Hostage Three

by Nick Lake

  5) The helicopter will then drop bags containing three million US dollars in cash. The Somalis will recover the bags from the water and count to verify the full amount is present. They will then confirm by VHF to the Daisy May that they are in possession of part one of the ransom.

  6) Mr James Fields, Miss Amy Fields and the crew will board a dinghy and repair to HMS Endeavour. Once they are on board, HMS Endeavour will give the GO signal to the helicopter.

  7) The helicopter will drop the remaining two million US dollars. The Somalis will count and confirm to their colleagues that they are now in possession of the full ransom.

  8) All the Somalis will leave the Daisy May with Mrs Sarah Fields, who will accompany them to the shore. The Somalis below the helicopter will repair to the shore with the money.

  9) All Somalis, the money and Mrs Fields will reach the shore.

  10) Mrs Fields will then get into a motor boat immediately and return to HMS Endeavour.

  11) End of exchange.

  Note: if any harm should come to Mrs Fields after delivery of the ransom, HMS Endeavour will respond with EXTREME PREJUDICE.

  — Inshallah, you home soon, Ahmed says to me. Inshallah.

  We are standing on the rear deck again, close to 3 p.m., waiting for the exchange signal.

  — Inshallah? I ask.

  — If Allah wills it, says Farouz.

  Ahmed smiles at me.

  — Don’t smile, I say. You were going to shoot me last time.

  — No! Ahmed shakes his head. Because Allah did not will it.

  I look at him to try to work out if he is joking or not. But he is just smiling, his features unreadable.

  I sigh, and turn away from him.

  Again, the two of them are watching over us, guns at the ready. My stepmother – Sarah – and my dad are standing on opposite sides of the deck, watching each other, talking with their eyes. Felipe and Tony are just lounging on the wooden floor of the deck, as if they don’t think this is even going to happen, as if they are just casual about it.

  And again, the navy are keeping us waiting.

  Then, finally, there is a crackle on the VHF that Ahmed is holding.

  — We confirm visuals on the hostages, says a voice. We are go on the exchange. I repeat: we are go on the exchange.

  Three pirates – and it hasn’t escaped my notice that none of them is Ahmed or Farouz – pull away from the yacht, the outboard on their boat sputtering.

  On the deck of the destroyer, a helicopter lofts into the air. It seems to hang there for a moment, then it swings towards us, a growing blackness in the sky, until it hovers over the sea between the Daisy May and the big navy ship. Soon the pirates’ boat is underneath it, the sea around it flattened by the pressure of the helicopter’s spinning blades. The sound of the helicopter is enormous in the stillness of the hot air, the whip-like whoooom of the rotor.

  A shape drops from the helicopter and splashes down into the sea. A gym bag. And then another. One of the pirates leans over and hooks them out, pulling them into the boat. The helicopter hovers in place while the pirates open the bags.

  A burst of static, and then Somali, comes over the VHF.

  — OK, says Ahmed. OK. He turns to us. Three million, he says with a smile. Then he points to the yacht’s own dinghy, which Tony put into the sea earlier. You can go.

  And like that, the moment has come. I stare at the dinghy. I flick my eyes to Farouz and stare at him.

  The dinghy.

  Farouz.

  The dinghy.

  Farouz.

  The dinghy is . . . freedom. Home. But what is at home? What if I want to stay, under this sun, with the sand and scrub of Eyl just over there?

  I turn to look at the shore. I watch as a four-by-four bounces over the dunes and pulls up by the discarded boats on the beach. Someone gets out and leans on the door, binoculars to their eyes. The pirates’ contact on shore, I guess.

  I think, couldn’t I stay? Could I just jump off the yacht and make for the shore?

  I’ve been in the water, when I snorkelled. It’s warm. I could jump in there and swim, get in that four-by-four, let them drive me away . . .

  — Amy, Dad says, pushing me forward. Come on.

  I stumble, then walk. Someone is making me go. That’s good – someone is taking the choice away from me. And yes, I’m aware of the irony.

  Dad pauses before getting into the dinghy.

