The four men soaked up the setting.
‘I, of course, am Aiya, and this is my mum, Jalila. And Mum, these are my friends.’
Miller looked at her with curiosity.
Jordie shook his head, unsure which avenue of confusion to address first. ‘We’re friends? You kidnapped me and made me read Wordsworth. I’d have forgiven the kidnapping. What is this and who the fuck are you?’
Jalila smiled warmly; the men could see her right cheek moving slightly, yet purposefully; her pupils moved subtly around the whites of her eyes.
Aiya giggled. ‘She says she likes you, even though she imagines many others don’t. Now, I imagine you’ve a lot of questions. So first . . .’ She curtseyed to the floor. ‘I’d like to warmly welcome you to the Serendipity Foundation. Please.’ She gestured for the men to sit. Jordie and Miller tentatively took seats on the sofa. The others grabbed a stool each. ‘As you can see, we spent most of our money renovating the guest suite.’
‘A fucking guest suite?’ said Jordie with a grunt. ‘What do you want from us?’
Jalila coughed and looked sternly at Aiya, who blushed. ‘Language!’ She leaned towards the men. ‘She’s a bit conservative, but she’s all right, really.’ Jalila coughed louder. ‘Muuuum, please. I know I’m fifteen, but you let me carry a gun . . . Yes, they’re fake, but it’s still not textbook parenting.’
‘How the hell are you doing that?’ said Jordie. ‘You reading her mind?’
Aiya looked at her mum and smiled. ‘Kind of.’
‘Look,’ Richard interrupted, unenthused by the change of topic. ‘Can you just tell us what your demands were?’
‘Were?’ Aiya said. ‘Who would we have made them to?’
Richard looked uncertain. ‘To . . . like . . . the world.’
Jalila and Aiya laughed at each other. ‘That sounds messy. There’d be people looking everywhere for you.’
Richard looked nervous. ‘So this is about money. How much?’
Aiya looked at Jalila who nodded. ‘We’re looking for £40,000.’
The men looked puzzled, as if such a small figure hid a more sinister purpose.
‘You do know how much he’s worth?’ said Jordie.
‘Why are you asking for money this time?’ said Liam.
The other three men looked at him in surprise.
‘What do you mean, this time?’ said Jordie.
Liam ignored him. ‘Your ransoms so far have been staging football matches and crowdsourcing. So why are you now kidnapping foreigners for money?’
Jalila let out a laugh with Aiya.
‘What the f—’ Jordie stared at Liam. ‘You knew something about them and didn’t say anything. You—’
‘I wasn’t sure then.’ He turned to Aiya. ‘But I am now. Why us?’
Aiya clapped her hands together in delight. ‘I’m impressed, Mr Liam. But you only know our more . . . public events.’
‘Sorry. What the hell are you talking about?’ said Richard.
Aiya smiled and nodded. ‘We arrived in this neighbourhood because we wanted to create an audience. But we soon realised how dislocated the community had become. Old support networks of friends and family were disappearing. People were scared about the future and became more isolated. So we had to develop our audience. We set up the Foundation to secretly create events that drew people together: issues that needed to be collectively solved, enjoyed, or grieved; events that people thought were everyday but were no longer so; situations that would encourage people to listen.’
It seemed to Jordie more like a performance than a conversation. ‘Like kidnaps?’
The scepticism knocked Aiya off her guard; she looked at Jalila to calm her nerves. ‘Kidnaps are only a minor part of our events programme. We started off by leaving toys in the street so children would play together. We encouraged people to act crazy’ – she stuck out her tongue and waved her arms in the air as she stomped around the room – ‘to fuel conversation in the market. We’d get people to fake serious illness to get old support networks out for the family. We had musicians, dancers, storytellers and’ – she smiled – ‘puppeteers to perform publicly once more. We cleaned the streets.’
‘Outside was a mess,’ said Richard. His tone reflected the growing confidence of the four hostages to their situation.
