by Mark Powell
Helmi could sense her confusion and deep psychological stress. It was beginning to turn her mind.
‘Yes, now relax.’
Helmi rose to his feet, packed away his things and smiled back at her. ‘I will see you again soon, okay? Try not to worry.’ He turned to leave.
Feeling her emotion boil over, Sarah lurched forward. ‘Please…where’s my husband, where’s my husband?’ He could see that her eyes were full of fear. He also knew that her captors would see it and that they would most certainly play on it.
‘Aamus,’ came the short blunt reply from the remaining guard.
‘What did he say? Tell me,’ Sarah asked.
‘He said, be quiet...’ Helmi gently placed his finger to her lips.
‘He coming. See…there he is.’ The pirate jabbed his finger, pointing out of the shelter, and laughed. What little English he spoke had been taught to him by an elder for no other reason than to taunt his captives at every opportunity.
Sarah had lost count of how many times they’d said those cruel words, her heart suddenly feeling joy, only to be crushed. Terry never came. She tried to refrain from thinking he could really be dead.
Helmi squeezed her shoulder gently. ‘I will be back. Please try to remain calm.’ He stooped and disappeared through the opening of the tent.
‘Thank you,’ she called out weakly after him.
As soon as the doctor left, cries of ‘Hadal ma jiro’ were shouted at her: “no talking”, followed by a sharp whack with a stick across her face. The stinging pain sent her reeling backwards, clutching her head. She could feel herself drifting off into another strange world.
~ ~ ~
As the suffocating bag was abruptly pulled off his head, the sudden glare of white light seared into his eyes. Terry Madden snapped them shut and dipped his head downwards, his vision now filled with flashes of rainbow colored light. He didn’t know exactly how long he had been in the dark. His immediate thoughts were concerns for his wife, Sarah. He shuddered at the thought of what might have happened to her. He knew that rape, torture and even death was just normal life for these mercenaries. Perhaps she had been sold off as a white slave. Madden shook his head as if to dislodge such alarming possibilities from his reeling mind. He instinctively checked for his watch to note the time, but even if he could have seen beneath the rope ligatures binding his wrists, all that remained was a white patch of skin. He realized that his sense of time had long since dissipated, the hours or days – he couldn’t be sure which – had passed agonizingly slowly. Each waking moment like the last, spent drawing shallow breaths of air through the claustrophobic sackcloth that had become his object of torment.
He closed his eyes to shut out the punishing light, but his senses, now on high alert, detected something in front of him as well as behind; he had trained his ears to be acutely tuned to every sound since his capture. The light footsteps that encircled him every so often, the movement of trucks outside and sporadic gunshots were all now deep within his psyche. He could even tell when the occasional kick would come to prove he was still alive. His captor’s knee would click like a broken chicken’s neck seconds before he felt the impact.
‘You are a valuable man, Mr. Madden.’ The voice penetrated his self-imposed darkness, jolting his attention.
‘My wife…where is my wife?’ Madden took in a deep breath from his cross-legged position on the dirt floor.
‘She is safe for now. You are Madden…correct?’ the voice came again, this time closer.
As he slowly lifted his head, his eyes slowly half opened, squinting as the daylight once again flooded into them. ‘I want to see her. Please.’
‘You do not ask anything of me. I tell you when you can see her. Now say your name – or she will die.’ The voice, now intense, came from the man standing directly in front of him. Glancing up, Madden took in the dark-fired eyes of the Somali. A fit man, early thirties, dressed in faded black jeans and a black T-shirt. His hair almost shaved down to the wood. A pair of knock-off Ray Bans were perched ceremoniously on top of his head.
‘Who are you and where am I?’ Madden demanded, his vision slowly stabilizing.
The Somali took a step back, paused before speaking. ‘Of course, how rude of me. My name is Aziz, Mohammed Far Aziz. I am the leader here, the king if you like, Mr. Madden.’ He squatted down to meet Madden’s eyes. ‘You are in Somalia, my friend. A guest. Are you comfortable?’
Madden balked at his polite sarcasm. ‘Fuck you!’ he fired back defiantly.
‘Come now…be nice. Who could have imagined the surprise we discovered when my men caught you.’ He laughed. ‘You’re a much bigger fish than a tourist, Mr. Madden.’
