Dangerous Alliance, page 10
“What did they ask?”
“One man spoke, but there were four—all wearing masks. He wanted to know why I came to Victoria. I told him for a vacation. Would you open the window, please? I need fresh air.”
Kim pushed aside the curtains and shoved against the frame until it opened. He returned to Soo. “What else did this man ask?”
“He wanted to know the names of who traveled with me—I told him I was on my own.”
“Did he believe you?”
“Not at first. They kicked me, but I gave the same answer.”
“What happened next?”
“Someone gave me an injection and I passed out. I awoke when you found me in the gardens.”
Kim rubbed his chin, gazing at Soo for telltale signs of a lie. He asked a final question. “Did you tell them about me?”
“No.”
“Hmm. I must arrange our return to Pyongyang. Are you sure you didn’t mention my name?”
“I’m sure. I told them my wife and sons lived in Korea—nothing else.”
***
In the building opposite the hotel, a man grinned when Kim opened the window. He adjusted his zoom lens and snapped a photo of Kim's face. He took another picture, this time of both men. He pushed back through the bushes, dropped his camera inside a Lufthansa airline bag, and departed.
How to proceed—threats? Blackmail?
Chapter Thirteen
Kidnapper’s Camp
Outside Kidi Faani, Somalia
The fifteen members of the raiding party dragged their captives from the Jujubba Refugee Camp north across the border into Somalia. Ropes linked the ten women in a single line. Far from civilization, the group pushed their way through scrub brush and across sand dunes under a sky packed with stars.
The kidnappers kept warm with blankets wrapped around their upper bodies. All but two under the age of fourteen, the captives shivered in the cold night air, clad in what they wore when taken from the camp.
Exhausted, they tried to maintain the grueling pace barefoot, their skin scraped by thorns. Weak from hunger and disease, they collapsed. When they slowed too much, sharp jabs from rifle butts hurried them along. Each impact against their frail bodies elicited painful cries.
After more than an hour’s march, the leader called for a halt. “Short break. Some water. Then we go.”
The oldest prisoner, twenty-five-year-old Jamiila Shamso, approached the leader with caution. “We need more rest. Some food, too.” She pointed downward. “We need something to protect our feet.”
Asad Nuur gazed at Jamiila. He let the silence build until she trembled. “Ten more minutes. No food—didn’t bring any. Drink more water.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a plastic bag. “Perhaps some khat?” He shoved a handful of the dried flowers into his mouth. “Controls hunger and will help ease the pain.”
Jamiila sneered at him. “No. I don’t use drugs.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He spat a stream of juice on the ground, some splashing on his worn sandals.
“Disgusting.”
“Don’t challenge me.” Asad raised a hand as if to strike her. “I’ve allowed you to walk without being tied up as I expect you to keep the other captives under control.”
Jamiila turned up her nose before she turned away and rejoined the others.
Asad laughed and spat again. “Time to move.” One of his men yanked on the ropes tied to the prisoners as they labored to their feet. The sudden movement caused several of them to fall headlong into the sand.
The raiders laughed. Jamiila rushed forward to help. On their feet at last, the group trudged north.
Hours passed. The band of kidnappers and captives fought for each step while the continuing cold sapped their energy. As they moved onward, the horizon changed—a sliver of light, a sign the new day would soon be upon them. A hint of moisture in the air and the promise of water rejuvenated the stragglers, quickening their steps.
Within minutes, sunshine and welcoming warmth became a reality. Darkness gave way to a cloudless blue sky. At the top of a dune, the group spotted a narrow, dark ribbon not far away. Water.
They hurried forward, kidnappers and captives alike, all seeking refreshment from the small stream. On the banks, shade from several babbaay trees invited the weary travelers.
Asad ordered the captives untied and allowed everyone an opportunity to drink and soak in the water. They were led to an area where overlapping trees created a canopy. Used by the bandits before, abundant stacks of thorny bushes became the walls of their temporary prison as the kidnappers moved them into place.
