As Delmar’s consulting business grew, Al-Shabaab was bringing in more and more armed hordes. From Sweden, they heard talk that young men in immigrant neighborhoods were getting sucked in. At first, these were just rumors, about lost souls trying to make themselves feel important, with lots of talk and little action. But then the young men began going off, leaving their families back home at wit’s end. They’d be left in the dark: complete silence, or just a grainy picture of their child’s face on all the wrong Internet sites, or a death announcement from some untrustworthy source.
Delmar’s own operations had developed a widening network of contacts, even far out in the Somali countryside. He’d managed to track down some of the missing youths in what Al-Shabaab called a training camp: a dusty scrap of land in the middle of nowhere, without enough food or ammunition for anyone to be able to train for anything. After a few months of being bossed around by thugs whose only ambition was to destroy the world, the adventure would have run its course. The young men had thought they’d win respect by carrying a Kalashnikov. Their actual assignment was to bring glory to others by becoming one of the multitude, with a bomb belt strapped around their waist.
It wasn’t hard to convince them to leave—they ached with homesickness—but it was a matter of getting the right leaders to look the other way while distracting the thugs assigned to guard the sheep. Two of the youths got home safely, and one died on the way. Still, the operation was considered a success. Again, there were rumors, now in cities with a large Somali diaspora: in Minneapolis, Ottawa, and Rotterdam, there were people who wanted their sons brought home. Delmar, who hated jihadists, was happy to sabotage their designs—and he also liked making money. Few people managed to do both at the same time. He set a price of $30,000 to bring a man home. Many of the families hated him for it; they saw only this huge sum and imagined his life of luxury. They didn’t see the bribes that had to be paid, the risks that Delmar and his sources ran, the escape routes that had to be arranged, the clan borders that had to be crossed, the machinery that could only be lubricated with a single tool—cash. Now, if ever, that name, the Jew, really stuck. It was rarely spoken with respect, but still, the boys came home.
Naturally, the business meant that ever larger sums of cash could be moved, and that was what Fredrik Hansson did for Delmar, both within Africa and between continents. Money flowed along one route, and the confused and often defiant young men along the other. These were youths who would otherwise have ended their days with a bang that took far too many lives in a marketplace, or in a senseless shoot-out in a shopping mall. Invisible to all, Delmar and Hansson had built up something that the West’s police and intelligence networks could not.
There were many who were dependent on Khalid Delmar. And he, in turn, needed Fredrik Hansson.
47
Fredrik Hansson gave Ayanna a full confession. A whole day, sitting by the pool in the house on Lamu Island. And everything that he told her, Grip took in. He understood how it worked, what the Swedish soldier and the Somali were actually up to. On the cell phone voice memos that Ayanna kept sending him, when Hansson talked about his “friend,” that meant Khalid Delmar. The more he laid out for Ayanna, the clearer it became who was the genius, and who the guy lucky enough to tag along.
Khalid Delmar ran a travel agency for jihadists, not for the ones buying a one-way ticket to hell but for the families who wanted someone brought home again. That paid much better, and that’s where the real money came from. Dollar bills in bundles from his own compatriots, weeping over sons who’d left behind the housing projects of their adopted country. Some were taken home by force, which cost more.
Hansson gave the details in bits and pieces, but Grip already knew enough to start filling in the blanks. It wasn’t just families in Sweden they helped, but Somalis worldwide. Money flowed in from the United States, Canada, and Europe, always in different ways, to different places. Their approach was to hide the money from others who wanted to get ahold of it, and also from the intelligence services eager to handcuff and interrogate whenever they found Muslims exchanging cash. Most of it ended up in Africa, as that was where the networks were, and it was always there that a beloved son would finally be traded for hard currency. Delmar had a whole organization up and running, inside Somalia and in its neighboring countries.
But there was another dimension, the game that not even Hansson seemed aware of. The one that in Judy Drexler’s world, was driven by greed as much as by conviction. Khalid Delmar knew everything about those who recruited and armed young jihadist adventurers. While looking for the young men he was bringing back home, he infiltrated operations, learning the names of leaders, their cell phone numbers, and the places where they’d built their bases and training camps. That’s what he gave to Judy Drexler, and that’s how he’d become her most valuable source. She in turn passed the information along, and then the drones did their part. Hansson was in the dark, Grip was convinced of it. Fredrik Hansson was just the guy who made sure it all got loaded and unloaded, the one who got the profits home. Only now he’d fucked up.
Grip took it in and spun it around in his mind; clearly the house on Lamu Island had a very specific function. When Ayanna tried to exchange cell numbers, Hansson had refused. The desert fortress with its swimming pool and shady terrace was a safe house with crystal-clear rules: no phone, no Internet. In his nearly stateless situation, Fredrik Hansson was trying to shut himself off from the world. He would ride out the storm, and then everything would be fine again. But for now, after the shipwreck, he’d cling onto anyone. So when Ayanna drifted by, he was grateful to be able to reach out and feel he could keep his head above water. Maybe he could get someone to believe that he mattered, that it wasn’t over. He’d drag out the story as long as possible, so that she wouldn’t look at the clock, excuse herself, and disappear. He’d tell more and more, it didn’t matter what, just to keep from sinking. Anything to fend off the loneliness, the sense that he was being swallowed up and pulled down into the darkness.