Madden gestured at his trussed-up wrists. ‘My hands, I can’t feel my hands.’
‘We are not animals.’
A flow of Somali ensued and Madden felt cold steel between his wrists before the rope suddenly released, causing a sudden surge of blood into his hands that sent pulsating tingles of burning pain into each finger. Rubbing his wrists to try and restart his circulation, Madden glanced up once again and cast his eyes around the small, confined hut. He noted the five men standing around him, all Somali and heavily armed with automatic weapons.
Madden dampened his anger. ‘You speak English very well, I must say…’
‘Yes, not bad for a pirate, eh? I learn in America. Now…since you are more comfortable – your name, confirm it for me please?’
‘All right…my name is Madden, Terry Madden. I’m a clerk with the British Foreign Office – nothing of any real consequence.’ Madden had decided he may as well play the copybook protocol.
‘Indeed you are.’ Aziz held up a copy of a tattered English newspaper and jabbed at the picture of Madden on the front page. ‘That is interesting. You see even the British press think you are someone else…’ A stream of laughter erupted with each pirate joining in succession, not that all of them understood the joke.
Madden’s face instantly dropped. ‘Okay, so you know damn well who I am, so why ask? Now…when can I see my wife?’
‘First we need you to do something for us – get up, Home Secretary.’ Aziz stood up and stepped back. Two of the pirates moved forward and hoisted Madden to his feet. Another man moved forward with a tripod and a shiny new Sony camcorder. The red light on the camera flashed annoyingly in the gloom to indicate it was functioning.
‘Read the card aloud,’ Aziz ordered as one of the pirates held up the side of a cardboard box, now fashioned into a cue card for Madden to read his captor’s demands.
Madden held his gaze with Aziz defiantly for a few moments, before turning towards the camera. Narrowing his eyes, he tried to decipher the scrawled words, the message they now wanted him to convey to God knows whom.
‘Read it! Aloud.’ Aziz snapped, growing more impatient by the second.
Madden drew in a breath and tried to relax his posture. ‘My name is Terry Madden; I am the Home Secretary for the United Kingdom. The Southern Islamic Federation of Somalia demand…’ Madden paused and glared back at Aziz before continuing. ‘…a payment of twenty million pounds in exchange for my release. Failure to pay this by no later than the twentieth of this month will result in my…execution.’ The pirate’s demands hit home and Madden’s shoulders sagged, his throat now sore and bone-dry.
‘Continue!’ Aziz snapped.
‘I need water.’ Madden’s voice had become barely audible.
Aziz clapped his hands together and the camera paused.
‘Give him water.’
As Madden gulped down the warm water it forced a retraction in his throat causing him to retch until the spasms diminished. It took a few moments for him to regain enough composure to continue.
‘You will be told when and where to deposit the money. Any attempt to negotiate or rescue me will end in death. The Islamic Federation wishes to be heard.’
Madden turned to Aziz. ‘You have what you want, now about my wife?’
‘Take hi
m,’ Aziz commanded.
Within seconds the bag was thrust back over Madden’s head. He was grabbed by the elbows – for sure being led out, but where to? As the searing heat enveloped him, he stopped, only to find himself being dragged forward. He could sense that the light was brighter. He was definitely outside. He could feel the hot sand permeate the soles of his feet as he stumbled along. Without warning he felt himself being lifted up and slammed down onto a scalding hot metal surface. As the engine fired in whatever vehicle he had been placed, he knew that he was on the move. The question that now absorbed his thoughts was: where to? He could only hope it would be closer to Sarah.
CHAPTER FOUR
Bethnal Green, London
The nicotine stained replica 1930s radio, perched high on the bar shelf alongside numerous dusty bottles, suddenly sprang into life, causing Jarred Stowe to stir. His new-found love of spirits had sent him off for what must have been only a few moments. Tilting his head a little, he strained his ears to listen to the broadcast.
‘An American missile strike today killed five German and three British militants in the rugged Pakistan mountains running along the border. The cell is believed to be one of many hiding out in this region. The American drone strike is said to provide concrete evidence that foreign nationals are now being trained as paramilitary forces, with the intent to attack their own countries. The attacks have come days after the U.S. issued a Europe-wide terror alert’.