“Eat.” Asad pointed at the trees laden with papayas. Two men took machetes, scaled the trees, and hacked until the fruit fell. They cut the juicy fruit, passing out pieces until hunger and thirst were satiated.
“We’ll stay here until dark.” Asad grabbed Jamiila’s covered arm. “You’re responsible for the others. Make sure they don’t run away—or you die.” He turned to his men. “Two guards. Make sure there’s no trouble.”
The captives lay on the warm sand in a huddled mass, their hands still secured. An occasional whimper squeaked out as the exhausted women gave in to their weariness.
The golden orb passed through the heavens toward the horizon. The heat of the day calmed as temperatures dropped. Members of the group stirred, waking others. They chewed on discarded papaya skins, seeking the last bits of juicy and flavorful moisture.
Unlike the first night, the prisoners were tied into two groups. The youngest were linked with Jamiila.
“We go.” Asad pointed across the water. “Many hours tonight. Tomorrow, sleep in compound.”
With water somewhere beneath the surface, the footing became easier. They moved at a steady pace, the designated lead navigating by the stars.
Asad weaved between the captives, slicing a papaya and handing out pieces. He kept them moving for several hours until midnight when he called for a halt.
“Rest.”
Everyone sank to the ground, eager for a brief respite. Jamiila curled into a ball, seeking to maintain body heat. Her eyes drifted shut.
“Move.” One of the guards, his left arm missing from the elbow, jerked on her arm, dragging her upright. Once on her feet, he shoved her forward, leading the way for the four other captives.
So tired—must have dozed. I miss my children. Like an automaton, Jamiila placed one foot in front of the other, stumbling over exposed roots from nearby bushes. My children—will I ever hold them again? Tears fell unchecked.
Monotony set in. No one spoke. Heavy breathing from exertion and the occasional fall were the sole noises marking their passage. Their progression slowed as the moist sand gave way to dunes, trees replaced by thorny bushes and shrubs.
Jamiila became numb to the tedious trek, lost in her thoughts about her son and daughter—Abuukar and Bayda. What will happen when we reach our destination?
She fell, dragged backward as two of the younger girls collapsed from exhaustion. A kidnapper approached and raised a whip. Before he struck, Jamiila blocked his way. "No. They're tired—we all are. They're weak. They need food and water." She placed her hand on his arm.
The guard stepped back, raised his whip again, and lashed at Jamiila, knocking her to the ground. She crawled to the young girls, sheltering them with her body. He went to strike again, but Asad blocked his blow.
"What are you doing? I gave no orders to hit anyone." Asad snatched the whip and thrust his hand against the man's chest. "Go. Bring up the rear. Help any who fall—but if you strike them, you'll answer to me."
The guard glowered before lowering his eyes in acquiescence.
Asad extended a hand to Jamiila. She hesitated, fearful of what might happen. "Take my hand. I understand we're not married and shouldn't have physical contact. However, he embarrassed himself—and me."
She reached up, allowing Asad to help her rise. “Thank you.” She glanced at those attached to her. “Why take these young girls? You said they would be the future wives of your men. Don't they deserve more care and respect?”
“Some of the men want wives. Others don’t.”
“They’re too young.”
“Perhaps, but they will age. In the meantime, they will cook, clean, and take care of their man.”
Jamiila shook her head. Frightened to say anything more, she remained silent. Animals. Nothing but animals.
Asad glanced around—no one appeared to be paying attention. “Do you have children? A husband?”
“Y-yes. One boy, a girl. My husband—”
“Where are the children?”
“At the camp in Kenya—where you kidnapped me.”
“Husband?”
“H-he died. He was sick, but we had no money for medicine or better food.”
“Perhaps one day, you will have a new husband. More children.” Asad tugged on her sleeve. “Come, a bit farther and we’ll take another break. We must be in Kidi Faani before sunrise.”