‘Yes, but that’s for our anonymity. When we eventually go clean, the pile outside will disappear. I mean the wider neighbourhood. People want to laugh, listen, eat, sing, play and cry with their neighbours, but they’re too embarrassed to know where to start. We provide them with opportunities not to look too intrusive or forward.’
‘By kidnapping people.’ Jordie bought the attention back to the immediate situation.
Aiya looked at Liam. ‘When you met the hostages, did they seem like victims?’
They all looked at Liam, who after a moment’s hesitation shook his head.
Aiya continued. ‘You see, our kidnaps give the hostage an opportunity to fix things they can’t do alone. They ask for things so easy to achieve, that it’s impossible to turn down. They are things people would demand from themselves.’
‘Do they all have to pay £40,000 before they leave?’ said Jordie cuttingly.
‘We believe in the power of people, Mr Jordie, but we are not idealists. The computers we later donated to the school didn’t pay for themselves. Then there’s rent, living expenses, general funds we use as safety nets for people.’
‘So what do we get in return?’ said Richard.
Jalila smiled at Aiya. ‘Our previous paying residents have mostly been sad, cynical foreign men. So in return for their money, we’d give them some time to think. A chance to decide if they wanted to give the world another shot.’
‘How romantic. How successful has it been so far?’ said Jordie.
‘You tell me.’
They remained silent.
‘How many have you kidnapped for money?’ said Miller.
‘You’re our third batch.’
‘And what are we paying for?’ said Miller.
‘Connecting every house in the neighbourhood to clean water that hasn’t already got it.’
‘How did you arrange this?’ Miller hit back quickly.
‘We have . . . er . . .’ She looked at Jalila for guidance. ‘What would you call it? A network. But old school.’ She said the last sentence slowly, as if showing off.
‘So you knew I was coming to Cairo?’ said Richard.
Jalila smiled again, as she gave a non-committal nod.
‘Traffic jam with no jam? Effect without cause?’ said Aiya.
The four guests nodded, knowing it was a clue, but not sure what it led to.
‘We’ve texted your employers. The project’s going so well you’ve decided to stay on a few days,’ said Aiya.
‘So no one knows we’ve been kidnapped?’ said Richard.
‘Technically you haven’t. The door was unlocked. You’ve just taken a week’s holiday in a little-known homestay.’
There was a calm. ‘So what now?’ asked Richard.
Aiya seemed on more comfortable territory. ‘Everyone so far has paid up, left on good terms and put it down to experience. We’d like to think some have changed their lives a little. At the end of the day, who admits to being held hostage by a fifteen-year-old girl in an unlocked room?’
As it was Richard’s money being held to ransom, the others left it to him to respond; but his facial expression implied he was thinking beyond the £40,000.
‘So . . . there’s no chance of a ransom video?’ asked Richard.
The men looked at him in shock.
‘It’s not part of our standard package.’
‘What if I wouldn’t pay without one?’
Aiya stared at Jalila. ‘Yes . . . But what if? . . . Really? . . . I suppose so.’ The others dared not interrupt the surreal silences that interspersed Aiya’s questions.
Aiya turned back towards the men. ‘Why do you want one?’
Richard looked embarrassed. ‘I know the last five days have been all touchy-feely, but . . .’ Richard leaned forward, rubbing his face. ‘Look, I know this sounds silly. But I have nothing to go home for. My career is . . . well . . .’ He shrugged as he took a deep breath. ‘When it all ended I realised I had made only acquaintances, not friends. I spend my evenings on my own at home. The people I worked with will never trust me again, and those I didn’t work with never will.’
He fell silent, attempting a laugh to break his own awkwardness. ‘Fuck. You know what? I don’t fucking know. Quite frankly I feel as trapped at home as I do in here. This project was my attempt to try to change direction, and after all that’s happened, you want me just to go back home to a life I hate? Fuck that. I’m interested. You’ve got my attention. And if you want my money, I want something in return.’
‘Can we wait for the epiphany at home?’ said Jordie.
Jordie looked at Liam and Miller who seemed deep in thought.
‘Miller?’ said Jordie.
