by Greg Barron
‘I wish they had asked me,’ the other says, ignoring the warning. ‘I spent last month’s wages by yesterday.’
Strange things happen at airports, Simon is well aware, much of it related to the importation of drugs. Baggage handlers of all nationalities are involved in the trade. He is interested enough, however, after the meal, to follow the group from the cafeteria and outside. Here they disperse, moving off to different parts of the terminal. Mu’ayyad and two others walk through a door near the carousels.
Simon pushes through before the lock clicks shut. The group turns and looks at him, but without real interest. Airports, even regional ones, are big places with many employees, often from different nations.
As he walks through the area, not yet convinced that the conversation he heard is of interest, he approaches Mu’ayyad, who has just returned to work, lifting bags onto a trolley. ‘Assalam alaikum,’ he greets the man. ‘I’m Simon Thompson, from British Airways. We’ve been sent over to see how you chaps do things over here. Help you out with efficiency … you know what bosses are like.’ He smiles, hoping to develop a feeling of camaraderie.
The man continues his task, not making eye contact. ‘I’m sorry. You will have to speak to my supervisor.’
Without missing a beat, Simon follows up on what he heard in the cafeteria. ‘The other men were telling me that you had some good luck last week, that you made some easy money.’
Mu’ayyad’s eyes focus on his, wide and suspicious. ‘Are you police? Security?’
‘Security? Hah. No, I am just crew. I do what I am told like everyone else.’
The man stops working, a scowl deepening across his face, eyes narrowing. ‘There is no money, now why don’t you leave me alone, eh? I do not like being questioned.’
The man is hiding something, Simon is sure. ‘Now come, talk to me. I am curious, and no harm will come from the telling. What happened last week that helped make you some money?’
‘Neek rasi,’ the man hisses.
Simon is familiar with the insult, translating into English as, literally, fuck my skull. ‘You have a way with words, but you have not yet answered my question.’
‘Move on — foreskin of a goat — or I will call my friends and we will help you to move on.’
Simon stops, deflated, turning to the sound of footsteps. Another baggage handler, yet not one who was in the cafeteria, walks towards them.
‘Mu’ayyad,’ he says, ‘Abu Sherid says that we must …’
Seeing Simon, he stops. He too, is a tall man, and thin, with a bony nose and cheeks. A patterned shemagh hangs loosely over his shoulders, clashing with his workmanlike overalls, but this is not what catches Simon’s attention. Around his neck he wears a chain, and nestled in the hair of his chest is a charm — a St George’s cross. Simon has seen it before — threaded onto Hannah’s charm bracelet. He remembers the day he made the purchase, at a stall on the Campo de Fiori markets in Rome.
‘Where did you get that charm?’
The man stops, eyes wide. ‘What?’
Mu’ayyad speaks from behind. ‘Do not mind this Englishman, Hisham, he is crazy, and very rude.’
Simon seizes the necklace, ripping it from the man’s neck. He holds the prize aloft, hand shaking, certain now. It is Hannah’s. He knows it well. He feels breathless, angry, and excited.
Mu’ayyad pushes him hard in the upper back with the flat of both hands. ‘You have no manners, Englishman. Give it back to him or I’ll be forced to teach you a lesson.’
Simon ignores him. ‘This charm belongs to my daughter. Where did you get it?’
The man says nothing, and Simon loses control, going for the throat with a two-handed grip, feeling the soft skin, the sharp sinews and the hard tube of the windpipe. Then, hearing a stifled battle cry behind him, he turns to see Mu’ayyad go on the attack.
Simon has never had a serious fight in his life, but he is big in the shoulders, and, though cricket was his first love, he locked the scrum for the second XV at Cranleigh, wading into enough on-field scuffles to know how to swing his fist. As if by instinct, he clenches his fingers hard together and drives them into the side of Mu’ayyad’s chin.
Not waiting to see the him fall, he leaps after the other, now trying to flee. He catches him in a couple of strides and grips the back of his shirt.
