I flip to the first page she’s numbered and slowly scan the text. I come to a dead stop when I see a few words underlined in pencil. I turn to the next page number in her sequence, noticing several more words underlined. It’s a message for me.
The first thing she says is ‘I love U’.
After midday prayer Ahmed casually enters my room and sits down. We make small talk before he finally comes to the point.
‘Noah, today I speak with Adan. He has a question from your family. They want to know what the name of Jumbo’s wife is.’
I immediately give him the answer: ‘Sonya’.
‘Do you understand the question?’ he asks.
‘Yes, it’s simple, the answer is Sonya. Jumbo – James – is one of my best friends, and his wife’s name is Sonya.’ I get a momentary flashback to times of indulgence with James before snapping back to reality.
‘I want you to think about this question. We believe your family is trying to communicate with you without us understanding,’ he says. I have to stop myself from laughing at this; they must think this is some James Bond movie.
‘It’s not possible,’ I say. ‘The answer is Sonya. The only thing they will understand from this is that I am still alive.’
Still not satisfied he says, ‘You must think about the answer and ways that your family may be trying to communicate with you. I will come back in a few hours; you must have a solution.’ Then he stands up and leaves.
For the rest of the afternoon I rack my brain, but no matter which way I twist it in my head I come to the same conclusion: it is nothing more than a proof of life. When Ahmed returns a few hours later, I talk about our history together, about James’s religious background, his wedding and the fact that Sonya had the same last name as mine before she got married. I tell him it’s inconceivable that my family could possibly take anything more from this than simply knowing I am alive. Ahmed doesn’t seem convinced.
The Bush House
Monday, 28 September
We’ve been moved again. I wake fatigued after another hellish car trip. This new room is very dark; I’m barely able to see my hand in front of my face.
When Jamal comes in with breakfast, I ask him to open the window just a centimetre. He ignores me and slides the plate across the floor. The bathroom is also a downgrade: there isn’t even a running tap, just a hole in the corner where I’m supposed to crap.
It doesn’t feel like we are staying long: the boys are camped out in the hallway and the food is being brought in from the market. I don’t bother unpacking my few belongings; it all seems pointless.
Nicky
Moore Park
Wednesday, 30 September
TC 28. Alto and I call Adan as he has still not sent a text. He doesn’t answer the POL but has clearly discussed it with Nige; he’s in a bit of turmoil. Nigel, Adan says, will not answer the question. If my brother wants to get out of that rat hole, he will have to answer the question, I think. Amanda’s POL question is what is Dad’s (Jon’s) favourite colour?
‘Okay, Adan, then ask Nigel another question for me: ask him what a “happy Jack” is?’ I have to get Adan to repeat it to me. I am so chuffed with myself; no one who has lived anywhere but out west would know that they are stocky grey squawking gregarious birds that flock together in large families, earning them their other name of ‘apostle bird’. Country folk either love them or hate them. I’m firmly in the first camp. Big squabbling families – what’s not to love?
We give him a deadline. He’s got twenty-four hours to get the answer or he doesn’t get a new offer.
OCTOBER 2009
Trust
Nigel
The Bush House
Early October
After being holed up for three days in virtual darkness and with the start of a new month, I’m battling to keep it together. I’m living in a tomb. I have no idea where we are, and I can’t even glimpse Amanda any more. The months of my manipulating the boys have come to nothing. I feel like I’m an invalid, unable to make my own decisions, no longer even able to fill up my own water bottle, having to comply with the guards’ every demand. My thoughts are the only thing they can’t influence, but it’s hard not to let depression and frustration get the better of me. I desperately miss the last house and its small privileges. There I could see out the windows. I miss the blue sky, the tops of green trees, but, most of all, I miss seeing the sun.
The days drag on endlessly, and trying to fill them becomes that much harder as each one passes. I begin making up memory games. Inspired by what Nelson Mandela did at Robben Island, I commit my diary to memory. What begins as a game turns into a fixation. I am terrified about them finding my scraps of paper, detailing my records, and I know deep down that if we ever get out of here, they aren’t going to let me walk out with them. In my crossword and prayer books I also begin making duplicates and triplicates of relevant dates, using very basic shorthand to prompt my memory. This means I look like I am reading while I’m memorising everything. Three to four times a day I go through this process until I can recite everything I’ve written verbatim.
Having not seen Ahmed since the move, I’m actually excited when he visits me on the morning of the first.
‘Has Adan spoken with my family?’ I ask, hoping that the answer to the question about Jumbo from days earlier will have resulted in something. His vacant look isn’t encouraging. He finally replies.
‘Yes, Adan speaks with your sister last night. He does not give the answer from the last question. We think it’s a trick. Adan asks your sister for a new question: they want to know what is a “happy jack?” ’
I don’t know how the answer to this is going to convince these idiots that my family aren’t still trying to do the same thing. Pushing these thoughts aside, I repeat the question.
‘What is a happy jack?’
‘Yes,’ he replies, his eyes now squarely fixed on me. I draw a complete blank. I’m sure that it is the type of bird we used to get on the farm; they would congregate on the lawn when Mum put the sprinklers on. As a kid I had only known them as ‘crazy jacks’ because of the commotion they used to make. It all seems so far away and I’m struggling to properly picture them. It seems like a lifetime ago and I’m desperate not to get the answer wrong.