Stowe raised his head from out of his folded arms.
‘You hear that, Tony! Our own so-called new citizens are against us. Can’t trust anyone, can you?’
‘Shocking news just in, Terry Madden the Home Secretary is rumored to have been captured with his Wife Sarah Madden somewhere near the Seychelles by Somali pirates. The couple were in the region on a much-needed vacation. Once we get more news we will bring it to you’
‘Jesus Christ, what the hell was he doing out there with no protection. Has the government gone mad’ Stowe was now fully cognizant.
Tony Fuller, a hard looking man with a chiseled jaw-line and prison tattoos on both forearms had put in fifteen years as the current landlord of the Crow and Barrel. He had seen and heard it all before, and knew Stowe was just another: “Once was a dignified something or other…”…now nothing more than a lost soul reflecting on the past – with the help of a bottle.
‘You sound like an old man. You want another? Or are you just going to litter up my bar all day.’
Tony walked over and placed his shovel sized hands, palms down, on the bar either side of Stowe; who was now looking up at him. Tony comprised a six-foot wall of muscle topped off with a shiny, bald head and with a permanent displeased expression on his face. He was dressed as he was prone to do; in a simple white V-neck T-Shirt and faded black, almost grey jeans.
‘No thanks, I have more favorable places to haunt.’
Stowe heaved himself off the stool and stood for a moment, before wheeling around somewhat smartly, considering his inebriated state.
‘Can’t you find another pub to stink up?’ The Russian voice boomed out, followed by what looked like a physical clone of Tony the barman, only with long grayish hair hanging down to his shoulders.
‘I want no trouble in here.’ Tony commanded.
‘No, it’s okay Tony, I’ll handle it. So, what’s your problem mate?’ Stowe enquired.
‘You are my problem. I hear you are tough guy no?’ The Russian took a step closer.
This Russian was quicker than he looked. Stowe figured he must have twisted into the blow at the last second, blunting Stowe’s strike and causing him to miss by a fraction. The second blow hit its mark. The Russians throat would be sore in the morning and he wouldn’t be eating any solid food for a few days, but his windpipe was left intact. That meant he would have no trouble sucking in oxygen into those big lungs and in turn providing fresh blood to those big arms, and that was now a problem for Stowe.
Fights tended to follow a pattern, and for Stowe is was usually a predictable one. It started and a few seconds later they were over, Stowe on his feet and the other guy on the ground in pain and clutching some part of his body that would need urgent medical attention. So, when his first strike had missed, and his second had left his opponent standing, the predictable pattern of the fight had dramatically changed. Stowe knew he had to do something fast, or the big guy would get a hold of him and that would be that. It would be Stowe who would need the Doctors attention. Stowe also now knew that his opponent was no amateur. Moving into a blow was the work of someone that knew how to fight. Pro’s leaned in, amateurs leaned back, and if you never learned to move into a blow, you weren’t long for this world.
Stowe felt the hand of the Russian clamp-down on his right wrist. Stowe yanked his right hand down hard and then rotated it clockwise. At the same time, he delivered a rabbit punch to the Russians nose, not hard enough to break it, but enough to stun him and make him bleed. It was then that Stowe noticed the big guys right hand screaming down towards him. Stowe knew that such a punch would leave an opening and Stowe found it. He ducked, slid to his left, and delivered a hammer punch just beneath the guy’s right armpit, an area where the ribs are most exposed. The punch stood the big man up on his heels before he arched backwards to try and avoid a second blow. Three things happened in quick succession. Stowe eyed the spot. It was the back of the guy’s right knee, just above the top of the calf. It was always the knees that were weakest on big guys. They spent far too long on building their upper bodies. Stowe stomped down hard with his right foot. This time the joint would be working with him. The guy would be going down for sure. For now, that was all Stowe wanted. He was in no mood to disable the guy for life.
Looking down at the Russian who was now firmly on the ground, clutching his knee with both hands and trying not to show the sharpness of the pain now racking his lower body, Stowe just smiled and simply meandered his way off the premises.
A man, mid-thirties, average build, and fair hair, dressed in a light-blue suit, white shirt and single sex blue tie with highly polished black brogues had observed Stowe’s every move.