“My friend is coming soon . . .” Eventually, Khalid Delmar would show up. This was the place where they both felt the most comfortable, their own secluded island. Within the walls of that house, there was luxury—a prosperity few in the world would ever know. But even if Fredrik Hansson had no place else to go, he also feared their reunion.
Grip listened to the latest voice memo Ayanna had sent. “He went apeshit . . .” Hansson sounded distressed. Even as he was spilling his guts, he sometimes spoke in riddles, but Grip realized he was talking about the incident at the shooting range. Delmar had been furious about all the attention it got, attention their business could have done without. The two hadn’t met face-to-face in six months, Hansson busy in Djibouti and Delmar in Somalia, where he was needed most.
“My friend should just . . . He’s put together a new group to be returned home. It’s a hard trip, very risky, it takes time, but then . . .” Delmar would show up on Lamu Island, sooner or later. What was eating at Fredrik Hansson was that maybe Khalid Delmar would come to the island to say that their partnership was finished.
The sun went down on Lamu Island. An islander had arrived to cook dinner. She brought all the fresh ingredients she needed in a basket. The cook was the only other person Ayanna laid eyes on during that day in the big house. She stayed and ate with Hansson, a quiet meal. The only sounds were of the woman washing dishes in the kitchen, somewhere in back. When it was time to go, Hansson seemed to grow restless, like a nocturnal animal coming to life; the silence drove him crazy. He insisted that they get a dose of street life, at least to go out for a drink. Ayanna excused herself, saying that she had errands to run and needed an hour to herself. They decided on a time to meet later, at the same bar as the night before.
Ayanna went back to her bungalow and called Grip. She had a few things to add about Hansson’s past history, but these were just small details. Really, it was an excuse to talk. Grip heard the anxiety in her voice. She wanted instruction
s. He said she should just keep doing what she was doing, building trust.
“He is scared,” she said.
“Of course he is.”
“He thinks that people are watching him.”
“I’m watching him.”
“Not only you.”
“He’s paranoid.”
When they’d hung up, and Ayanna went to take her evening shower, Grip thought about his final dismissive comment. Was it meant to comfort himself, or Ayanna?
He called her back. “I just wanted to say that you’re doing a very good job.”
“You do not have a plan, do you?” she replied, and waited out his silence. “You have no idea where this is going.”
“Not really.”
“Okay. Just so I know.”
Before she went off to the bar, she sent a picture of herself in front of the mirror wearing a blue dress she’d bought in Mombasa and wrote: “So that you can identify me in the morgue here at Lamu, if it comes to that.”
Hansson had already been at the bar for a while when Ayanna arrived. He’d had at least one double Scotch so far, to kill the pain, and for a moment he looked like the old Fredrik Hansson, muscular and cocky amid the nightlife. He sat down with Ayanna but kept looking around and greeting people, and he was so wary that Ayanna could only record short snippets with her cell phone under the table.
“Who are you looking for?”
“People are watching me,” he replied. “But you don’t need to turn around, they’ve already left.”
Another snippet Ayanna sent Grip was of her playing the real estate game. “Maybe I’ll settle for something a little farther from the water.”
“An ocean view costs money.”
“An ocean view does, and a private beach even more,” she said.
Hansson guffawed. “Everyone has dreams. If you don’t go after them, then you settle for crumbs.”
“That’s life,” she said, making light of it.
“Maybe, but with that attitude, you’ll never get anywhere. If you want it, you have to grab it.”
Ayanna excused herself. She didn’t head to the bathroom but instead out into the street and called Grip. She’d sent another voice memo. “Did you hear that last part?” she asked, as soon as he picked up.
It had been hard enough to hear before, but this time he only got background noise, mumbling, and people walking across the floor. “No, not a word.”
“He is speaking in riddles, but it seems he wants to use me as a courier.”
“Carrying money from where?”
“From Lamu.”
“To?”
“I do not know, Djibouti I suppose. With all the mess you’ve made, he’s trapped. He’s behind schedule, and Delmar is furious.” There was silence for a few seconds. “Are you still there?” she asked.
“Say yes,” Grip urged, in the next breath. He saw a chance to trick Hansson into returning to Djibouti. “What we’ll actually do next is another thing, but say yes.”
When Ayanna went back to Hansson, he seemed more troubled. He talked about other things for a while and then asked, “Well, what do you say?”
Ayanna had simply nodded.
There were some loud bangs on the recording that Grip listened to later. Then Ayanna’s voice: “They’re shooting?”
“No doubt out on the canal, warning shots.” There was the sound of Hansson lifting his glass, and then he added: “Just the police chasing people, it happens all the time. No one even notices.
