The Kill List (17 page)

That was as far as he got. A right-handed slap with full force laid him on the ground. There was confused shouting in a language he did not understand, though he spoke English, Somali and Arabic apart from his native Hebrew. Half a dozen hands picked him up and hustled him away. There was a shed of sorts built into the compound wall. He was thrown inside and heard a bolt slam. It was dark, and the place stank. He knew he had to keep up the act. He sank onto a pile of old sacks and buried his head in his hands, the universal posture of bewildered defeat.

It was half an hour before they returned. The two or three of bodyguard stature were there, but also a new one. He was indeed Somali, and with a cultured voice. Some education perhaps. He beckoned. Opal stumbled, blinking, into the harsh sunlight.

“Come,” said the Somali, “the Sheikh wishes to see you.”

He was marched under close escort into the main building, facing the gate. In the lobby he was given a skilled and thorough frisking. His tattered wallet was taken and handed to the Somali. He extracted the usual papers and scanned them, comparing the grainy photograph to the face. Then he nodded, pocketing the wallet, turned and walked on. Opal was hustled in his wake.

They entered a well-appointed sitting room, where a large fan turned from the ceiling. There was a desk with papers and writing materials. A man sat in a swivel chair, facing away from the door. The Somali approached and murmured in the man’s ear. Opal could have sworn he had switched to Arabic. He offered the seated man the wallet and identification papers.

Opal could see the package he had brought was open and several sheets lay on the desk. The seated man turned, lifted his eyes from the wallet and stared at him. He had a full black beard and amber eyes.

H
ardly had the
Malmö
dropped her anchor in twenty fathoms of water in the bay of Garacad than three aluminum skiffs were seen heading toward her from the village.

Jimali and his seven co-pirates were eager to be back on land. They had been at sea for twenty days, most of them cooped up in the Taiwanese trawler. Their supplies of fresh food were long gone, and they had been existing on European and Filipino cuisine, which they did not like, for two weeks. They wanted to get back to their native goat stew diet and the feel of sand under their feet.

The dark heads crouching in the oncoming skiffs from the shore a mile away were those of the relief crew, who would guard the ship at anchor for as long as it took.

Only one of those approaching the
Malmö
was not a ragged tribesman. Primly at the back of the third skiff sat a neatly dressed Somali in a well-cut fawn safari jacket and trousers. He held an attaché case on his knees. This was al-Afrit’s chosen negotiator, Mr. Abdi.

“Now it begins,” said Capt. Eklund. He spoke in English, the language common to the Swede, Ukrainians, the Pole and Filipinos onboard. “We must be patient. Leave the talking to me.”

“No speak,” snapped Jimali. He disliked his captives speaking even in English because his grasp of it was not very strong.

A ladder was lowered over the side and the mainly teenage relief guards came up it, hardly seeming to touch the rungs. Mr. Abdi, who did not like being at sea, even a mile out, took his time and clung firmly to the guy ropes as he climbed. His attaché case was passed up to him when his feet hit the deck.

Captain Eklund did not know who he was but recognized from his dress and manner that this was at least an educated man. He stepped forward.

“I am Captain Eklund, master of the
Malmö
,” he said.

Mr. Abdi held out his hand. “I am Ali Abdi, the appointed negotiator for the Somali end of things,” he said. His English was fluent, with a slight American intonation. “You have never been . . . how shall I put it? . . . a guest of the Somali people before?”

“No,” said the captain. “And I would prefer not to be now.”

“Of course. Most distressing, from your point of view. But you have been briefed, no? There are certain formalities that must be gone through, then meaningful negotiations can begin. The sooner an accord is reached, the sooner you will be on your way.”

Captain Eklund knew that, far away, his employer would be in conclave with insurers and lawyers, and they, too, would appoint a single negotiator. Both, he hoped, would be skilled and experienced and would accomplish a quick ransom payment and release. He clearly did not know the rules. Speed was now the concern of the Europeans only.

Abdi’s first concern was to be escorted to the bridge to make contact on the ship’s satellite phone with the control center in Stockholm and then the negotiation office, presumably in London, the home of Lloyd’s, which would be the epicenter of the whole bargaining process. As he surveyed the deck from the vantage of the bridge, he murmured: “It might be wise to rig canvas awnings in the spaces left by the deck cargo. Then your crew can take the sea air without being roasted by the sun.”

Stig Eklund had heard of the Stockholm syndrome, the procedure whereby kidnappers and captives formed a friendship bond based on shared proximity. He had no intention of relaxing his inner loathing for the people who had seized his ship. On the other hand, the neatly dressed, educated and well-spoken Somali, in the person of Ali Abdi, was at least someone he could communicate with on a civilized basis.