‘You know what?’ Miller said. ‘Richard has a point. Why are we so keen to go home? A kidnapping is about the only excuse that will save our jobs and potentially some of our colleagues’.’
Jordie’s face screwed up, as if stuck doing long multiplication. ‘Liam?’ Jordie said. ‘You have anything you need to get back to?’
Liam pursed his lips, and shrugged.
Jalila looked puzzled but relaxed. Aiya looked around the group. ‘Maybe we all need some lunch. We’ll meet again at three. How about enchiladas?’
*
‘You think the public will suddenly forget your legacy because you’ve been kidnapped? If anything they’ll view it as a sign that there’s some justice in the world,’ said Jordie back in their suite.
‘Look, kidnaps are hardly my favourite thing, trust me. But we’re not faking the fact we were kidnapped. We were. Video and payment: they’re the two main kidnap ingredients. We’re just changing the order.’
They decided to spend ten minutes with their own thoughts. They were in no rush to get home, but were uncertain what the proposition being put forward was.
‘The way I see it,’ said Miller, getting up from the bed, ‘we’ve already dealt with their demands, so we can make up our own.’
‘You what?’ said Jordie. ‘Have you just lost your fucking mind?’
‘So what do you recommend we do?’ said Miller, his frustration with Jordie rising. ‘We can’t send a ransom video without a ransom, can we?’
‘Well . . .’ Jordie stalled. ‘I don’t know. Why don’t we just stay here for another week, keep our heads down, and wait for the India trip to pass?’
‘And then what?’ said Miller. ‘We go back, claim that things went really well out here, and then we’ve got two imaginary communities on our hands.’
Liam smiled, and took a seat on the sofa opposite Jordie. The way Miller looked at Jordie reminded him of the way Barrett had come to look at him.
‘What? Faking my own kidnapping is going to undermine the capitalist system?’ said Jordie. ‘Do me a favour. Who are we going to make demands to? What are they going to be? You know governments don’t negotiate with terrorists.’
‘It depends on what the demands are,’ said Miller.
‘How profound,’ said Jordie.
‘Stop being a prick,’ responded Miller.
‘Prick?’
‘Yeah,’ said Miller. ‘We talked about having the courage to take an opportunity if it came along . . .’
Jordie was momentarily silent. ‘So what type of demands are you talking about?’
‘I don’t know exactly,’ said Miller, his excitement receding.
‘Can I suggest something?’ said Richard. The others turned to him. ‘From experience, we should make demands that would be seen as unreasonable to turn down.’
‘You’re really honing this,’ said Jordie.
‘A perfect ransom,’ said Liam with authority, ‘is like a perfect con. It needs to ask for something that both parties want. Look, we’ve been kidnapped by the experts in this. Maybe they fancy scaling up their stuff.’ Liam took stock of the first solution he had put forward in years.
They played with the idea for a few moments.
‘What if our ransoms aren’t met? Are we going to kill one of us to show we’re serious?’ asked Richard.
‘For your sake,’ said Jordie, ‘I hope not.’ The four of them smiled.
‘What have any of us got to lose?’ said Liam.
There was a knock on the door, and in came lunch.
Enchiladas proved a surprisingly decisive source of nutrition. They ate in silence as internal debates raged. It had been a long time since they had felt this type of excitement. The more they thought about the proposition, the more they saw no option but to follow it. The time for excuses had come to an end.
They retired to the sofas and spent 30 minutes in deep discussion before Aiya entered and asked if they were ready to come back upstairs. They climbed the stairs and for the next 20 minutes, to mounting laughter, they discussed their lunchtime deliberations.
The history of the world is shaped by the loneliness of good ideas. (So keep them company.)
‘It’s agreed,’ said Aiya. ‘Today’s the first merger in the history of the Serendipity Foundation. Welcome to the family.’ Aiya poured mango juice into six glasses, jumped on the table to reach the others’ eye line, and made a toast. ‘Gentlemen, may we not ask of others what we would not ask of ourselves.’
They drank.