***
The first inkling a new day would be upon them was a band of shimmering reds and oranges along the skyline. The kidnappers hurried their charges through the shallows of another river, toward a small enclosure outside the village of Kidi Faani.
They approached a walled compound of whitewashed concrete blocks. Two guards, each cradling an AK-47, sat on wooden crates by the closed entrance. Dressed in faded jeans, Western-style long-sleeve shirts, and bush hats, they wore sandals. They jumped to their feet when they spotted the group and pushed the gates open.
Inside, six single-story stone buildings and two wooden huts filled the area. A lone tree took center stage in the courtyard, several wooden benches arrayed in a haphazard manner in its shade. Chickens and goats wandered around the compound, searching for something to eat. Two women carried buckets, reaching in with a bare hand and sprinkling water on the sandy soil to keep the dust under control.
Asad led them to the tree. “This is our camp.” He gestured toward two of the buildings, each painted pink, with a single window near an open doorway. “Five will stay in each of these buildings. Jamiila and the other four tied to her will be in the one closest to the wall.”
He issued an order. Men rushed forward and removed the bindings. As the women rubbed their chafed wrists, he stared at them.
“You will be free in the compound. No harm will come to you as long as you follow a simple order—obey. Attempt to escape—you will be killed. If someone is successful, you will be caught and killed. Everyone from your building will also die.”
Azad pointed at Jamiila and the next oldest-looking woman in the other group. “You are both in charge. Keep everyone in line, and you will be safe and happy.”
When he finished speaking, he walked away, followed by the other men.
***
Jamiila led the four girls into their new home. Concrete floor, with several blankets piled in a corner. A bucket full of water and a single ladle by its side. Nothing else.
“We must rest. Have a drink if you’re thirsty. We don’t know what will happen next.” After each one had finished drinking, Jamiila handed out blankets. She gave each of them a hug and they stretched out on the floor, using the blankets as pillows. Soon, silence reigned as they fell asleep—all but Jamiila.
While the others whimpered in their sleep and uttered names in their nightmares, Jamiila tossed and turned, her thoughts on Abuukar and Bayda. I hope the foreigners treat them well in the camp. Perhaps, one day, we will be rejoined. Can I trick Asad into letting me escape?
Tears trickled down her face as she drifted away.
***
Darkness and cooler temperatures replaced the blazing sun and heat. The captives remained in their shelters, asleep. Asad wandered around the compound, ensuring the guards’ positions, one for each wall and two at the gate.
A fire crackled and popped and two men prepared meat for roasting. Earlier in the day, when their women had finished watering the compound, they made kibhis, an unleavened bread.
Jamiila stirred, the aroma of roasting meat caused her mouth to water. She woke the others, and they peeked outside. They smacked their lips, involuntary moans escaping as their stomachs rumbled.
Asad spotted Jamiila and waved her over. She obeyed, the others following.
“Eat.” Asad stabbed at the roasted meat with a sharp knife. “Take the kibhis and I will cut you a piece of goat.”
With their first nourishing meal since being abducted, the women ate in silence, gobbling the bread and meat, licking the juice from their fingers.
“When you are finished, you may go to the wooden huts.” Asad nodded toward the structures. “The one on the left is for females. Afterward, return to your building. Remain until the sun rises above the horizon. There's a bucket in each building for the women to use when they aren't permitted to leave.”
A calm settled over the compound as kidnappers and captives alike bedded down for the evening. With a full stomach, even Jamiila struggled to remain awake. Her head drooped and she eased herself onto the floor, pulling the blanket over her.
A gunshot broke the silence. Another. A third.
Jamiila peered out the doorway. Men carrying torches gathered at the wall. On the ground, a body lay motionless. Her eyes were wide open, a pool of blood seeping out from beneath her body. A pungent odor similar to copper permeated the area.
Asad turned to glare at the prisoners. “I told you the penalty for trying to escape.” He kicked the body until it rolled over.