  — You don’t have to do this, he says to the stepmother.

  — Yes, I do, she says back.

  I notice that the sun has brought out freckles on her face, dusted them across her nose. It makes her look pretty.

  Dad sighs and hesitates, then walks over to her. He gives her a kiss on the cheek.

  — Thank you, he says. I love you for this.

  She smiles wanly.

  — You didn’t love me before?

  — Yes, he says.

  And me? you ask. What do I do? Well, I don’t walk over to her, but I do smile. And if you knew me, you would know that was a huge deal.

  She smiles back, big, showing her white teeth.

  — If you come Somalia, you call me, says Ahmed, breaking the spell. Surreally, absurdly, he hands Dad a piece of paper with his phone number written on it. I help you, I show you around. You come Puntland – is very beautiful.

  Dad is dumbfounded.

  — Er, thank you, he says. I think.

  — Yes, thank you, Ahmed, I say.

  I kind of get it, actually. This wasn’t personal for him. It was a job. We had lots of money and he didn’t have much at all. He was just redistributing wealth, like Miss Walker talked about in our economics classes.

  Events tumble into one another. We are on the deck, then, for a split second, we are straddling the sea, one foot up and one foot down, then we are in the dinghy. The stepmother is still on the yacht with the pirates. Cooler air from the sea rises around us, cocooning us. Tony is there, Damian, Felipe. There are life jackets, but we don’t put them on; the idea seems preposterous. We have a VHF and Tony says into it that we are leaving the yacht, that we are all safe.

  Wait, I think. Then I say it out loud:

  — Wait. Wait.

  — What is it, Amy-bear? Dad asks.

  I get up and climb back on to the yacht, wobbling a little, almost falling. All the time Dad is asking me what is going on. I go over to the stepmother.

  — You go with Dad, I say. I’ll do it. I’ll be the collateral.

  — Don’t be ridiculous, says the stepmother. You’re a child. You can’t.

  — I can, I say. In fact, it’s safer for me. I am looking at Farouz as I say this.

  — What? Why?

  — You wouldn’t understand. Just, please, go. Get in the boat. I will join you soon.

  — What’s going on? Tony shouts from the boat. What’s the hold-up?

  — Amy wants to go with them instead, says the stepmother. She wants to swap with me.

  — That’s out of the question, says Dad.

  I push the stepmother towards the boat.

  — Please, I say. Please. It’s easier this way.

  Eventually, she sort of stumbles on to the dinghy, leaving the yacht behind. Dad is red in the face now, spittle coming from his mouth.

  — YOU COME BACK HERE, AMY FIELDS, he shouts.

  — No, I say.

  I don’t move.

  Then Dad starts to get out of the boat, but Tony stops him, and there’s this whole ridiculous situation going on, until Ahmed shoots his gun in the air. Immediately the VHF spits into life as someone asks if everything is OK.

  — Is fine, Ahmed says back to them.

  — What’s the delay? they ask.

  Ahmed turns to us.

  — Come on! he says. Who is stay? Who is go?

  I plant my feet, hard, on the ground.

  — I’m staying, I say.

  — AMY FIELDS, DON’T EVEN THINK –

  — Dad, I say softly. Please. I’ll be OK,
I promise. Just let me do this.

  He looks at me long and slow.

  — Please, I say again.

  At the same time the navy are asking over and over what the hold-up is.

  — We don’t have time for this, says Tony.

  Dad looks at him in horror.

  — Seriously, this is jeopardising the whole operation, Tony continues. Make a decision, quickly.

  Troops are running over there on the destroyer. We can all see them.

  — Go, says Ahmed. Go.

  — Come on, says Damian. We can’t force her to stay on the dinghy.

  Dad glares at him, but he doesn’t say anything.

  And that seems to settle the matter, because finally Tony starts the outboard and the little boat pulls away, leaving the yacht behind.

  With me on it.

  Alone with the pirates.