“Thank you,” he said. His first and second officers were standing behind him. They had heard and understood. He nodded to them and they left the bridge to hang the awnings.

“And now, if you please, I must speak to your people in Stockholm,” said Abdi.

The sat phone had Stockholm on the line in seconds. Abdi’s face lit up when he heard the ship’s owner was even then in London with Chauncey Reynolds. He had twice negotiated, albeit for other clan chiefs, for the release of vessels through Chauncey Reynolds and each time they had been successful, with only a few weeks of delay. Given the number, he asked Capt. Eklund to raise the London lawyers. Julian Reynolds came on the line.

“Ah, Mr. Reynolds, we speak again. This is Mr. Ali Abdi on the bridge of the
Malmö
, with Captain Eklund beside me.”

In London, Julian Reynolds looked pleased. He covered the mouthpiece and said, “It’s Abdi again.” There was a sigh of relief, and that included Gareth Evans. Everyone at the London end had heard of the foul reputation of al-Afrit, the cruel old tyrant who ruled Garacad. The appointment of the urbane Abdi caused a flicker of light in the gloom.

“Good morning, Mr. Abdi.
Salaam aleikhem
.”

“Aleikhem as-salaam,”
responded Abdi over the airwaves. He suspected the Swedes and British would happily wring his neck if they had a free choice, but the Muslim greeting was a nice attempt at civility. He appreciated civility.

“I am going to pass you to someone I think you already know,” said Reynolds. He passed the receiver to Gareth Evans and switched to conference call. The voice from the Somali shore was clear as a bell. It was just as clear to the ears at Fort Meade and Cheltenham, who were recording everything.

“Hello, Mr. Abdi. This is Mr. Gareth. We meet again, if only in space. I have been asked to handle the London end of things.”

In London, five men—the shipowner, two lawyers, an insurer and Gareth Evans—heard Abdi’s chortle over the speaker system.

“Mr. Gareth, my friend. I am so glad it is you. I am sure we can lead this matter to a good conclusion.”

Abdi’s habit of putting the “Mr.” in front of the given name was his way of landing between frostily formal and too intimate. He always referred to Gareth Evans as Mr. Gareth.

“I have a room set aside for me in the law office here in London,” said Evans. “Shall I move in there so that we can start?”

It was too fast for Abdi. The formalities had to be observed. One was to impress on the Europeans that the hurry was all on their side. He knew Stockholm would already have calculated just how much the
Malmö
was now costing them on a daily basis; ditto the insurers, of which there would be three.

One firm would cover the hull and machinery, a different firm the cargo, and a third would be the war risk underwriters holding cover on the crew. They would all have different calculations of loss, ongoing or pending. Let them stew with their figures a while longer, he thought. What he said was: “Ah, Mr. Gareth, my friend, you are ahead of me. I need a little more time to study the
Malmö
and her cargo before I can propose a reasonable figure that you can confidently put to your principals for settlement.”

He had already been online from his private room, set aside for him in the sand-blasted fortress in the hills behind Garacad, which was the headquarters of al-Afrit. He knew there were factors such as age and condition of the freighter, perishability of the cargo and loss of future likely earnings to be computed.

But he had done all that and had decided on a starting figure of twenty-five million dollars. He knew he would probably settle on four million, maybe five if the Swede was in a hurry.

“Mr. Gareth, let me propose we begin tomorrow morning. Say, nine o’clock London time? That will be midday here. I shall by then be back in my office onshore.”

“Very well, my friend. I shall be here to take your call.”

It would be a satellite call by computer. There would be no question of using Skype. Facial expressions can give too much away.

“There is one last thing before we break for the day. Do I have your assurance that the crew, including the Filipinos, will be detained safely onboard and not molested in any way?”

No other Somali heard this, for those on the
Malmö
were out of earshot of the bridge and could not speak English anyway. But Abdi caught the meaning.

By and large, the Somali warlords and clan chiefs treated their captives humanely, but there were one or two notable exceptions. Al-Afrit was one, and the worst, a vicious old brute with a reputation.

At a personal level, Abdi would work for al-Afrit, and his fee would be twenty percent. His labors as hostage negotiator for pirates were making him a wealthy man much younger than usual. But he did not have to like his principal and he did not. He despised him. But he did not have a corps of bodyguards around him.

“I am confident that all the crew will remain onboard and be well treated,” he intoned, then ended the call. He just prayed he was right.