‘I don’t know what a happy jack is, but I think it’s the same as crazy jack; it’s an Australian bird, their common name is apostle bird.’ He seems perturbed by my answer.
‘You think your family is trying to communicate with you?’ he asks.
‘This is only something I would know, from my childhood. Maybe my sister calls them happy jacks but I know them as crazy jacks. The only thing my family can take from this answer is that I am alive,’ I explain. We go round and round in circles until he finally tells me to write the answer down. Then he leaves.
In the late afternoon, after my months of agitating Romeo, he finally caves in to my pestering and begins teaching me Surahs of the Qur’an in Arabic. A few days later he begins doing the same with Amanda. This means we can pass the Qur’an – and our messages – between us more often.
Nicky
Moore Park
Early October
It’s an auspicious start to the month. Adan sends two texts to Lorinda. The first one says: ‘hunter green’. We were expecting ‘green’ but to give the exact shade indicates that Amanda has gone to some lengths to answer the question.
The second one says ‘Apostle bird’. It’s the correct answer too.
Now I need to do my thing, even though we’re right up against our budget. This is a reward system after all.
Over the next couple of CMT meetings we decide the next jump is going to be up to $548K. A few months earlier, one of our great aunts, Dulce, died. She was a great old bird. She had nursed her husband, Albert, who was an absolute favourite of the kids, through stroke and cancer twenty-five years ago. She went blind, but lived unassisted well into her nineties. Mum told me she had said something along
the lines of, ‘It will be wonderful to see Ab again. I do miss him so,’ as she settled into her Smoky Dawson recliner a few days before she died.
As with all the strategies, everything we tell Adan is based on truth so we can’t be caught out. It was probably the first thing I learned when I did the negotiator 101 course with the Feds all those long months ago. You can simply not answer a question or deflect, but you cannot lie.
After much discussion at the CMT, we decide to tell Adan that the increased offer is a result of Dulce’s estate being settled. I script the conversation and pin it to the wall. I go over the possible ways our talk could go, then I make the call.
‘Our sad loss is your gain,’ I say to Adan. And then I lose it totally. That wasn’t in the script. Si is rubbing and patting me between my shoulder blades. Dulce had a great long and happy life, and I know that if Adan tells Nigel that Dulce has died, it will be no surprise. But I’m terribly saddened at the thought that Adan could, and probably will, be gleeful at Nigel’s grief. Alto saves me by launching into conversation with Adan.
It’s really rattled Adan that Lorinda and I are refusing to talk to Nigel or Amanda. He has a whinge to Alto that he is misunderstood and has done his best to look after the pair, and they will confirm this ‘after they are released’. We’re all cheered up at this. It’s positive talk.
Adan then says he will accept one million dollars. This is a big deal too. Alto doesn’t think that Adan will take our new offer but it feels like we are starting to get near the ballpark. Things start to move fast from this point on. Adan also discusses for the first time an exchange rather than a money drop. This would mean using the hawala system.
JC has used the hawala money-exchange a number of times, as it’s much safer than lugging wads of cash around. Hawala is the middle-eastern and African money-transfer system. Muslim countires don’t really believe in banks. They’re usually privately owned, and in the case of Somalia, owned by a bunch of MPs. He explains to us that essentially what would happen is that a hawala dealer, say in another Muslim country such as Saudi Arabia (we’re likely to move the money from there as it is a big banking state), will have a counterpart in Mogadishu. The hawala dealer would physically handle and count our money. He would then ring his Somali counterpart, who’d then release the money to Adan. We will have to pay a handling fee of 2 to 5 per cent. Adan’s unlikely to split that with us so we will have to tell him it’ll come out of the ransom amount.
We’ll need to impose a couple of caveats: the money will not be released till Nigel and Amanda are at some agreed exchange point. I can remember hearing that at a recent kidnapping, there was a time delay of four hours between the money being delivered and the arrival of the kidnap victims. I’m struck by the thought of how completely mind-numbingly terrifying those four hours must have been. Plenty of time to get captured by another group.
AKE’s on-the-ground logistics guy, Sam, starts looking at on-the-ground logistics. He’s an advocate of the 6 Ps: perfect planning prevents piss-poor performance.
Possible exchange points are the secure aid agencies’ compounds – probably the AMISOM compounds.
JC suggests we speak to the authorities about getting Nigel and Amanda’s passports released. It gives us some control over their extraction. The passports are being held at the High Commissions in Nairobi. I am really apprehensive about them being forthcoming and doubt they will release them.
We have been given a list by DFAT of their possessions. The HC had their things collected from the hotel room – we all speculate by whom – after they were taken. Going through the itemised list was horrible; it felt like reading through a deceased estate. I was crying hard over a list of clothes, the likes of a T-shirt, green, red writing, ‘more trees less bush’. T-shirt, ‘Ramones logo’. Underpants, green, Bonds brand. One pair tube socks red trim. Reading through the contents of the list, I let my guard down. Somewhere tucked away is a pain not to be probed at, like a torn-off nail you accidentally bump and try so hard not to touch again. If you do, the pain is too intense.
