Nuruddin Farah - Crossbones

“Would you like to explain?”

“Let me try,” Fidno says. “Through the combined efforts of the community and the fishermen who were affronted by the mechanized fishing that was causing not only damage to the environment but the loss of livelihood to the fishermen, the people of Puntland established a coast guard, initially with the sole aim of stopping illegal fishing in our waters. When these efforts resulted in failure, because the foreign fishing vessels employed strong-arm tactics and used guns to intimidate the communities, a handful of former fishermen resorted to ‘commandeering’ the fishing vessels owned by the nations fishing illegally and in an unregulated manner.”

Malik has heard all this before, but he is curious about how it actually works. How, for example, can young men in twenty-foot skiffs with free boards and only seventy-five horsepower or so take ships the size of an apartment block?

“We do it with the help of others ,” says Fidno.

“Who?”

Fidno responds, “As Somali ‘privateers’—we are not pirates, we insist — we avail ourselves of a network of informers of different nationalities and in disparate professions: ship brokers, marine insurance brokers, security officials with access to information about ship movements, bankers, accountants; a run of the entire gamut to do with shipping. We communicate with London on secure satellite phones; receive info from someone at the Suez Canal with the schedules of the ships, the nature of the cargo, the name of the owners, and their final destination. Dubai. London. Sana’a. The world is at our fingertips. How do you think we commandeered the ship from Ukraine carrying tanks to Mombasa, tanks meant for the regional government of the south of Sudan? How did we know about an Israeli ship carrying chemical waste? We know everything about the ships, a few days before they sail through. We have negotiators based in North America who deal with the owners of the ships. What is happening here is beyond your or anyone else’s imagination.”

Fidno looks at Isha, who endorses his claims with a nod.

“Here”—he points again at Isha—“is one of our negotiators. He started off as an accountant, now he is stuck here, penniless, because the due payments have not been paid.”

“Where’s the money?”

“In London — at a bank,” Fidno says.

“Who gets paid — who has been paid, if not you?”

“Apart from the Somalis, everyone else has been paid. Our consultants in London have received their shares; the Abu Dhabi middlemen, too; ditto the Suez Canal folks. Not a cent to the Somalis. We’ve done the dirty work and are the ‘bad guys’ who are terrorizing the world’s shipping lanes, but we haven’t been paid.”

“Can you name names, give addresses?”

“Of course.”

Malik asks Fidno about the cash they’ve just shared out, despite the fact that he realizes he risks being told off.

“As men of all seasons, we have our fingers in different pies to survive,” Fidno says. “The money we are sharing out is from a speedboat-building venture we’ve set up in Seychelles. I’ve agreed to lend half of my share to Isha, who promises to pay it back when he receives what is owed to him — eventually. And as you can see, it is not millions of dollars I am doling out; only ten thousand dollars in small denominations of ten and twenty.”

Malik has no reason to disbelieve him, especially because Fidno sounds convincing, but then that is not saying much. As a journalist, he seldom trusts the truth of the version he hears until he has dug deeper and deeper and gotten to the bottom of the matter. Alas, it is not possible to do so now, as time is against him. Not to overlook the fact that his fear is making a worrying comeback, and he feels a little feverish.

Still, he won’t let go. He asks, “But surely the pirates receive bagfuls of cash. We’ve seen pictures of these — bags delivered to the hijacked ships on TV, with the correspondent reporting a couple million dollars within.”

“How can you tell from the clips you saw on your TV at home that the bags you were shown contained cash?” Fidno asks.

“So what did the bags in the pictures contain?”

“I suggest you go and ask the person who took the picture of the bags of alleged cash being delivered to the alleged hijacked ship and the correspondent who reported it. Maybe they would know. The problem with many people who are otherwise intelligent, well read, and well intentioned is that they believe what they see from the comfort of their couches, not what we here in Puntland are saying.”

“The bags dangling down from a rope held by a man in a helicopter are supposed to have contained two million dollars,” Malik repeats.

“Someone is lying.”

“Tell me who is lying and why.”

“I am not,” Fidno says. “We’re not.”

“So who is?”

“Maybe it is all an insurance scam.”

“They claimed to have paid when they didn’t?”

Fidno goes on, “I bet you were also taken in by reports in the international media of the blatant lie that someone found the body of a pirate, drowned after receiving his share, that washed ashore with one hundred and fifty-three thousand dollars in cash in his pocket. Ask yourself this: what happened to the money? The author does not tell us that, does he? In the same article, there is the incredible story of five pirates drowning, reportedly carrying three million dollars: ransom from the Saudi oil tanker? Again, what has become of the money? In Somalia, there would be war between the residents of a town over a hundred dollars. Why not over one hundred and fifty-three thousand dollars or, better still, three million? Did you hear of any wars taking place because of money found on the body of a drowned pirate washed ashore?”

Malik asks, “What about the sweet life in the pirate towns of Eyl and Xarardheere I’ve read about in the Guardian in London?”

“Eyl is a run-down village, the poorest in Puntland,” Fidno says. “I doubt the journalist who’s written the article has been there. I have. There is nothing, nothing in Eyl.”

“The BBC has aired similar pieces,” Malik says.

Fidno says, “Who am I to challenge the BBC?”

Fidno’s cheeks are almost empty of qaat now, the slim wad left no bigger than a weal raised over his cheekbone. Isha’s eyes are like the eyes of a man drunk on some cheap brew, his tongue soaked in the stewed greenness of his addiction.

Malik switches the tape recorder off and says, “We’re done. Thank you both.”

Then they chat off the record about other matters, and Fidno inquires if Malik has been in touch with Ahl and if he can tell him how he is doing. Malik replies in general terms, without going into any specifics. In fact, he makes an effort not to mention Taxliil’s name, even once. Polite to the last minute, they part in good humor, Malik promising that he will base a piece on their conversation and will send it to them if one of them provides him with an address. Fidno gives him an e-mail address.

Malik phones Qasiir to pick him up, and leaves Fidno and Isha where they are, in the suite, chewing. At the reception, he settles the bill, making sure that he is not responsible for further incidentals. Then he finds Qasiir in the car, parked where he left him.

Malik says, “Please take a different route from the one we took when we came earlier. I suggest you pretend we are going to the apartment.”

Qasiir looks often in the rearview mirror, to make sure no one is following them.

Malik says, “Also I want you to book my flight.”

“Your flight to where?”

“Nairobi. First thing in the morning.”

AHL, READY TO DEPART FOR THE AIRPORT, TELEPHONES MALIK TOtell him how things are. Even now, Ahl does not wish to confide in Malik about Taxliil’s erratic moods and behavior — let alone what is going on just now, with him having barricaded himself in the room and refusing to open the door or to communicate with anyone.