Yasmina Khadra - The African Equation

‘That’s absurd.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Shhh!’ ordered Blackmoon, who had come to stand guard outside our jail, with his sabre in his hand.

They brought us food. Rancid pancakes and shreds of dried meat.

When Hans fell asleep, Bruno went back to his bed, put on a battered pair of glasses, leant back against the wall and opened a dog-eared old book, which he spread on his knees.

‘Have you ever tried to escape?’

Without looking up, he gave a little smile. ‘Where would I go? The nearest water source is eighty kilometres further south. Behind the hill, the country is flat. In front is a bare valley. We’re as unlikely to pass unnoticed as a cockroach on a tablecloth. Plus, there are guards around the camp, and they have itchy trigger fingers.’

‘Where are we exactly?’

He put his book down on the floor and turned to me. ‘Somewhere in hell on earth. Somalia, Ethiopia, Djibouti, Sudan, I don’t have the slightest idea. We’re constantly on the move, often at night. This is just a stopping-off point. After three or four weeks, they’ll move to another hideout. Not to cover their tracks, but to avoid being slaughtered. There are plenty of gangs of degenerates operating in the area, and they don’t see eye to eye. The zones of influence aren’t clearly marked, and every gang wanders about according to the situation. The logistics are random; if you don’t have allies, you’re screwed. This area is controlled by rebels and bandits. The regular army aren’t strong enough to venture far out of their camps. The proof is that this fort our kidnappers are squatting in used to be an army outpost. It was evacuated after a rebel incursion, and since then, it’s been abandoned. There’s a village a hundred kilometres to the east, and as there are no more garrisons in the sector, its inhabitants have fled.’

Hans asked us to be quiet.

Bruno obeyed. He buried his head in a cloth that he used as a pillow and crossed his hands over his belly. After a few minutes, his breathing settled down and he started snoring.

Outside, three guards were telling each other stories and laughing. They were speaking in their dialect, but I guessed that they were talking about raids, skirmishes, ambushes and death. They made ‘bang!’ and ‘rat-tat-tat’ sounds to represent machine-gun fire, aped their victims’ supplications, and laughed out loud at the fear one of their cronies had shown.

Then silence fell like a guillotine.

A breeze started hissing through the gaps in the sheet metal. Hans’s eyes were open. How did he plan to get to sleep with his eyes open? Slowly, fatigue overcame me and I drifted off.

Late in the night, Hans woke me. He was sitting up; his ghostly silhouette could be seen clearly in the half-light.

‘I think Tao got away,’ he whispered in a toneless voice. ‘I’m convinced of that now. You remember when they put us in the felucca? I took a good look at my boat, there was no lifebelt on deck. Tao must have grabbed it as he was being thrown overboard. I’m sure of it. Tao’s quick. He wouldn’t have let them get away with it.’

‘It was pitch-black, Hans. You could hardly see the boat.’

He frowned and lay down again, his eyes wide open.

Guilt was gradually driving him to a state of total denial.

In the morning, through the door with the wire netting, I saw a ribbon of dust above a mass of stones that had once been the rampart of the fort. It was the sidecar motorcycle coming back from somewhere or other. It parked outside the command post. The rider got off and helped a man out of the sidecar. The passenger was a middle-aged, almost light-skinned mixed-race man, quite frail and stooped, his ovoid skull balding at the front; he was wearing a crumpled suit and prescription glasses and holding a threadbare bag to his chest. Captain Gerima shook his hand warmly and motioned him to follow him into his office. A few minutes later, Joma came to fetch Hans. I asked him where he was planning to take my friend. ‘To the infirmary,’ he retorted. I reminded him I was a doctor; Joma laughed and made the ridiculous statement that in Africa, all you needed was a witch doctor. Two men lifted Hans and dragged him to a shack behind the command post.

I waited for Hans all morning and all afternoon, but he didn’t come back. When I asked after him, all I got was insults.

‘He’s a good doctor,’ Bruno reassured me. ‘He tended my dysentery. At least he has proper drugs.’

‘Is he a real doctor?’

‘I think so. I don’t know where he lives, but the captain sometimes sends for him when someone is seriously ill.’

Night fell, and I still hadn’t seen Hans again.

The next day, and in the days after that, no sign of Hans. I started to panic and asked to speak to the captain. He wouldn’t see me, but sent Joma to make it clear to me that a hostage would do better to behave himself if he wanted to get home in one piece. I dismissed these threats and demanded to know how my friend was. All I got in return was a string of curses and mimed throat cutting.

On the fourth day, the sidecar motorcycle left the fort, with the doctor on board. Hans remained in the ‘infirmary’. It was only after a week that I saw him, a bandage around his chest, escorted by Blackmoon as far as a sheet-metal sentry box which served as the latrines.

‘Why are they isolating him?’ I asked Bruno, dreading a serious infection that the pirates were trying to hide from me.

‘We’re the ones they’re isolating, Monsieur Krausmann,’ he said. ‘If our kidnappers are giving your friend such special treatment, it must mean they’ve struck a deal for him.’

I didn’t understand. He sat down next to me and explained. ‘When I was seized with the Italian journalist, we were held with a third hostage in a horrible cellar for weeks. In the dark. Tied up like sausages. Then the journalist was transferred to a separate cell, and they started to treat him better, giving him nicer food and allowing him to wash and shave. Some time later, he was released. I think your friend is going to be freed soon. You have to know how things work around here: even though these criminals don’t seem up to much, they’re well organised. They have contacts in town and among officials who communicate anything that might interest them, in real time. And then there’s the internet. They type in the names of their hostages, and in a second or two they have all the information they need. That’s what they’ve done with you and your friend. Your name can’t have told them much. Your friend’s, though, probably came with a lot of tempting details … I’ve been a prisoner for four months and I’ve learnt to sense when the wind is changing. The captain seems enthusiastic. That’s an unmistakable sign. Usually, he’s as moody as a pitbull … What exactly does Monsieur Makkenroth do?’

‘He’s in humanitarian aid.’

‘There must be something else.’

I hesitated, made sure that no prying ears were around, and admitted, ‘Hans Makkenroth is a leading industrialist in Germany, and is very rich …’

‘That explains it. Captain Gerima may already be negotiating with several groups interested in your friend. Depending on how much the “merchandise” is likely to fetch, the auction can reach an astronomical figure.’

A thousand questions were jostling for position in my head, but I was too exhausted to put them in any kind of order. I didn’t know how this kind of negotiation worked or how long it would last and, frankly, I was less and less able to see the end of the tunnel. In two weeks of captivity, I had lost my sense of judgement. My sleepless nights had exacerbated my anxieties, and every minute that passed lessened my presence of mind. I had become someone else. My voice had changed and my reflexes had grown dull. I had lost weight; an unkempt beard was engulfing my face, and the disgusting food we were served had made me ill. At this rate, I was certain I’d end up cracking or being put down like a dog.