‘Tell me, where did you get the charm?’ Again he cocks his fist, knowing that he will gladly pulverise that frightened face.
‘I found it, sir, really. Take it, I don’t want it. Just give me back the chain.’
‘Where did you find it?’
‘Near the luggage carousel. It is pretty, so I kept it.’
‘When?’
‘Tuesday. No, Wednesday. In the morning.’
‘Did you see anything? Did you see two girls?’
‘No, I saw nothing. Let me go. Keep the chain as well. In the sight of God, I saw nothing and know nothing.’
Mu’ayyad has left the area, but two other men saunter past. Simon steps back, still fingering the charm. ‘I did not mean to hurt you, but my children are gone. Someone has taken them.’
‘Taken? You mean kidnapped?’
‘Yes.’
The baggage handler’s eyes droop in sympathy. ‘I too have children.’
‘Good, then you understand how I feel.’
‘I will help you, because I feel bad about taking the … what did you call it? Charm?’
There is a commotion behind them. Mu’ayyad is returning with a pair of security guards. ‘That’s the Englishman,’ he says. ‘He is violent.’
The baggage handler whispers, ‘I will ask the door security. Insha’ Allah, one of them might have seen something.’
‘Where can I meet you?’
‘Outside the main doors at the end of my shift. Eight o’clock tonight.’
Simon studies the man’s face, wondering if he can trust him. He has no reason to lie. ‘I will see you there,’ he says, then turns to face security.
‘Hey, ferenghi,’ one calls, ‘you do not have clearance for this area.’
‘I am sorry, there was a misunderstanding but it is resolved now. I am leaving.’ He begins to walk back towards the doors, ignoring them.
‘Stop, ferenghi. Show me your identification.’
Simon’s pace does not falter. ‘There is no need. As you can see, I am leaving the area and will cause no further problems. I am an employee of British Airways.’ He does not want a formal interrogation — he would be deported without delay.
The security guards look at each other, confused, and Simon takes the opportunity to run the last dozen yards, open the door and close it behind him. Out on the concourse a group of disembarked passengers are moving towards the doors. He runs deep into the pack, mingling, using the crowd to cover his retreat into the car park, running through a press of buses and turning into the maze of small hangars that make up the commercial fleet.
The cell phone croaks in his pocket, and Simon fumbles for it so fast he almost drops it. ‘Hello.’
‘Simon?’ The voice is male — Tom Mossel. ‘Where the hell are you?’
Simon stops walking. ‘At my hotel.’
‘That’s not true, and you know it. Now, listen to me — don’t you dare go off on some kind of half-cocked crusade. We’ve got people on this; professionals. Isabella is already in a heap of trouble. Don’t make it worse.’
‘Come on. Shagging a terrorist isn’t a capital offence.’
‘No, but smuggling explosives into a meeting of world leaders is.’
The darkness seems to press in on him from all sides. The rows of multi-storeyed dwellings in the distance are a honeycomb of misery and evil, part of a world that is taking everything he knows and loves.
‘Now you’re making things up.’
‘Sorry, Simon, but I’m not. Even if she gets out of there alive, she could be charged with some serious offences. Treason, perhaps.’
‘Isabella isn’t capable of treason. She’s
the most patriotic person I know.’
‘Let’s forget about all that for a moment. The main thing is that she’s OK. I’ve been in contact with her.’
‘So have I.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Cairo.’
‘Don’t take me for a fool. At worst you’re going to get yourself killed, and at best you’ll get in the bloody way. Your employers, British Airways, are furious. Four hundred passengers stranded at Dubai until they flew another pilot in.’
‘Three hundred and eighty-six.’
‘Whatever. You better talk to them soon or you won’t have a job.’
‘My girls are more important.’
‘OK, but there’s nothing you can do. Nothing. We will find the kids for you, trust me. I’ve got a bloody task force convening as we speak.’
‘Why is this so important? Why are you even looking for them? I wouldn’t have thought a couple of children would be a priority with so much going on.’
‘They’re British citizens, Simon, we look after our own.’
‘Bullshit.’