It is one of the times it really hits home that my brother may not ever come back.
What if he dies? What if we’ve worked this hard and he doesn’t come home? We will never be able to survive it as a family. I can’t start to think about the dysfunction it will create. Nigel’s life has been reduced to this: the love of his family, a list of his T-shirts in a embassy on the other side of the world. We will never have a body to mourn. I can’t have this happen to Mum and Dad. The weight of it falls to me and it is such a heavy, heavy load. Tears sheet down my cheeks, dripping off my chin. Shit, the keyboard is wet. I can’t have another computer crash on me.
JC can organise for a counterpart in Nairobi to pick their gear up.
The RCMP has said to Jon that the government has multilevel plans in play for Amanda’s extraction but won’t disclose them to Jon. Statements like that freeze my blood. They also won’t disclose them to JC. What we would really like is some assistance from the government in the form of medical care. In an ideal situation, if we were not stretched financially (read: if we were insured), the family members would stay at AKE secure accommodation in Nairobi (the closest capital city to Mogadishu). The families and AKE would take over a wing and seal it up. Nigel and Amanda would have adjoining rooms for ease of contact with each other. Private medical staff would be made available for both and all would stay for up to a couple of weeks until they’d acclimatised. The time can vary greatly as some people want to ease back into society slowly and others want absolute freedom as they have been locked away for so long. We know an awful lot about what happens to people on release – we’ve done our homework.
Jon and Lorinda tell us they have been constantly discouraged from going to Nairobi to retrieve Amanda. Both governments have told us that as soon as Nigel and Amanda are physically well enough to travel they will be repatriated to Australian and Canadian soil respectively.
Alarmingly, the Canadian government has implied to Jon that Amanda’s mental health is ‘less of an issue’ than her physical health, and as soon as her body is okay to fly she would be sent home. When DFAT came to dinner, Kel had asked James about the mental health services available for Nigel: ‘DFAT doesn’t have psychiatric support agencies available for Nigel in Australia. There are other agencies such as Centrelink that we can approach.’ Looks like we will be starting from scratch when he gets home then. JC is adamant there should be a family member with both Nige and Amanda when they get out so someone is there to keep the respective embassy and police forces in line. The authorities will want to debrief them as soon as possible, and often that’s not good for the victim. The family members need a Rottweiler to tell them to back off and reassure Nigel and Amanda that they don’t have to do anything until they’re ready.
Friday, 9 October
We don’t hear back from Adan for ages, so Alto and I call him. The call coincides with Canada’s fundraising night and JC is over there for it, so I’m going over points with him while he’s in a stairwell in his dinner suit. Lorinda says he looks very James Bond. JC is saying everyone is confusing him with the Chinese waiter and if we can’t find him, it will be because he’s in the kitchen washing dishes.
Adan says to Alto that he went to the gang and they will only accept 1.3, so it looks like we’ve gone back up again. We’re told the gang is split into two parts: the good guys and the bad guys. Alto implores Adan to convince the good guys that there is no more money. He tells Adan that he knows the families don’t have this sort of money and that Adan has to convince the good guys to get this message across to the bad guys.
Adan does, however, go on to discuss exchange matters with Alto. Adan has heard of and is happy to use the Dahabshiil agency, an international hawala funds-transfer company. So Alto has arranged for our next call to be early Monday morning. This is good as I will be down in Sydney with Kel, and she can keep me company when I take the call; it’s much nicer having someone there with me.
Saturday, 10 October
I fly to Newcastle. Jacinta calls and leaves a panicked message, which I get when I stop over at Brisbane. One of the neighbours has been welding; everything is bone-dry and an easterly is blowing. Sparks got away, and our farm is on fire. I scramble to call back. It’s pretty much under control; the kids are all accounted for and the house and sheds are still standing, but the fire has burnt the cane from one end of the farm to the other. Si has a huge battle on his hands to get it cut before the sugar content disappears.
I later hear that he hasn’t had enough help on the ground to do it. The crop has turned to mush. We really needed that income.
Kellie
Sydney
Sunday, 11 October
Nicky and I have an appointment arranged with Dick in his office at Terrey Hills, a suburb of northern Sydney. We drive down from Newcastle, and the Australian Story Sydney crew are meeting us there. I’m starting to get a little frustrated with them following us around. I really don’t want them filming me asking Dick Smith for a million dollars.
Nic and I are both struggling with the idea that Canada has no money and as yet has not contributed to either the kitty or the AKE payments. On the phone Dick asked Nic how much money Canada had, and we’ve been trying to get something out of them since then.
It’s 7 a.m. We’re halfway to Sydney and still on the highway when we have to pull over to take our CMT call. What I need from the Canadians is to know exactly how much they have to contribute so I can tell Dick Smith at our meeting in three hours’ time.
Lorinda says they have mortgaged Jon’s house and have US$100 000. I don’t think I have ever been so excited. Not only can I tell Dick that the Canadians have money to add to the pile, but it will also get Ham and Heather off our backs.
The Price of Life Page 31