Chapter Fourteen
Bedlam Headquarters
Whitehall, London, England
Sir Alex placed the final tome of War and Peace on the ornate bookshelf and stepped back. He faced the Queen’s portrait, raising a corner to level the frame. Satisfied, he nodded. “CC was right. I spend most of my time here, so it shouldn’t be austere. The plants Winnie ordered should arrive today and will spruce up the place. Wonder if I should get one of those office putting cups?” He shook his head. “Never have time for it.”
A light tap on the door stopped his perusal of his handiwork. Winnie pushed a serving cart into the office, bearing tea for two with crustless cucumber creations, scones, and strawberry tarts. She arranged the snack on the coffee table and sat in a chair closest to Sir Alex’s desk.
“What do you think of the office now, Winnie?” He pointed toward the bookcase and the portrait before helping himself to a sandwich as she played mother and poured the tea.
Winnie swept her long, red hair over her shoulder. Freckle-faced, in her mid-40s, a bit on the plump side, she had worked for Sir Alex for almost a decade.
“Glad you listened to reason. I told you long ago the room had the appearance of a dungeon in the Tower of London.”
“No matter. It’s fixed now. What’s on the calendar for this afternoon?”
“Don’t forget your call with the Prime Minister. His office will call at 16:50. You have a meeting with Signor Radicci, the Italian Ambassador, at their embassy at 18:15. In between, you must attend to your paperwork. It’s stacking up. At the end of the day, you’re supposed to ring Admiral Blakely in Washington. He’s expecting your call at 20:00 our time.”
“Yes, Mother.” They both laughed.
After they finished their tea and Winnie removed the remnants, Sir Alex tackled the mountain of paperwork stacked in his inbox.
The afternoon sped by.
His intercom buzzed. The flashing red light indicated Winnie wanted to speak with him.
Sir Alex pushed a button on the console. “Yes, dear.”
“The Italian ambassador has rescheduled. Also, it’s time for your call. They’re putting you through to the Prime Minister.”
Several clicks echoed on the line, before a deep and mellow voice spoke. “Afternoon, Sir Alex. How are you?”
“Fine, Prime Minister. Yourself?”
“Couldn’t be better, although I took a beating at yesterday’s Prime Minister’s Questions.” He chuckled. “I should know better than to let the opposition party needle me.”
“Sir, as long as we’ve known each other, the opposition always maintains the upper hand.”
“Quite. As you’re aware, I’m flying to America next month to meet with the new president. I’d appreciate a candid appraisal from you before I do.”
“Yes, Prime Minister. I’ll sort something out for you.”
“Outstanding. Oh, by the way, we’ll be going to Chequers the weekend after next. Will you join us?”
“An honor, sir. Thank you.”
“Jolly good. Talk with you later.”
Winnie eased the door open as he set the phone down. “Sir Alex, I’m off to my dental appointment—unless you want me to stay longer. I can always reschedule.”
“No, go right ahead. I’ll be ringing Admiral Blakely in a few minutes. If I can catch him now, I’ll be leaving early. Have a meeting to attend at the club—something about raising fees.”
“Okay. Good night, Sir Alex.”
He nodded as he perused another file. After ticking several boxes on the attached routing slip, he tossed the file aside. He stood, stretched his back to work out the kinks, and reached for the gray and brown secure telephone.
“Hello.” Admiral Blakely’s gruff voice rifled through the line.
Sir Alex held the receiver away from his ear. “Richard. Alex here. How are you?”
“Still breathing. Yourself?”
“The same.” Both men chuckled. “Winnie mentioned you’re withholding some hush-hush information from me?”
“Yes. Sorry, I couldn’t pass it to her. From sensitive sources and she’s not cleared for the details.”
Sir Alex glanced at the ceiling and rolled his eyes. Yanks. Hung up on security, yet their government’s a sieve. “I understand. Loose lips and all that.”