‘Now,’ said Miller, ‘we’re going to need to get our hands on a video camera.’
PART FOUR
The Ransoms
A Grainy Image
Thursday, May 14th
‘Turn the TV on,’ Charlie said, storming into Michael’s office. His heart sank. Good news was in short supply.
Michael remembered wistfully a time when he could watch the latest natural disaster without it reverberating with his sense of responsibility. He could get overwhelmed by death, confuse which country the last earthquake shook, guess which sub-Saharan nation the most recent famine ravaged. He kept up to date because he was an educated citizen who cared. He now understood that caring and being up to date were two different things.
Charlie found the channel. Michael’s reaction to the first images was one of relief: he was not in it.
The main headline read: exclusive: cairo kidnapping; the scroll bar: ex-oil ceo richard pounder kidnapped along with two humanitarian workers and journalist; kidnappers believed to be linked to al-qaeda; no demands yet made but hostages appeal to british government and public to save them.
In a sparse, dimly lit room, the four hostages sat dishevelled, hands tied behind their backs. Their faces showed signs of bruising. Standing to one side, a figure dressed in black held a Kalashnikov. Behind and above the men hung a black banner displaying white Arabic script framed by a frieze of guns, swords and what appeared to be pens.
The hostages, their eyes downcast, read out their names one after another, before the youngest, Miller Carey, spoke:
‘We call on the international community, in particular the British government and the British public . . . to listen to the demands of these . . . people. Please . . . we just want to go home and back to our jobs . . . helping people around the world . . . We beg you, listen to them . . . our lives depend on you looking within yourselves and . . . and . . . not giving up on us . . . please . . . take responsibility for us . . . please . . .’ At that point the message cut out.
Memories of Crest Voyager flooded back to Michael.
The news anchor was speaking to the first educated Middle Eastern man the station could find, leaving no stone unturned in their analysis of the clothes the hostages and kidnappers were wearing and the fact the hostages ‘looked tired’. Links to Islamic terrorist groups were insinuated. The kidnap was either an attack on the evils of western oil companies, or a statement against the liberal values inspired by de
velopment. Alternatives were not viable at this point without the facts.
An aide entered and handed Charlie a sheet of paper.
‘Well, we have the translation of the banner,’ said Charlie. ‘It apparently translates as: “The pen is mightier than the sword, and everyone will get a Biro.”’
‘Wh . . . I mean . . . is that a Koranic reference?’ said Michael.
‘Um . . . I think the Koran predates the Biro.’
Michael rolled his eyes at Charlie. ‘So what does it mean? Is this a call to arms against the west?’
‘Using Biros?’
Michael smiled, his original anxiety relenting. ‘At least I’m bringing ideas to the table.’
‘I’ll try harder to speculate on matters of national security in the future,’ said Charlie with a grin.
Barrett sat in her office, holding a tumbler of Scotch, watching the news. Everyone was telling her it wasn’t her fault. But she knew, by giving Liam an ultimatum to track down a group of kidnappers or be fired, that it was. Just as the Scotch began to take effect, an anonymous message pinged into her inbox.
Dear Editor,
Do not tell anyone you have been contacted. Later on today you will be sent an article. You must publish it on the front page or you risk the life of your employee.
By mid-afternoon the kidnap dominated all media outlets. The Financial Times held Richard up as a ‘visionary’. The head of his old board, Ted Monroe, pleaded for Richard’s safe return: ‘He held the interests of Muslims all over the world close to his heart.’ Cynical commentators privately noted the absence of the word ‘best’ before the word ‘interests’ in the statement.
The broadsheets placed a stronger focus on the meaning of the Biro. Although the involvement of fundamentalists could not be discounted, the pen hinted at a more progressive group advocating literacy over violence.
The Foundation had shot the video the day before. Aiya had bought four new phones and SIM cards to replace their old ones, along with a digital camera armed with video settings. Jalila had applied expensive theatrical make-up to their faces. They judged their needlework unworthy of a global audience, instead using a glue-stick to apply the letters and pictures to the black banner.
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