“Anyway,” he said, and lowered his voice. “Under the table, I’m holding a key chain. By your right knee. Do you feel it?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a big key and a small key. Don’t worry about the big key, it’s for the house, but I have another set, I can get in anyway. It’s the small key you’ll need. You met Irene today.”
“The one who cooked dinner?”
“Yes. She lives just outside of town here, she and her young son who’s always sick, in a small house at the edge of the forest. At the back, behind their place, there’s a storage shed.”
“I cannot find . . .”
“Take the keys with you when you go. I’m leaving now. Tomorrow I’ll tell you what to do and how to find Irene’s shed.” There was the sound of the chair scraping when Hansson stood up.
“Tomorrow?” asked Ayanna.
“Yes, yes, for lunch.”
“Here?”
“Come when you want, after one or so.”
Grip had listened to all the recordings Ayanna sent over. Pondered and listened again. When he rang at half past two in the morning, she answered in a sleepy voice, and after a brief apology, he asked, “Did you tell him where you live?”
“Here? You mean the bungalow?”
“Yes.”
“I talked about the place, said something about the courtyard here. He knows the town, surely he could figure it out. Why?”
“And who else did you tell?”
“I pretended that I was looking for a house for him,” she replied, now sounding more annoyed than sleepy. “To get gossip from the real estate brokers, you must be generous yourself. I do not know how many I told. Is it important?”
“No, but . . . tomorrow I want you to find another place. Do it quietly, don’t go through the brokers you’ve gotten to know, get something . . . I am sure there are signs for tourists to rent on their own. Just get a room.”
“Is this about how much I am costing you again?”
“Not at all. Just a feeling. Don’t check out of the bungalow, and don’t give them any reason to think that you’re not there. Mess up the bed, but take your things out of there.”
“So is this my last night here?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t tell you how to play Gershwin, so leave this to me.”
“We have a plan, in other words?”
“It would be too much to say that. Just a little breathing room.”
“I am starting to feel more and more like bait, both for you and for Hansson.”
“You’ve borrowed a bunch of keys, that’s all. Go to sleep now.”
“You should hear the night here,” she said. “It is not like the stillness of the desert. This darkness is alive. People, animals, sometimes you can hear the ocean.” She was quiet for a second. “This is an island. It is not so easy to get away.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do not abandon me.”
“Try to sleep now.”
48
It was after breakfast, and Grip was swimming laps in the Kempinski’s pool. He’d done this several mornings in a row, feeling the pleasure of having some kind of routine in his life. A short, refreshing way to relax. When he came out to get his towel under an umbrella, he found a text waiting on the phone that was his only link to the negotiator. At first, he saw it as just a string of numbers, but then he noticed an S at the beginning and an E in the middle. Latitude and longitude. He’d been given an exact location for something. He responded with a ? but got nothing back.
He went up to his room and, still in his bathing suit, found an online satellite site and entered the coordinates. A point in the middle of the Indian Ocean. He typed the numbers again, got the same result. Went to another site, still a pin in the same place, just blue sea.
He stayed in his room, and soon the anxiety that the pool had eased was back. Too much uncertainty. He’d showered and dressed when it rang. The call could only be coming from one person.
“I did what I could,” the negotiator began bluntly, as soon as Grip answered. “Someone in Sweden could have responded earlier to my call. You had every opportunity in the world to send that boy his medications.”
“He didn’t get them?”
It was quiet for a moment. “The pills got there. Darwiish let the family have them.”
“Well then,” said Grip, suddenly thinking that the negotiator felt pressured by something, which was good. He decided not to ask mo
re questions about the boy.
“I do not think this will end well,” continued the negotiator. “I want guarantees.”
“You give us something real, and then we’ll talk. The drug delivery worked in your favor, but it was just a way to buy us both some time.”
“I’m not sure it bought us much. No one in Sweden is willing to pay. There is some kind of ridiculous collection fund, as I understand it, but Darwiish’s patience and the family’s health . . .”
“You need to give us something concrete.”
“The coordinates I sent show where they’re being held.”
“I saw only ocean, on the map.”
“They need to be adjusted a bit, but first I want guarantees.”
“The government never negotiates openly about such matters. All you can have is my word. Now, give me the right numbers.”
“Do not forget that I am, after all, representing the side that is holding the hostages. It would be all too easy to charge me as an accomplice. I want you to say it, that you will not come after me, that you will not try to kill me or imprison me.”
“I promise.”
“Reduce the first and the seventh numbers by one.”
Grip typed in the numbers again. The satellite image on the computer relocated to a point where land and sea intersected, somewhere north of Mogadishu. He zoomed down to the brown desert sand and soon saw: a series of hills, next to the sea seen from space. Finally, although the image was grainy, two small houses. It looked to be about as hospitable as a distant, dead planet.
“The family is being held in the house on the eastern side,” explained the negotiator, “and the guards live in the one to the west. Should you choose to do something, Friday would be a good option.”
“Why Friday?”
“Speak to someone who understands Somalis. Also, Darwiish is usually there on Friday nights.”
After the Monsoon Page 29