like this for a while; she was back to normal. After the call, she goes back into ‘Nigel mode’. She starts pacing, vagues out, and starts unconsciously tapping at her sternum. When Nic is like this, nothing else in the world exists except Nigel and getting him out of Somalia.

  The rest of the evening’s conversation revolves around what plan the AFP might have in place. Nic reads up on some notes she has brought with her. Matt will drop her off at the airport in the morning so she can fly to Canberra, talk to Nigel and move this situation up a gear.

  The rain has continued all night and as we arrive at the showground in Dungog, it’s clear there is no way I am going to be able to get the van anywhere near the marquee. The big tractors have been moving out the equipment from Thursday night’s dinner, and moving in equipment for tonight’s cocktail party. Down a set of hands with Nic in Canberra, we do our best to get the equipment into the tent with enough time left to start prep. Tonight’s function is for the NSW Minerals Council. They are the major sponsor of the festival and my biggest client. This event needs to run like clockwork; my reputation is on the line. I am expecting sixteen bar-staff volunteers to help Ham’s team of six. We are catering for over 800 guests tonight and while it is important that everyone gets enough to eat, it’s even more important that no one is left standing around waiting for a drink, and that the room doesn’t look like a dodgy nightclub, with glasses left all over the place for tiddly patrons to smash.

  In the back of my mind I can’t stop thinking about Nic and Nigel. Has the call come in? Has Nigel made contact? Is Nic going to talk with Nige or a TPI? All these questions keep banging around my head as I lug boxes of beer from the cool room to the bar.

  We are getting close to kick-off and my volunteers haven’t turned up. I have twenty-five staff of my own tonight, but they are distributed throughout the kitchen, bar and waiting services.

  I rally the troops, all of those with a Responsible Serving of Alcohol certificate need to move to the bar, and all those without need to stay in the kitchen. I tell Nat, my apprentice, that she will be running tonight’s kitchen. I have absolute faith in her, she has been with me for four years, and knows what I expect.

  ‘Will you be right?’ I ask.

  ‘Yep,’ she replies with confidence.

  I walk out the door, wish her good luck, and head straight to the bar.

  Twenty-five staff for 881 was never going to be enough. I needed those extra volunteers. I feel I have failed my clients, and I am disappointed with myself and the film festival for the volunteers’ failure to turn up. My staff were wonderful and did all they could to cope with the hordes of people clamouring for food and drinks.

  I phone Kerry from the NSW Minerals Council, who I now consider a friend, and apologise. Don’t get me wrong: the event was great and all those who attended had a wonderful time, but we as staff struggled to keep up with the rubbish control, bar queues and food distribution, and as the owner of the business the buck stops with me.

  One thing I have learned in business is that if you are honest and upfront, explain the situation calmly and take responsibility for your actions, most people will understand. That’s partly why I can’t comprehend why DFAT and the AFP have never done that with our family. I am not one to cause conflict. I can sound very scary in my head, but it always tends to come out of my mouth in a much more diplomatic tone. Some family members say I’m too quick to compromise on some of the situations we have been in to date, but the truth is I feel the fight is unwinnable.

  All this talk of whether the government has done the wrong thing by us is completely irrelevant as it doesn’t help to get Nigel out. What we need to be doing is looking at K&R specialist organisations. Mick F doesn’t work for one of these but he makes me look at our case in a different light. He makes me question what is possible.

  What we are facing is a lack of government capability; we need more money to get Nigel out and it’s not clear the government will work with us if the ransom goes above a certain amount. What has become clear is that this whole kidnap thing is about money and money only.

  It is Sunday and Matt, Ham, Amy, Simone and I are heading to Dungog again for the final night’s function. Tonight we are only doing the bar, thank god, as the local Lions Club is doing a barbecue. My mobile starts ringing; I don’t recognise the number.

  ‘Hello, Kellie speaking.’

  ‘Hi, Kellie. It’s Kristine Taylor from Australian Story. Are you inside the big tent?’

  ‘Oh, hi. Yes, we are. Come on in; I will meet you at the front.’

  Bugger, I had forgotten they were coming.

  Kristine walks in the entrance of the marquee with Mark, the sound tech, and Anthony, the cameraman. They have come down from Brisbane and will be spending two days with us. Kristine is petite with shoulder-length brown hair and a pretty face. Mark is tall and burly, but has a non-threatening vibe about him. Anthony is extremely good-looking, and as I learn in the days to come, all three of them are amazingly kind people.

