The Meadow (34 page)

The following morning, 13 July, in the Church Lane guesthouse where they were staying, hidden from view behind bunkers and roadblocks, Jane Schelly, Julie Mangan, Cath Moseley and Anne Hennig prepared to face the world’s media, in the knowledge that the deadline set by al Faran was now just twenty-four hours away.

It would be their first time out of the restricted zone in days. Since 7 July, home had been a large tin-roofed villa overlooking the Jhelum River to the back and the Sher-i-Kashmir Cricket Stadium in front. Moth-eaten tiger skins were nailed up on the walls of the veranda, and the sitting room was decorated with embroidered calico Kashmiri curtains, tablecloths and cushions. Altaf Ahmed, who called in on them several times a day, always attentive and polite but never giving anything away, as Jane recalled, had advised them that it was not safe to leave this time capsule and wander around Srinagar. So they had sat and waited, sometimes in the dark, due to the regular power cuts which also deprived them of the local news channels. Altaf had arranged for them to receive a full set of newspapers, flown in from New Delhi every day, but the women spent most of the time
playing catch-up. Prevented by Saklani from talking to any journalists, they knew nothing of what Yusuf Jameel and others had been piecing together about the kidnap team and its previous incarnations, or the background of its leaders like Sikander. Instead, they had been forced to wait and fret, imagining the very worst. Now, as they prepared to meet the world’s press, they felt disorientated and agoraphobic.

The women had dressed in modest, loose-fitting clothes for the press conference. Jane wore a plain, short
kurta
shirt and dark trousers; Cath and Anne silk tops and baggy trousers, in Cath’s case paisley print; Julie chose silk pyjama bottoms and an ethnic-print top. A diplomatic liaison officer escorted them to the Welcome Hotel on the shores of Dal Lake, the location chosen for the press conference. In the foreground were the lines of wooden houseboats on which some of them had stayed when they had first arrived in Srinagar, and off to the right was a great expanse of water that sparkled all the way to the Zabarwan mountains. But Jane, Julie, Cath and Anne did not notice the panorama. Instead they were shepherded into a dark meeting room that was stiflingly hot despite the fans blowing full tilt. Julie was horrified to see cameramen and photographers lined up just inches from the table behind which they were to sit, which was covered by a jumbled mass of microphones and tape recorders. Only the thought that this harrowing event might help secure Keith’s release got her through.

Many of the foreign correspondents noted how haggard the women looked. ‘They took their places, trembling,’ wrote the
Guardian
’s reporter. General Saklani called the room to order as the women sat behind a row of tissue boxes, Julie already teary. ‘It felt like an inquisition,’ says Jane. She was the first to speak, her deliberate voice silencing the room. ‘We are innocent bystanders,’ she said, as the flashbulbs flared off her glasses. ‘We just want them back safe as soon as possible.’ She gripped Julie’s hand and nodded, ‘Your turn.’ Tears rolling down her face, Julie squeezed out a few words: ‘In the name of God, let our loved ones go. We miss them terribly.’ Biting her lip to avoid breaking down completely, she glanced up at the sea of faces. As the shutters
snapped, catching the moment she finally made eye contact, her face crumpled.

Next, Cath leaned forward, her long, blonde hair falling over her face like a veil, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘This is very hard for me, but I just wanted to say how worried I am about Paul and the other hostages.’ She hesitated. ‘We have no quarrel with the people of Kashmir or Islam, so I appeal to the people holding our loved ones to let them go.’ They were also here to appeal on behalf of the family of Hans Christian Ostrø, she said, who had not yet flown over.

Anne spoke last, staring defiantly into the cameras. ‘We came here as tourists,’ she said, ‘to see this beautiful place. We have made many friends among the Kashmiris and have been treated with great kindness.’ But inside she felt bitter that these people had now let her down, and were doing nothing as far as she could see to help them recover their loved ones, she recalled.

Saklani, who had been silently hovering in a corner in a slate-grey suit, his arms folded, chin resting on his thumb and forefinger, stepped forward to issue a statement on behalf of the Governor, calling for the immediate release of the hostages. And then it was over. The four women were ushered back through the hotel’s sombre dark-wood reception to a waiting Ambassador car, while more photographers crowded around them; their shots showed the women with eyes downcast, each one with a tissue in her hand.

