Very early this morning, for the first time in weeks, six of the Arab men had gone out to sea, ‘borrowing’ skiffs from Khalid and the other Somalis. But Taban’s relief at their departure was short-lived; they returned before midday, though only three of them came back. They were in a hurry, too, running from the beach into the camp, pushing two Westerners towards the pen at gunpoint. The younger of the two had a massive bruise on one cheek, and when he was slow entering the pen the tall Arab pushed him so hard from behind that he hit his head on one of the timber frames.
Hostages, thought Taban. But this didn’t look like the usual situation. Why were there only two men and not a whole crew? And where were the other Arabs and the ship? And why did the Middle Eastern men seem so jumpy and nervous? Normally when hostages were taken there was celebration and feasting while the pirates waited happily for the first phone calls to come through, signalling the beginning of negotiations for the release of the ship and the hostages. But the Middle Eastern men were on edge, talking together loudly and looking out to sea and up at the sky. None of them had put down their weapons, and the Tall One had ordered several of the ones who had stayed behind to guard the perimeter of the camp. He himself was standing in the centre of the compound, holding an AK-47 and constantly looking around.
The noise made by the men must have wakened Khalid, who usually slept until early afternoon, after staying up late watching Western movies on the big screen in his house. He came out and asked the Tall One what was going on. Taban could only hear snatches of what the Tall One said, but it was clear that the hijacking attempt had gone wrong – the Arabs had brought back hostages without a ship. Khalid was visibly alarmed and, for the first time, he seemed to be standing up to the Tall One. Taban edged closer so he could listen.
‘What is the point of holding these two men if you don’t have their ship?’ Khalid demanded.
The Tall One glared at him furiously. ‘Listen, you snivelling piece of dog! Three of my comrades have been captured by foreigners along with four new fighters from Pakistan who were supposed to join us here. They may be dead for all I know. So I have no time for your moaning.’ He pointed to the pen. ‘I have to deal with this scum here – the Pakistani leader told me on board that the younger one is a British spy. And the other man is Captain of the vessel. He will be valuable to its owners.’
‘Bah!’ said Khalid derisorily. ‘He is nothing to the owners. It’s the ships and the cargoes they want.’
‘This British spy is a different story.’
‘He certainly is, and it is a dangerous one. Can’t you see? They will come after him.’
The Tall One said, ‘Let them come. They will find more than they bargained for.’
‘Are you mad?’ Khalid’s voice was rising. Taban knew that the last thing he would want was a confrontation in his own camp. ‘They will kill us all.’
‘Not before we kill many of them,’ said the Tall One. He spoke with an eerie calm. ‘I can think of no finer way to die. No real warrior is frightened of death.’
Khalid ignored this. ‘I can’t have them coming here. It would destroy our entire operation.’
‘Operation? You mean making money. That should not be the priority for any true Muslim.’
But Khalid wouldn’t yield. ‘I cannot have them coming here,’ he repeated. ‘You will have to go. And take the hostages with you.’ Taban could tell that Khalid was scared of the Tall One, but he could see that he was even more scared of an attack by Western forces.
‘Say that again,’ said the Tall One coldly.
‘You will have to go,’ repeated Khalid. The Tall One’s eyes widened at Khalid’s unprecedented boldness. He stood back for a moment, scratching his chin thoughtfully. Then the Tall One’s face hardened, his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. He suddenly swung up the AK-47 he was holding and fired a burst straight at Khalid.
Khalid fell backwards on to the ground, blood pouring from what was left of his head. Taban stared, too stunned to move. He didn’t dare look at the Tall One but waited, expecting to be next and wondering what it would feel like to die.
Suddenly a man shouted from nearby. The Tall One looked round, distracted by the sound, and Taban dared to turn his head too. The younger hostage had his face pressed up against the wire of the pen. ‘Water! My friend needs water!’
The Tall One strode over to the pen and unlocked the door, all the while pointing his rifle. He trained the gun on the younger man; the older hostage was lying down in the rear of the pen, and looked ill.
‘On your knees,’ ordered the Tall One.
The younger one obeyed, slowly getting down on all fours. The Tall One stepped forward, swinging his rifle slowly round until its barrel end touched the forehead of the hostage. ‘I am told you are an agent of the West.’
The man said nothing, and the Tall One moved the barrel away, then suddenly swung it back fast across the man’s face. He winced in agony, and Taban saw blood flowing in a swelling line from the bridge of the hostage’s nose.
‘Do your people know where this camp is?’ the Tall One demanded. This time he didn’t swing the gun away, but pushed it straight against the man’s forehead. The man closed his eyes, and Taban knew he thought he was about to die.
Taban had to do something; any moment now, the Tall One would pull the trigger. So he shouted, a loud inarticulate cry designed purely to attract attention. Momentarily the Tall One looked behind him, startled, then snapped, ‘Shut up,’ at Taban and turned back to the hostage.
‘They’re coming!’ Taban shouted again.
‘What?’ This time when he turned the Tall One kept his gaze on the boy.
‘Over there!’ Taban was pointing frantically towards the nearby dunes. ‘They’re landing – the enemy!’
And without thinking how the boy could know this, standing just twenty feet away from him, the Tall One came out of the cage quickly, stopping only to close the padlock. Then he ran across the compound towards the dunes.
Taban breathed out; his heart was beating like a drum. He walked over to the pen, where the younger man was now sitting on the floor, all colour drained out of his battered face. The hostage said, to Taban’s surprise, ‘A man was here once called Richard Luckhurst. Do you remember?’
Of course he did. Captain Richard had been his friend. He nodded vigorously. The hostage added, ‘You are Taban, right?’
Taban nodded again and smiled. ‘I help you,’ he said eagerly.
‘No. You need to get out of here… fast.’ When the boy looked puzzled, the man made gestures as if shooting a gun.
‘Go,’ he said. ‘Quick. Vamoose. He was going to shoot you. If you stay here any longer, he will do it.’
‘But I-’
The Western man interrupted, shaking his head. ‘You must go. Run and get help. Or they will kill you.’ And he drew his finger across this throat. ‘Now!’ he said urgently.
Taban hesitated no longer. He struck out at once, not towards the dunes, where men were already positioned with guns, but north, over a section of low wall. Once out of sight of the compound, he started to run. He ran straight on without looking back, then he turned towards the coast. He was heading for the sanctuary of his past – the village, less than two miles away, where he had grown up with his father and brother; the village from which he had gone out to sea each day to fish; the village where he had seen his father murdered. He wondered who would still be there; the last he had heard, some other pirates were using the dilapidated huts as shelter, in between their hijacking runs.