Tony had noticed him long ago and the fact he was out of place – he stood out like a pair of balls on a virgin. The typical Crow and Barrel punter couldn’t afford a wedding suit, let alone the fancy attire this guy was trimmed out in.
Getting up, the strange punter approached the bar top and asked him: ‘Who was that?’
Tony squared him up. ‘And you would be who, might I ask? If not Prince bloody Charles?’ Tony had no time for strangers – nosy or otherwise.
The stranger waved his right hand across the bar, as a magician would. The twenty-pound note conjured up on the bar top clearly indicated his intent. Tony looked down at them, and then flicked his eyes back up. He took in the wry smile now cast back in his direction.
‘Prick.’ A simple but clear response was all he needed to offer.
‘I see, so you do know who he is.’ The stranger leaned forward; his tone and face now more sinister.
‘Look,’ Tony explained. ‘I keep my nose out. Clear enough for you. He’s someone that needs leaving alone is who he is. Now…piss off and take your Russian thug with you.’ Tony turned away and continued to dry glasses.
‘Give him this when he next comes in, would you?’ the stranger asked, placing a card on the bar top. ‘I mean him no harm. I have work for him. I needed to know I could trust you – that he’ll get this message.’
The well-heeled stranger turned to leave the bar.
Tony picked up the card and studied it, ‘Wait! Why not just talk to him yourself…why all the cloak-and-dagger shit? And why set him up for a fight?’ Tony bore the frown of a confused man.
The response came back swift and fast. ‘How much do you know about him?’
‘Enough to know he was once a tough son of a bitch and enough to know not to ask too many bloody questions,’ Tony countered.
‘Exactly, so when you hand him that card he
will know you have no agenda, whereas I do. This way the message gets given neutrally. Thank you and good day.’
Tony read the name on the card. ‘Okay, Mr. Harry Ogilvy, I’ll do just that – if I ever see him again…’
Ogilvy ignored the bartender’s sarcasm, said nothing further, gestured for the Russian to follow him and headed off.
Tony turned his attention back to the card, toying with it for a moment before shaking his head and placing the card on a narrow ledge at the rear of the bar.
~ ~ ~
Stowe, despite his impaired state, could not only sense when things were wrong, he could smell it. Stowe was also very adept at spotting a tail. The occasional flick of his eyes into the shop windows to his left caught it first. The same man had been tailing him for two streets. He was the only man Stowe had ever seen stopping every fifty yards to try and tie laces on a pair of slip-on shoes.
As Stowe continued walking along Cambridge Road he stepped things up a gear, from a laboring stagger to a brisk fluid pace. He enjoyed this kind of thing and could feel the spike of adrenaline fuel his system and overtake his infringed state. It was a game to Stowe, and he loved it.
Moving quickly to his right, cutting across the pavement, he sidestepped in front of two shoppers, startling them to a halt. The maneuver obscured him from sight just long enough to turn around sharply and start to head back towards his tail. As Stow squeezed between shoppers he had a clear view of his stalker; a young man, late twenties dressed in jeans, a grey sweat top from Gap, and black slip-on shoes. He knew the type well enough, a junior field operative fresh out of spy school, and most likely shitting his pants by now. Stowe observed the sudden avoidance of eye contact as his shadow bowed his head and turned in towards a shop window in a feeble attempt to avoid detection.
‘I may be down and out, but not that fucking slow, prick,’ Stowe mused to himself.
As he passed, Stowe jerked his line of sight quickly left, catching a glimpse of his stalker’s head, whose lips moved as if whispering into a radio. Stowe knew the young spook would realize his cover had been well and truly blown – and so easily – he wouldn’t dare pursue him further, at least not today. Another tail from the standard team of four would take over, probably in place already. Mind racing, Stowe remembered the corner of Roman Road lay just ahead, fifty yards or so. On the other side was a bus stop and the Bethnal Green underground. As he reached the junction, he flung himself around the corner, walked ten yards and then darted across the road. The sound of horns blasted in his ears as he narrowly avoided being hit by a black cab. From there he expertly merged himself with a large crowd of people now bustling around in readiness to board the number 17 bus. Stowe knew it would take him west.
