There was no gate. There wasn’t even a barrier into what looked like the coach entrance for this grand building. The wagon stopped next to four or five other pickups and cars. Burnt-out vehicles littered the area.
Awaale was already out of our wagon before the technical behind us had stopped. He sounded excited. ‘Come, Mr Nick. Now it is your time. Come.’
I followed him inside. It must have been a hotel once. A lobby the size of a football pitch opened onto a pair of sweeping staircases that, like everything else around here, had seen better days. The place had been stripped of everything that wasn’t nailed down. The glass in the windows had gone. Wiring had been pulled. There wasn’t a door in sight. Everything transportable had probably been sold as scrap or used to build the shacks we’d spent the afternoon beside. I was getting used to the smell: decomposing rubbish and burning rubber were once more the order of the day.
The staff and customers had been replaced by legions of young guys off their tits, eyes glazed behind their Elton Johns. Their smiles were gold-toothed and
Awaale led me into a ballroom. The whole environment changed. I could hear the hum of a generator somewhere. Arc lamps had been hammered onto the walls. The room wasn’t completely bathed in light but there was enough. Four young guys in Western dress were hunched over ancient PCs. One of them was keeping up to speed with Facebook. Another was admiring a picture in an online brochure of a happy couple at the big wheel of their even bigger yacht. This was Mog’s answer to GCHQ.
I followed Awaale to where two minging old brown settees sat either side of a US Army aluminium Lacon box the size of a coffee-table. The green paint was worn away and the metalwork looked like it had been dropped out of a helicopter.
‘Sit here.’ He pointed to one of the settees. ‘Not long now.’
Dust rose and caught in my throat as I followed his instruction. I shoved my day sack on my lap.
Awaale moved away. He gobbed off to one of the PC geeks and then checked everyone’s screen.
A minute or two later an old wooden tray arrived and was deposited without ceremony on the Lacon box. A pewter pot and two empty glasses took pride of place. Another glass contained sugar and a plastic spoon. I caught the aroma of mint as a man in his mid-sixties — seriously old for this place — sat opposite me. Awaale came and stood between us.
‘Mr Nick, this is Erasto. He will help get your loved ones released.’
Erasto wore a cotton skirt with a black and white check shawl around his shoulders. His feet, which stuck out of a pair of old flip-flops, looked like they were covered with elephant skin. An Omega stainless-steel Seamaster glinted on his left wrist. It was one of the watches I’d looked at when I bought my Breitling in Moscow. It had been way out of my price range.
Awaale handed him the envelope containing Joe’s airport tax. Erasto shoved it under his leg without taking his eyes off me. I felt like I was under a microscope.
Awaale poured the tea, just like Nadif had done in Bristol.
13
Erasto continued to stare at me. ‘
The sandpaper voice sent me into a time warp. ‘No.’
He looked as disappointed as he probably had when we’d talked on Saturday morning. He turned to Awaale and waffled away in Somali. Awaale passed him a glass of hot water that smelt strongly of mint and nodded so much I thought his head might fall off.
‘Erasto wants to know who killed Nadif.’
The old man’s deep-set eyes bored once more into mine.
‘I don’t know.’
Now wasn’t the time to complicate things. I was talking to someone who might have the three bodies I was here to collect. That was all that mattered to me.
Awaale translated.
Erasto sat for a while, deep in thought. Then he fired off another question.
‘When will Erasto have his three million dollars?’ Awaale handed me a glass.
I watched Erasto’s thumbs roaming over his iPhone screen.
‘Erasto, your expectations of me, your expectations of Tracy’s family and Justin’s family are just too high.’ I kept looking at him. I was talking to him, not his interpreter. ‘We are not the people you think we are. We do not have the sort of money you’re asking for. Erasto, we will never, ever, have that amount of money.’
Erasto’s thumbs got busy again. By the look of it, he was starting to text. All I cared about was that Awaale was passing on exactly what I had said.
Erasto looked up at him, then shrugged and gobbed off as if he was turning down a dodgy piece of fruit from the market.
I heaped a couple of spoonfuls of sugar into the brew and got a mouthful down my neck.
Behind me, one of the geeks started playing what sounded like a YouTube clip. A group of women sailing round the world were telling their mates — and any strangers who felt like listening in — that they were on the way from Oman to Zanzibar. Fucking good luck to them. That might be the last video blog they posted for a while.
Awaale nodded. I watched Erasto as I listened to his response.
‘Erasto says that unfortunately, if you do not have the money, he cannot do anything to help you. You must pay him. This is the only way your loved ones can go free. He wishes to help you, but this money must be paid. When you spoke to us before coming to Somalia, you said you had the money. So how soon can it be delivered?’
Erasto took a sip of tea and tucked the iPhone beside his ear. He mumbled away as if we no longer existed. I needed to be respectful, but I also had to make sure I was expressing myself extremely clearly. Any fuck-ups should stem from a crumbling negotiation, not a fundamental misunderstanding. I looked him in the eye. He fixed his on me for a second, then carried on with his waffle.
‘Erasto, I think we may have a misunderstanding. When I spoke with Awaale, I said the families were getting money together. We have managed to raise three hundred and nineteen thousand dollars. But you must know we will never be able to get one million, let alone three.’
I waited for Awaale to pass Erasto the news of the ‘misunderstanding’. The old man closed down his iPhone and continued drinking his tea. But I knew I had his full attention now.
‘Three million is an impossible amount for us. I believe that was a misunderstanding on my part, and I apologize.’
Erasto leant forward, placed his glass on the tray and allowed Awaale to refill it until he indicated that he wanted no more. He examined the tea minutely.
Awaale splashed some more into mine.
‘Erasto says that if you deliver the money now, you can have the boy first. The price is three hundred and nineteen thousand dollars each.’
I bent so low that Erasto had no choice but to renew eye-to-eye. I didn’t see a flicker of emotion, not even a hint of what was going on in that head of his. Erasto and Frank must have come from the same gene pool.
‘I’m sorry, Awaale. I can’t negotiate for individuals. The price must be for all three.’
Erasto sat back with his brew. He didn’t need Awaale to translate. He cut him off mid-waffle. Awaale faced me again.
‘Erasto wants more than you offer, and he wants it quickly. He’s willing to negotiate. He understands how important it is to get the family home. Can you get more money quickly, Mr Nick?’
‘I can arrange for the three hundred and nineteen thousand dollars to be here tomorrow. I will try and get more, but it will be difficult.’
The lack-of-cash story seemed to be holding. I was expecting Erasto to ask why, if everyone was so poor, they were on such an expensive boat. BB must have done a good job of smoke-screening. ‘But to raise more, and to