  As we stand there on the deck watching the dinghy, with Dad and the stepmother and Damian and Tony and Felipe on it, as it pulls away from us and towards the navy vessel, a signal comes through on Ahmed’s VHF. The three pirates have evidently received the rest of the ransom, because Ahmed nods and then indicates for us to get into the remaining two boats. We do; the swell of the sea takes us, cradles us. The motor starts up, and we accelerate over the waves; the seawater sprays cool on my face.

  Suddenly, the yacht, which had been our whole world, seems small as I look at it from the outside, and it’s getting smaller. Suddenly, I can’t believe we lived in that little thing for so long, and also, from the growing distance, it seems like it wasn’t so long.

  I’m going to Somalia, I think dumbly.

  When we reach the beach, Ahmed points to my trainers.

  — Take off, he says. Sand will eat them.

  I pull the shoes off and jump barefoot out of the boat into the shallow water. I’m amazed by how hot it is, warmed by the sun. I walk up on to the sand, and it burns, making me yelp and cling to Farouz’s arm. That’s when I see Ahmed frown at me.

  Further up, we come to where the four-by-four has stopped. Ahmed meets up with the three pirates from the helicopter rendezvous, who have come up on the beach in their wooden boat. He takes one black sports bag from them. He hands it through the window of the jeep to someone sitting in there – Amir, I guess, the sponsor. Then the wheels of the jeep bite the sand, flinging it into the air, as it guns away, reversing in a circle before racing off towards the dunes.

  After that, two pickups approach, much more battered than the four-by-four. I figure these are the pirates’ own vehicles. The men hoist up the bags and load one into each of the trucks.

  Further inland, above the dunes, I can see the shacks on the lowlands of Eyl. I can just make out figures, watching from a distance, and the awnings of what might be little cafés, with plastic furniture in the dust outside them. There are dogs, too, milling around. There are no trees, except higher up in the mountains, which stretch up from the beach, just scrub.

  I am in Somalia, I think. I am standing on Somalia.

  A pirate gets into one of the pickup trucks and leaves the driver’s door open. He beckons for the others.

  Ahmed points to one of the boats that we just came in on.

  — I show you motor, he says. Then you go.

  — That’s not necessary, I reply.

  — What?

  — I’m staying, I say. Here. With Farouz.

  Farouz hears his name and looks over. When he sees the expression on Ahmed’s face, he walks up to us.

  — What’s wrong? he says.

  Ahmed rattles Somali at him.

  Farouz clearly doesn’t know whether to smile or furrow his brow. He kind of does both.

  — It’s not possible, he says.

  — Of course it is, I say. I’m just not going back.

  — Navy! Ahmed says, pointing to the destroyer. Navy!

  — The navy will come after us, Farouz says to me.

  — How? They’re on a ship.

  — They have a helicopter.

  — They can’t, can they? I say. This is Somali territory. They can’t just fly over it without permission.

  I have no idea if this is true, but it sounds true.

  Farouz stops short. He turns to Ahmed, says something.

  Ahmed throws up his hands, barks out a reply.

  — If you stay here in Somalia, we will be . . . What is the word? When no one will speak to you?

  — Pariahs?

  — Is that the word? Yes, OK. We will be . . . pariahs. The other coast guard will hate us even more. Not harming hostages, that is how we survive. If we take you, we break the code. Others will suffer. And then the navy will come after us, when they do get permission, which they will, and –

  — You’re not harming me, I say. I’m coming of my own free will. I can tell them that. I can write to the news in England and tell them.

  — The other pir–. I mean, the other coast guard will not care. They will say we are traitors to our own kind.

  — Who cares? I say. You have millions of dollars now. You can do what you want.

  That really makes him think. He obviously translates to Ahmed, because then Ahmed is nodding reluctantly. He can see my point.

  — And anyway, I say, they won’t know, not to begin with. Put a man in the boat with a blanket over his head. Send him back towards the ship. By the time they realise we can be gone. I will get in the pickup truck with you. Please, I say to Ahmed. Please, I love him. I can’t leave him.

  — You love Farouz?

  I nod.

  — And Farouz? He love you? He looks at Farouz.

  — Yes, says Farouz.

  Ahmed fidgets, rubbing his fingers together.

