Vikas Swarup - Six Suspects

'Kidnappers?'

'Yes. You've been kidnapped.'

I laughed. 'You guys are jokers. That's about as funny as a fart in a church.'

'No, Mr Page. We're dead serious. You've been kidnapped. Now we are going to demand a ransom of three billion dollars for your release. We're going to get George Bush to vacate Iraq. We'll get him to force Israel to vacate Palestine. We'll force him to quit meddling in Somalia. We'll ask him to remove the un-Islamic regime in Saudi Arabia. We'll compel him to make reparations to-'

'Whoa, whoa, whoa, just hold your horses for a minute,' I interjected. It was time to set the record straight before these crazies started asking the President to send a man to the moon. 'You folks have got the wrong guy. I am not that Larry Page.'

'What?'

'Yeah. You heard right. I am not that Larry Page. I've got nothing to do with that Google guy. I ain't loaded. So if you were expecting me to eat spinach and shit greenbacks, you'd better think again.' I laughed.

That went down like a lead balloon.

'Come again,' said Teknikal.

'I said I am not rich. I was fooling you guys. If it took a nickle to go around the world, I couldn't cross the street.' I looked at Abu Khaled. 'You catch my drift?'

The big guy moved like greased lightning. Without any warning, he swung his fist at me. I didn't see the blow coming and caught it in the mouth. I staggered back against a tree and collapsed like a pole-axed lap-dancer. When I got up there was blood in my mouth and a ringing in my left ear. I touched my face and felt the cut on my lips burning under my fingers.

Abu Khaled was still glowering at me like a mean rattlesnake.

'Er… do you guys take Visa?' I asked hesitatingly.

Teknikal was plumb weak north of his ears, but he finally saw the light. 'So you really are not the Larry Page of Google fame? I had my doubts from the beginning. Who the fuck are you?'

'I am a forklift operator in Walmart.'

'A goddamn hi-lo driver! This guy probably makes less than four-fifty a week. And we thought he was a billionaire! Not only that, we even paid that crook Bilal a million rupees to bring him to us.' Teknikal started laughing like a hyena on helium.

Abu Khaled looked at him sternly. 'Abu Teknikal, behave yourself! And make sure this infidel doesn't escape.'

I knew two things now. One, that Bilal was nothing but a lowdown, no-good varmint. And two, that I was up shit creek without a paddle.

My hands and feet were tied and I was dumped in a corner of the foxhole like an old sack of clothes. The youths looked at me curiously, then picked up their guns and went out of the hut. I heard them reciting some prayers and running around like they were in boot camp.

It was close to evening when Teknikal and Abu Khaled returned. Teknikal daubed the cut on my lip with some kind of ointment.

'So who exactly are you guys?' I asked them.

'I am Abu Al-Khaled Al-Hamza,' the big guy replied. 'I am number four in the hierarchy of Lashkar-e-Shahadat. The Army of Martyrdom. We are a part of Al Qaeda. Our commander is Abu Abdullah Osama bin Muhammad bin Ladin. You've heard of him, haven't you?'

'Yeah. Isn't he the guy who is supposed to have blown up those towers down in New York City?'

'Correct.'

'And wasn't the President going to smoke him out of some place called Kabool?'

'You mean Afghanistan. Quite right, except we're the ones who've won the war. Your countries are burning with terror and fear and panic, and we are still going strong. Abu Teknikal, tell this infidel how much reward his President has put on my head.'

'A full fifteen million dollars!' announced Teknikal.

Fifteen million my ass, I thought. If bullshit were music, this guy would have a brass band!

'So what do you guys do?'

'We are fighting for a revolution – the creation of an Islamic Caliphate, the Nizam-i-Islami,' Abu Khaled said. 'Our kingdom will be governed by Sharia law, based upon the Holy Koran and the Sunnah. We are responding to the calls of Allah and his Prophet for jihad in the cause of Allah.'

'And who exactly is Mr Allah?' Khaled hit me across my face. 'Don't ever talk about our God like that.'

I rubbed my cheek. 'So what do you folks want from me?'

'We need you to tell that evil Bush to convert all Americans to Islam. He should abolish your usurious banks. He must jail all those homosexual swine. He needs to stop women from degrading themselves by appearing in filthy magazines. He needs to preserve the environment. He needs to-'

'I get your drift, Mr Khaled. And I can tell you, I'll do my darndest to get the President to agree to your demands. But I can't do this sitting here in bumfuck Egypt.'

Khaled stepped forward and slapped me twice this time.

'What's that for?'

'One for interrupting me and the other for abusing my country.'

'But what will you folks do with me?'

'We'll still use you for ransom,' said Khaled. 'You may not be a billionaire, but you are still American. Teknikal, draft a press release for CNN. We will send it out tomorrow with a video. Let's teach Mr George Bush a lesson he won't forget.'

I turned to Teknikal. 'Listen, Teknikal. I'm of no use to you guys. The President won't listen to me. Why don't you let me go? I promise you, I won't tell a soul about you folks. It'll remain between you and me and the fencepost.'

'No. Now listen carefully, Mr Page.' He stared at me with eyes shining like light bulbs. 'We are the Army of Martyrdom. We are prepared to die. And we are also prepared to kill.' He traced his fingers over my neck. 'So don't entertain any thoughts of escaping.'

I knew at that moment that Teknikal was as dangerous as Abu Khaled. They were like two peas in a pod. Still I couldn't resist asking him, 'But I thought you liked America.'

'I do,' he answered. 'I just hate Americans.'

That shut me up.

By evening the hideout had become darker than a cow's belly and I was so hungry my belly button was getting awful acquainted with my backbone. One of the boys lit a lantern. In its yellow glow I had my first good look at the other occupants of the foxhole. The youths were named Altaf, Rashid, Sikandar and Munir. They were slim and lanky and aged between sixteen and twenty-two. Altaf told me he was from Naupura in Kashmir, while the other three were from Gujranwala in Pakistan. To me they seemed just like the boys at the call centre, fresh-faced and eager, except they dealt in guns and grenades instead of computers and phones.

The foxhole was warm, but sleeping in it was very uncomfortable. Since space was so limited, you had to sleep in just one position. This time I was sandwiched between Sikandar and Munir, which was a relief, coz I would have had difficulty looking Teknikal in the eye after what he'd done to me.

They took me to the meadow outside the next day, put a black blindfold over my eyes, made me kneel and told me to fold my hands. 'Now beg for your life, pig,' Abu Khaled barked, as Teknikal trained a video camera on me.

'I've been kidnapped by these Al Qaeda dudes. Creek's rising and I'm up to my ass in alligators! Mom, get me outta here,' I said and was rewarded with a kick in my backside.

'This video is going to your president, not to your mother, cretin,' Khaled yelled at me.

I stayed in the foxhole for close to fifty days. It was as boring as watching paint dry. I relished any opportunity of going out into the open – hearing birds chirping every morning and watching the mist rise slowly towards the clouds made me forget for a moment that I was a hostage. But they always had a man to watch over me, even when I was taking a shit.

The food they gave me was pretty horrible, just plain roti, dhal, rice and vegetables cooked by one of the boys. The one saving grace was the clabber milk, which was finger-lickin' good. Sometimes Omar would get a cow or buffalo from one of the shepherds and then we would have a feast.