Footage of the press conference was broadcast around the world, as Saklani had intended. It received most attention in the home towns of the five hostages: Oslo, Middlesbrough, Blackburn, Erfurt and Spokane. In Middlesbrough, Keith’s mother summed it up for all the relatives who could only read the headlines and wait for the next phone call when she told local reporters, ‘Julie did very well. If these men have a heart they will release them all. Goodness knows how we have coped, we just take each day as it comes.’

The endless days and nights of waiting were taking their toll on Keith’s parents. Mavis had barely been to bed in more than a week because of the knot she felt deep in her stomach. Since 5 July she and Charlie had pretty much refused even to leave the house, and instead
sat side by side on the sofa, clutching hands, ears glued to the BBC World Service. If they had to go out for shopping, they’d done it in shifts. To keep himself occupied, Charlie had been doing DIY jobs, and cutting and recutting the lawn. ‘It’s like we are in a jail,’ he told his local paper, the
Evening Gazette
, on 11 July. Keith’s younger brother Neil, a nurse at Whitby Hospital, had taken time off work to help out. ‘It’s been a rollercoaster – all emotional ups and downs,’ he said.

The general public were not allowed into the Church Lane compound, a smart enclave of Srinagar that had been commandeered by the authorities years back and was now bounded on three sides by high walls and fences, with the river forming the fourth barrier. Inside, the leafy mile-square zone consisted of a network of lanes, where white-shirted civilian staff and military officials in their light summer uniforms strolled among a legion of sweepers, drivers and bodyguards. The sounds of downtown Srinagar floated in over the sandbags and the chain-link fence: Jane recalled that every morning they were woken by the call to prayer from a nearby mosque. But the compound was an oasis of calm in the midst of the frantic city choked with handcarts,
tongas
, two- and three-wheelers, the miserable stray dogs covered in open sores, the army patrols in their carapaces of body armour.

For Jane, each day was harder than the one before. She spent much of her time with her journal, noting everything down. ‘Day Two’, ‘Day Three’, ‘Day Four’, she wrote at the head of the page, going on to describe her feelings, the weather and what she and the others had learned from official and unofficial sources. The worst thing was the interminable waiting, the four of them cooped up with nothing to do except speculate about what might happen, and attempt to keep their worst fears at bay. ‘No one got a good night’s sleep in those early days,’ said Jane. She tried to deal with her anxiety by exercising in the garden, or doing a circuit of Church Lane, every morning before the others rose. ‘Jane was already emerging as amazingly strong,’ recalled Altaf Ahmed. ‘She was the leader, while the others were destroyed by events.’

Then, in this period of no news, Julie took an unexpected call. A British man called Paul Rideout, who had rung the High Commission in New Delhi to offer advice, had been put in touch, the Embassy staff having decided he had something worth saying. Julie listened, stunned, as Rideout described how he had been caught up in a similar hostage crisis the previous year. Was it the Housego/Mackie kidnapping, she asked him. No, Rideout replied, he knew next to nothing about that. He went on to describe another incident, which none of the women had been told about, that took place in New Delhi in October 1994.

Rideout and a friend, Chris Morston, had arrived in New Delhi on 12 October 1994, staying at Hotel Namaskar, in the capital’s backpacker quarter of Paharganj. Two days later, at the Hare Krishna Restaurant, they had got chatting to a young man called Rohit Sharma, who spoke fluent English with a London accent. ‘He was quite tall, about six feet, medium build, with a short, neat beard, a gap between his front teeth, and wore glasses. He said he was brought up in Wanstead, and that his father was an import-exporter. His sister was doing medicine at Oxford, and his younger brother was still at school. He said he was doing a masters in political science at the London School of Economics.’

Rohit had been charming and bright, a welcome face from the UK in a bewildering city. Over a game of chess he explained that his uncle had died, leaving a house in the family’s ancestral village, a few hours east of New Delhi in the neighbouring province of Uttar Pradesh (UP). He had come over to India to see it, and invited Paul and Chris to go with him. ‘On 16 October Rohit came to our hotel around 11.30 a.m. The three of us walked to the New Delhi railway station where a light-blue Suzuki van bearing a UP numberplate arrived. Then we drove out of New Delhi.’ After two and a half hours they had lunch at a place Rideout thought was called Cheetal. ‘Then we drove for hours, once stopping briefly for drinks, and reached the town of Saharanpur around 7 p.m. We were asked to come inside a house and take a rest, while a jeep would come to take us to the village. We walked into a room lit by candles.’