  — Fuck. Fuck. OK, he says.

  We get in one of the pickups. The engine starts, then it pulls forward and accelerates. After so long on the yacht, I have forgotten motion like this – the sudden speed of it; the way it feels like it is the slingshot, but also the thing that it is firing.

  After the pickups bounce up the dunes, we stop in Eyl for a while. The pirates are obviously nervous, more nervous than me, and keep hold of their guns the whole time. I guess this would be a good time for someone to swoop in and take the money, and the pirates are freaked out by the idea. I assume this is why they have two trucks, with the money divided between them – if one of the trucks gets hit, at least not all the money will be taken.

  I don’t know why I’m thinking so calmly about this idea. If one of the trucks gets hit, if my truck gets hit, I will be dead.

  The pirates make a stop here because they have to pay some little storekeepers – I assume these are the people who supplied the cigarettes, the water, that kind of thing. Ahmed hands out bundles of money like it’s Christmas. Mangy dogs follow us, as we go from shop to shop, Farouz’s knuckles white on his pistol. Old men chew khat outside cafés, sitting in the shade. A blind beggar sits on his haunches, hands out.

  Finally, we get back in the pickups and hit the dry road – well, it’s more of a track, really. Some of the tension disappears. We head up into the hills, spewing brown dust behind us. There are white peaks of mountains in front and we drive towards them, snaking up into the highlands.

  My dad is going to go ape-shit, I think. This is going to hurt him so much, I know that. But somehow I can’t bring myself to care. The truth is that Mom left me, but then Dad left me, too. And that’s hard to forgive because my dad is still here. I mean, his body is like a shell being carted around by some impostor person, a hermit crab who took over when Mom died.

  He has only himself to blame for this. That’s what I tell myself, as the jeep cruises deeper into Somalia.

  As we drive, as we cross the mountains on a hair-raising pass, the track becomes more and more like a road, until, when we come down the other side on to a plateau, it is practically a highway. Now we start to see other people, the occasional beat-up car, a man using a donkey to pull a cart. The desert stretches all around us, hazy with heat. I see a clump of trees
in the distance, that I take to be an oasis.

  I am in Somalia, I think again. In the desert. Driving to a place I only heard of the other day.

  Galkayo, when we come to it from the desert hours later, is exactly as I imagined it. Low houses, most of them daubed with white to keep out the heat of the sun, with flat roofs, the occasional stork nesting up there. What does surprise me, though, is that in one district, as we drive through, there are the kinds of houses you’d see in California: columns by the front door, two or three floors high. One has a new Chevrolet parked outside, gleaming black; another, a silver Mercedes.

  — Pirates? I ask Farouz.

  — Yes, he says.

  He is holding my hand. He has been holding my hand this whole time we’ve been sitting in the back of the truck. There is no air conditioning, so I have the window wide open, the wind whipping in, making my hair fly.

  — We will buy one like this, he says. Or we will leave. It is up to you.

  We pass a swimming pool, blue as jewellery in the surrounding brownness of sand and dust.

  — Let’s buy one, I say. With a pool. We’ll be like Darod and Dombiro in their oasis.

  — OK, says Farouz.

  Past the rich pirates’ houses, we come to the single-storey dwellings. Here there are lots more people in the street, sitting on the ground for the most part. There are little shops, open to the air, with signs in a language I can’t read. It’s hard to tell what they sell, these shops. There are women carrying babies strapped to their bodies with cloth, and we pass several men with missing legs.

  — The war, says Farouz.

  — Which war? I say, because I know from talking to him that there have been several.

  — Oh, I don’t know, he says. There is always a war.

  After maybe half an hour, Ahmed stops outside a particular shop – at least, I presume it’s because of the shop that he has stopped, because he gets out of the pickup truck, goes inside, then reappears and jerks his head for us to follow. We get out, Farouz carrying one of the bags of money, one of the other pirates – Asiz, I think – carrying the bag from the other truck. Again, their fingers are on the triggers of their guns. I’m pretty overwhelmed at this point – by the heat, by the strong smells, by the animals bleating and chattering.