  I introduce Ham, Matt and Amy to the crew and we sit down to explain the latest goings-on to them. I’d spoken with Kristine briefly on the phone before there was any indication of Nic going to Canberra. I can see her journalist’s mind ticking over; this means she will get vision of the family meeting up after this call. Television gold.

  Anthony films us working in the mud, lugging boxes of booze into the tent to set up the bar. He can’t believe we are actually working in these conditions without complaint. I hadn’t really thought about it. The job needs to be done so you just get in and do it.

  Finally, the weekend comes to a close. Dungog is done and dusted for another year. I am so thankful to all my staff and family for helping me get through it. On the way home in the car I joke that Nigel will be doing his stint in Dungog next year all on his own. We still haven’t heard from Nic, so god only knows what is going on in Somalia, let alone Canberra.

  It’s Monday night and I am cooking a slow-roasted lamb shoulder, a family favourite. Matt has gone to the airport to get Nic and the Australian Story crew have been filming us all day, packing up our equipment, getting dinner ready, interacting with the kids and also listening to recorded calls from Nige. Tonight they are joining us for dinner so that they can film us all together and get the blow-out from the phone call.

  They are filming as Nic walks through the front door. She looks shattered: the phone call never came. She holds it together very well, but one of us laughs at the awkwardness of being filmed. The crew takes a break and Nic introduces herself to Kristine and Mark. When she meets Andrew, Nic immediately turns to Amy and me: ‘Cute!’ It’s good to see our Nic hasn’t totally checked out.

  Nicky

  Dungog-Canberra

  Friday, 29-Sunday, 31 May

  It’s the start of the Dungog Film Festival. It’s Kellie’s biggest weekend of the year. All of Nigel’s siblings are here as well as Amy; it’s the typical ‘all pitch in’ Brennan family event. The next morning Ben confirms that a POL is coming in and someone has to go down to Canberra.

  ‘This is Kellie’s busiest event; can’t the phone line be moved across to a mobile?’ I ask. It’s far less hassle for us, but far more hassle for the AFP. The answer’s no.

  I fly from Newcastle to Brisbane to catch a flight to Canberra. I am absolutely fuming that the whole day is spent travelling. It would have been faster to have caught a bloody cab.

  Ben meets me after I arrive and we grab a cup of coffee. He’s got what looks like camping stuff in the back of the car. They haven’t had time to move the phone line anywhere with accommodation so I will be bunking down in the AFP building while I wait for the call. If Ben hadn’t provided me with a sleeping bag and pillows, I would be without bedding. I would’ve been better off with my o
wn swag. We’ve all got one from our B&S days and that skinny old rum-smelling bit of foam would have been a damn sight more comfy than what was waiting for me.

  The room we set up in is not the major incident room I saw last January, all bright lights, technical and shiny. This room is very basic; we are in a big communal workspace, with lots of desk workstations.

  Jason is on first shift. He has been up to Bundy in the NOK cell a couple of times, so I’m pretty comfortable with him. He is absolutely straight down the line. We call him Ned, as in Flanders. I acquaint myself with the strategies, which are essentially getting a POL and confirming the TPI’s credibility. Jason and I do a couple of mock calls to familiarise ourselves with the phone and our respective techniques. And then we settle in and wait.

  As the clock ticks on, I look around for something to bunk down on. The floor is carpet over concrete, cold and hard. There is a little two-seater couch in the waiting area of the office. I can only remove the seat cushions, the backs are fixed. When I put them on the floor and curl myself into a question-mark shape I can fit the length of my body, which is a grand total of 5 feet 4 inches, onto the two bits of synthetic-covered foam. These shoot out from under me every time I turn to roll over. I get bugger-all sleep. No call comes through.

  On Sunday I walk the streets of Canberra to get some air before I go into lockdown for the call that will hopefully come in that night. I walk in and realise the new neg on duty is Pamela. Of all the people. She tries to make polite conversation.

  I pick up my two pathetic cushions off the visitors’ lounge and move to the furthest point of the office behind a row of desks, and bury my head in a book. I hope the call comes in early in the morning when she has been rostered off.