• • •

T
he amber eyes gazed at the young prisoner for a dozen seconds. Silence reigned in the room. Opal could sense the educated Somali, who had let him into the courtyard, and two Pakistani bodyguards behind him. When the voice came, it was surprisingly gentle and in Arabic.

“What is your name?”

Opal gave it.

“Is that a Somali name?”

Behind him, the Somali shook his head. The Pakistanis did not understand.

“No, Sheikh, I am from Ethiopia.”

“That is a mainly
nasrani
country. Are you a Christian?”

“Thanks be to Allah the Merciful, the Compassionate. No, no, Sheikh, I am not. I am from the Ogaden, just over the border. We are all Muslims and much persecuted for it.”

The face with the amber eyes nodded approvingly.

“And why did you come to Somalia?”

“There were rumors in my village that recruiters from the Ethiopian army were coming to press-gang our people into the army to fight in the invasion of Somalia. I escaped and came here to join my fellow brothers in Allah.”

“You came from Kismayo to Marka last night? Why?”

“I am looking for work, Sheikh. I have a job as tally clerk at the fish dock, but I hoped for something better in Marka.”

“And how did you come by these papers?”

Opal told his rehearsed story. He had been motoring through the night to avoid the blinding heat and sandstorms of the day. He noted his petrol was low and stopped to fill up from his spare jerrycan. This was, by chance, on a concrete bridge over a dry wadi.

He heard a faint cry. He thought it might be the wind in the high trees that stand near there, but then he heard it again. It seemed to come from below the bridge.

He climbed down the bank into the wadi and found a pickup truck, badly crashed. It seemed to have come off the bridge and dived into the wadi bank. There was a man at the wheel, but terribly injured.

“I tried to help him, Sheikh, but there was nothing I could do. My motor bicycle would never carry two, and I could not bring him up the bank. I pulled him out of the cab in case it caught fire. But he was dying,
inshallah
.”

The dying man had begged him, as a brother, to take his satchel and deliver it to Marka. He described the compound: near the street market, down from the Italian roundabout, a timber double door with a latched door for the lookout.

“I held him while he died, Sheikh, but I could not save him.”

The robed figure considered this for some while, then turned to look through the papers that had come from the satchel.

“Did you open the satchel?”

“No, Sheikh, it was not of my business.”

The amber eyes looked thoughtful.

“There was money in the satchel. Perhaps we have an honest man. What do you think, Jamma?”

The Somali smirked. The Preacher let out a torrent of Urdu at the Pakistanis. They moved forward and seized Opal.

“My men will return to that spot. They will examine the wreck, which must surely still be there. And the body of my servant. If you have lied, you will surely wish you had never come here. Meanwhile, you will stay and wait for their return.”

He was imprisoned again, but not in the decrepit shed in the yard from which an agile man might escape in the night. He was taken to a cellar with a sand floor and locked in. He was there for two days and a night. It was pitch-dark. He was given a plastic bottle of water, which he sipped sparingly in the blackness. When he was let out and brought upstairs, his eyes puckered and blinked furiously in the sunlight from the shutters. He was taken to the Preacher again.

The robed figure held something in his right hand, which he turned over and over in his fingers. His amber eyes moved to his prisoner and settled on the frightened Opal.

“It seems you were right, my young friend,” he said in Arabic. “My servant had indeed crashed his truck into the bank of the wadi and died there. The cause”—he held up the object in his fingers—“this nail. My people found it in the tire. You spoke the truth.”

He rose and crossed the room to stand in front of the young Ethiopian, looking down at him speculatively.

“How is it you speak Arabic?”

“I studied in my spare time, sir. I wanted the better to read and understand our Holy Koran.”

“Any other language?”

“A little English, sir.”

“And how did you come by that?”

“There was a school near my village. It was run by a missionary from England.”

The Preacher went dangerously quiet.

“A
nasrani
. An infidel. A
kuffar
. And from him you also learned to love the West?”

“No, sir. Just the opposite. It taught me to hate them for the centuries of misery they have inflicted on our people and to study only the words and the life of our prophet Muhammad, may he rest in peace.”

The Preacher considered this and smiled at last.

“So we have a young man”—he was clearly speaking to his Somali secretary—“who is honest enough not to take money, compassionate enough to fulfill the wish of a dying man and wishes to serve only the Prophet. And who speaks Somali, Arabic and some English. What do you think, Jamma?”

The secretary fell into the trap. Seeking to please, he agreed their discovery was fortunate indeed. But the Preacher had a problem. He had lost his computer expert, and the man who brought him his downloaded messages from London, while never revealing that he himself was in Marka, not Kismayo. Only Jamma could replace him in Kismayo; the rest were not computer literate.