Suddenly, four men with guns appeared. ‘Rohit told us we had been taken hostage by the
mujahideen
, and would be held till the release of eleven of their men who were in prison.’ Paul and Chris’s hands were tied, then they were led into a room where another foreign man was chained up. They were told his name was Rhys, and that he was also British. ‘We were chained too, at the ankles. Rohit left, allowing us to speak to Rhys for ten minutes.’ When Rohit returned, he started preaching at them. ‘He said, “The British cabinet is run by Jews, and so is America.” He hated Jews more than anything.’ The next day, Rohit promised them they would be freed in a month. ‘He said his group was also responsible for the kidnappings of David Mackie and Kim Housego in Kashmir.’ They wanted their leaders back: Masood Azhar, the Afghani, Langrial and others.

A few days later, a fourth tourist had been captured: an American, Bela Nuss. All of them had been lined up against a wall and photographed, flanked by Kalashnikov-wielding kidnappers. Julie thought of the shots of Don, Keith, Paul, Dirk and Hans Christian that had recently been published. Letters were written to the British High Commission, the US Embassy and the BBC, the group calling itself ‘al Hadid’. The Indian government was given seventy-two hours to release the prisoners or face ‘dire consequences’, a chilling phrase that Julie was well acquainted with.

Had they escaped like John Childs, Julie asked, feeling overwhelmed by this sudden rush of new information. No, Rideout replied, they had been rescued, and it had been by pure chance. On 31 October one of the kidnappers’ hideouts, where the American Bela Nuss was being held, had been discovered by a local police patrol investigating an unconnected robbery at the farmhouse next door. Nuss was able to tell the police the location of a second house, where the others were found the following day. All the kidnappers were caught, including Rohit Sharma, who confessed under interrogation that his real name was Omar Sheikh, and that he was the son of a Pakistani immigrant to Britain. Sheikh really had grown up in Wanstead and been educated at the LSE, but during his studies he became involved in fund-raising for Bosnian Muslims, and in August 1993 he had met a preacher he
named as Masood Azhar, who recruited him for the Holy Warriors, sending him to Camp Yawar in Afghanistan for military training. Masood had spotted Sheikh’s potential. Amiable as well as audibly and visibly Western, he was the perfect lure.

When Julie put the phone down, she felt sick with worry. All four women understood the implications of Rideout’s story. Not only had there been another recent kidnapping that no one had informed them about, there appeared to be so many similarities between the three incidents that it seemed the same group was behind all of them. Almost worse was the revelation that a British university student of Pakistani origin was connected to them, and that he had been recruited in London. Somehow this made the group behind the abductions seem more sinister and tangible, able to reach from alien Pakistan, via Afghanistan and Kashmir, to England. Julie went to bed that night terrified. Had they also been stalked in New Delhi, picked out at their hotel or on the bus? Was there a British connection to the abduction of Keith and Paul? How far did the reach of this group extend, given that it had recruited in the UK? What about their parents – could they also become targets? Whichever way the pieces were arranged, the prognosis looked grim and nowhere seemed safe.

Julie rang her mother Anita, and ‘just cried and cried’. The
Evening Gazette
ran a front-page headline: ‘I’ll Stay Until Keith is Freed’. The women called their embassies to point out the similarities between the kidnappings, and to demand an explanation for why they had not been told about them. They were advised not to draw too many conclusions, since there was no proof that the same gang was involved in all three abductions. This confused Jane, Julie, Cath and Anne, who wanted to believe it, but were unaware that the diplomatic liaison officers were repeating what they had been told by the Indian Ministry of Home Affairs. ‘Right from the beginning the strings were being pulled from New Delhi,’ said Altaf Ahmed. ‘Those of us dealing with the hostage-taking on the ground in Srinagar were not in control.’

All four of the women knew that 14 July, the day the deadline expired, would be the hardest of all, one long countdown to midnight. Jane tried to stop the others clock-watching. They should write letters to their loved ones, she suggested, addressing them to post offices near to where they might be being held. Since the second night, she had been preparing packages for Don – a few little luxuries: soap, a toothbrush and a book. A sympathiser in the postal service or in a village somewhere might try to get things to the hostages, she reasoned.