A long silence, then, ‘All right. We had a report of two senior Almohad operatives in Aden the same day as your girls disappeared — one was Zhyogal, as you know, the other a Nigerian who calls himself Saif al-Din. Part of the same cell. We’re certain he’s involved, and there’s a good chance that if we find your girls we’ll find him, too.’
‘So how important will the lives of my kids be if you decide the easiest way to kill this Saif al-Din is to send a cruise missile in to take him out?’
‘We won’t do that.’
‘I wish I could believe you, but I don’t.’
‘Please, Simon, just come in.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Really?’
‘Would I lie to you?’
Simon ends the call, trying not to look at the digital clock on the screen. Finding Hannah and Frances before anyone else just became even more critical. His hand moves to the cold silver charm in his pocket as he stares back towards the terminal, angry at himself. Now he is shut out of the airport, and at the mercy of a man, possibly a thief, who may or may not meet him as promised.
As he watches the main terminal doors, however, a black vehicle pulls up. Three men in suits step out, and appear to confer with the security guards near the entrance. MI6 has tentacles everywhere, it seems, even Yemen.
Tom Mossel, you bugger, he says to himself. You traced me pretty damn quick, didn’t you?
There is no way back inside. Not without losing both freedom and hope. He has no choice but to wait.
Day 2, 15:00
Occupants of the adjoining cells squat in silent, defeated groups, and the men who gathered to look at her have grown bored and wandered away. The heat of the day shows no sign of abating, yet finally Marika can move unobserved.
First she tends to her wounds, using a handkerchief to wipe the blood from her face. Her fingers probe specific injuries. Most of the blood flow has come from her nose, yet despite some tenderness, it is not broken. Her teeth she examines one by one, finding nothing loose, just a dull pain from a lower molar. Her lower lip has a single fat swelling to one side. Satisfied, she examines her surroundings in detail. Three metres up the wall is a barred opening among heavy stone blocks. This is, she decides, worthy of investigation.
Marika kicks the tin latrine bucket over, watching weeks-old refuse flood the cell floor, the stench multiplying ten-fold so that even her neighbour utters an exclamation of disgust. Standing on the upturned pot, however, gives her enough height to reach up and touch the window. She tries the bars, attempting to bend the stiff iron — hoping, with her slim profile, to squeeze through. At length, out of breath and despondent, she drops down, sinks to her haunches just out of the puddle of filth.
Footsteps sound in the corridor and a hatch in the door slides open. A man in a grubby camo shirt with green qat-stained teeth passes in an earthenware bowl filled with rice and vegetables, along with a coke bottle full of water.
There is no question of eating the food, and Marika lays it aside, more interested in quenching her thirst. Holding the bottle up towards the light, however, she sees the swirling particles inside. She puts it down, knowing that she cannot stay here — that somehow she has to find a way out.
Possibilities play through her mind — injuring herself badly enough that they have to take her for help. Would they bother? Even if they did, are there hospitals in Somalia? She is pretty sure there aren’t many, and besides, she has heard stories of Third World medical facilities and the antibiotic resistant bacteria that thrive there. Is it worth the risk? Does the risk matter, considering what is at stake? Her mind turns to methods — is it possible to break a bone by wedging an arm in the bars?
Even as she entertains that thought, a familiar face appears at the door, a finger held to his lips to indicate the need for silence. Marika turns, shocked to recognise Madoowbe. She stands, crosses her arms and walks to the door, standing just a pace back from the opening.
‘You dirty bloody traitor. Have you come here to gloat, or what?’
His eyes darken. ‘Don’t waste time venting your emotions. None of the guards nearby know English, but others might come.’
‘Why is that important?’
‘Listen. I am on your side. They are suspicious of me, but for now I still have my freedom. Unfortunately they are checking out the story I told them and when they have done so my position will not be so secure.’
Marika tries to laugh, but the sound becomes a cough. ‘Oh, you’re on my side. Right. That’s funny, people who are on my side don’t usually attack me without warning and hold a gun to my head.’
