Frederick Forsyth - The Kill List

Opal arrived in Marka as the town slumbered in the blazing post-noon heat. He found the compound and hammered on the door. This compound was not sleeping. He could hear voices and running steps, as if someone was expected but was late.

The latch door in the heavy timber gate flicked open and a face peered out. It was an Arab face but not Somali. The eyes scanned the street but saw no pickup truck. Then they settled on Opal.

“Yes,” snapped a voice, angry that a mere nobody should seek admittance.

“I have papers for the Sheikh,” said Opal in Arabic.

“What papers?” The voice was plainly hostile but with curiosity.

“I don’t know,” said Opal. “That was what the man on the road told me to say.”

There was a buzz of conversation behind the timber. The first face was pulled aside and another took its place. Neither Somali nor Arab, but Arabic-speaking. Pakistani?

“Where are you from and what papers?”

Opal fumbled under his windbreaker and produced a sealed package.

“I come from Marka. I met a man on the road. He had crashed his pickup truck. He asked me to bring these and told me how to find this place. That is all I know.”

He tried to stuff the package through the aperture.

“No, wait,” shouted a voice, and the gate began to open. Four men stood there, fiercely bearded. He was grabbed and hauled inside. A teenage boy ran out, seized his trail bike, wheeling it inside. The gate closed. Two held him. The man who might be a Pakistani towered over him. He studied the package and sucked in a deep breath.

“Where did you get these, dog? What have you done with our friend?”

Opal played the terrified nobody, which was not hard.

“The man driving the truck, sir. I fear he is dead. .”

That was as far as he got. A right-handed slap with full force laid him on the ground. There was confused shouting in a language he did not understand, though he spoke English, Somali and Arabic apart from his native Hebrew. Half a dozen hands picked him up and hustled him away. There was a shed of sorts built into the compound wall. He was thrown inside and heard a bolt slam. It was dark, and the place stank. He knew he had to keep up the act. He sank onto a pile of old sacks and buried his head in his hands, the universal posture of bewildered defeat.

It was half an hour before they returned. The two or three of bodyguard stature were there, but also a new one. He was indeed Somali, and with a cultured voice. Some education perhaps. He beckoned. Opal stumbled, blinking, into the harsh sunlight.

“Come,” said the Somali, “the Sheikh wishes to see you.”

He was marched under close escort into the main building, facing the gate. In the lobby he was given a skilled and thorough frisking. His tattered wallet was taken and handed to the Somali. He extracted the usual papers and scanned them, comparing the grainy photograph to the face. Then he nodded, pocketing the wallet, turned and walked on. Opal was hustled in his wake.

They entered a well-appointed sitting room, where a large fan turned from the ceiling. There was a desk with papers and writing materials. A man sat in a swivel chair, facing away from the door. The Somali approached and murmured in the man’s ear. Opal could have sworn he had switched to Arabic. He offered the seated man the wallet and identification papers.

Opal could see the package he had brought was open and several sheets lay on the desk. The seated man turned, lifted his eyes from the wallet and stared at him. He had a full black beard and amber eyes.

Hardly had the Malmö dropped her anchor in twenty fathoms of water in the bay of Garacad than three aluminum skiffs were seen heading toward her from the village.

Jimali and his seven co-pirates were eager to be back on land. They had been at sea for twenty days, most of them cooped up in the Taiwanese trawler. Their supplies of fresh food were long gone, and they had been existing on European and Filipino cuisine, which they did not like, for two weeks. They wanted to get back to their native goat stew diet and the feel of sand under their feet.

The dark heads crouching in the oncoming skiffs from the shore a mile away were those of the relief crew, who would guard the ship at anchor for as long as it took.

Only one of those approaching the Malmö was not a ragged tribesman. Primly at the back of the third skiff sat a neatly dressed Somali in a well-cut fawn safari jacket and trousers. He held an attaché case on his knees. This was al-Afrit’s chosen negotiator, Mr. Abdi.

“Now it begins,” said Capt. Eklund. He spoke in English, the language common to the Swede, Ukrainians, the Pole and Filipinos onboard. “We must be patient. Leave the talking to me.”

“No speak,” snapped Jimali. He disliked his captives speaking even in English because his grasp of it was not very strong.

A ladder was lowered over the side and the mainly teenage relief guards came up it, hardly seeming to touch the rungs. Mr. Abdi, who did not like being at sea, even a mile out, took his time and clung firmly to the guy ropes as he climbed. His attaché case was passed up to him when his feet hit the deck.

Captain Eklund did not know who he was but recognized from his dress and manner that this was at least an educated man. He stepped forward.

“I am Captain Eklund, master of the Malmö ,” he said.

Mr. Abdi held out his hand. “I am Ali Abdi, the appointed negotiator for the Somali end of things,” he said. His English was fluent, with a slight American intonation. “You have never been. . how shall I put it?. . a guest of the Somali people before?”

“No,” said the captain. “And I would prefer not to be now.”

“Of course. Most distressing, from your point of view. But you have been briefed, no? There are certain formalities that must be gone through, then meaningful negotiations can begin. The sooner an accord is reached, the sooner you will be on your way.”

Captain Eklund knew that, far away, his employer would be in conclave with insurers and lawyers, and they, too, would appoint a single negotiator. Both, he hoped, would be skilled and experienced and would accomplish a quick ransom payment and release. He clearly did not know the rules. Speed was now the concern of the Europeans only.

Abdi’s first concern was to be escorted to the bridge to make contact on the ship’s satellite phone with the control center in Stockholm and then the negotiation office, presumably in London, the home of Lloyd’s, which would be the epicenter of the whole bargaining process. As he surveyed the deck from the vantage of the bridge, he murmured: “It might be wise to rig canvas awnings in the spaces left by the deck cargo. Then your crew can take the sea air without being roasted by the sun.”

Stig Eklund had heard of the Stockholm syndrome, the procedure whereby kidnappers and captives formed a friendship bond based on shared proximity. He had no intention of relaxing his inner loathing for the people who had seized his ship. On the other hand, the neatly dressed, educated and well-spoken Somali, in the person of Ali Abdi, was at least someone he could communicate with on a civilized basis.

“Thank you,” he said. His first and second officers were standing behind him. They had heard and understood. He nodded to them and they left the bridge to hang the awnings.

“And now, if you please, I must speak to your people in Stockholm,” said Abdi.

The sat phone had Stockholm on the line in seconds. Abdi’s face lit up when he heard the ship’s owner was even then in London with Chauncey Reynolds. He had twice negotiated, albeit for other clan chiefs, for the release of vessels through Chauncey Reynolds and each time they had been successful, with only a few weeks of delay. Given the number, he asked Capt. Eklund to raise the London lawyers. Julian Reynolds came on the line.