Madoowbe’s face, however, has the pallor of a frightened man. Marika can see the pores on his nose, and smell the dry sweat on his body even over the stench of the cell.
‘There is blood in your hair,’ he says.
‘Yes. Does that bother you?’
‘I am sorry that they hurt you, but this is the territory of the warlord Dalmar Asad. We could not have moved through without his knowledge. It was better for me to establish my bona fides by capturing you.’
‘Why didn’t you warn me of this so-called plan?’
‘It had to be real — these men know fear. It cannot be faked.’
‘I don’t trust you as far as I could kick you.’
‘That is not important, but please understand that there is no way out of here without my help. This prison was part of a British outpost in the nineteen twenties. If there is one thing the British do well it is build prisons. Dalmar Asad has many enemies and the lucky ones end up here. The unlucky? Let us just say that he has enough earthmoving equipment to ensure they are buried deep.’
Marika hisses in frustration. ‘Who the hell are these people? Are they Almohad too?’
‘No. As I just said, Dalmar Asad is a warlord and a clan leader. These are his men. He rules this part of Somalia.’
‘So where is this Dalmar Asad now?’
‘In the town of Gaalkacyo. He has been informed of your capture and is looking forward to making your acquaintance when he returns tomorrow. I doubt they will kill you before then.’
‘OK, you bastard. If you are on my side, prove it. Get me the hell out of here.’
‘I am trying. Trust me.’
‘Trust you? What a laugh. I’d rather trust a snake.’
The sound of footsteps reverberates from down the corridor. Someone is coming. Madoowbe lifts a finger to his lips once more, then slinks away.
Marika knows from her training that sleep deprivation can be a killer in the field. A dozen instructors, over the years, have drummed into her the importance of taking every opportunity to curl up. The benefits to reasoning power and observation skills are significant.
Using her arm as a pillow, she is not too uncomfortable on the bench, above the foetid floor. Most of all, she is safe — being alone in the cell, no one can approach without the racket inherent i
n opening the iron door.
Before long, she sleeps — an exhausted nothingness that lasts more than an hour. She wakes calmer, and sitting up, fully alert, she turns to look into the neighbouring cell where the young, wire-thin Somali is staring at her, grinning.
Holding out a grubby finger he points towards the filthy latrine bucket.
‘Get stuffed,’ she snarls at him. ‘So that’s what you’re waiting for — you want to watch me squat, eh? You filthy bastard.’
The dark eyes continue to stare.
‘Oh piss off,’ she says. ‘I can hold on all day when I have to, and I will if it saves me from putting on a show for you.’
The man blows his nose on his fingers, inspects the result, then grins back at her, showing a cavernous mouth. Like the guards, his teeth are green from qat.
A face only a mother could love, Marika thinks.
Her attention is diverted by the sound of low and purposeful voices, then the clang of iron as they unlock her cell. She stands and backs against the far wall, keeping her hands at her sides.
Three men enter the cell. The first is the taser-equipped guard, the second is a civilian, dressed in keffiyeh and long, flowing cloak. The other, the moustached officer who delivered her earlier beating, takes one step into the room, sees the contents of the chamber pot on the floor and makes an exclamation of disgust. After a series of harsh orders, two men appear with mops and clean the mess, to the continued scrutiny and direction from the officer. When they are done the cell door closes behind them, the guard still covering her with the taser.
The civilian inclines his head in greeting. He too wears a moustache, thick and bristled as a shoebrush. His eyes are dull brown, the left one bloodshot and staring above and to one side. He strikes her as a businessman, or small-time politician. ‘Good evening,’ he says, ‘my name is Walid Aqbar, and this is Captain Wanami.’
Marika comes no closer, yet stares at the officer, lower lip jutting in anger. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says, ‘I’ve already met the arsehole.’
Walid Aqbar ignores her. ‘Captain Wanami has asked me to act as interpreter. Is that acceptable to you?’
‘Tell him that I am an Australian citizen. I am being wrongfully detained, and physically abused and mistreated.’
