B009G3EPMQ EBOK (4 page)

The young boy appears close to me, walking along and toting his AK-47 like a toy. I’ve heard him called Abdilahi by some of the men. It sounds familiar enough; the name “Abdi” is used on its own and as a prefix to longer names by many men in the region.

Abdilahi jumps over next to me and snorts in derision. He gets close enough for me to see him pointing his rifle at me. He makes a few shooting noises, and this amuses him to the point of laughter. I don’t know what to do in response, so I simply turn away and avoid anything that would invite interaction. Even for his tender years, Abdilahi is far gone in both his
khat
use symptoms and his
child soldier mentality. The wild eyes, the speeded appearance, the unformed brain of an adolescent
khat
addict are all over him. Abdilahi is what your brain looks like on drugs.

Fortunately, something else grabs his fleeting attention, and he fades off into the dark. It’s good to have him go, but it doesn’t stop my obsessive inner voice from continuing to spout my fears in variations of
This is really bad
and
I’m too young to die.

There is sharp pain pulsing in both my feet from the ground obstacles, but there is also an odd form of reassurance to that. I’m gasping at life like a fish on the beach, and pain at least is evidence of being alive. This isn’t a hallucination in Hell; I’m still alive so far.

Finally, we reach some random place that looks no different from anywhere else out there, but either the men have decided this is our destination or else they simply agree we’ve gone far enough. Far enough for what?

This is it
 . . .

A life that ends this way expires in a daze of confusion. There is some small measure of comfort in this confusion, some shielding of awareness. The mind searches for a reason, any reason at all, to believe what is happening somehow isn’t real. For me, denial doesn’t help. The machine guns around us are all too real. These men are the spitting image of those familiar terrorists on internet videos—standing in the background with scarves and sleeping sheets wrapped around their faces while the captives get slaughtered like livestock.

Straining my eyes in the darkness, I see that some of these men’s weapons seem like long-bladed knives whipping by while we stumble along. There’s no way to tell whether the long thin shapes are gun barrels or blades. I don’t want to think they’re about to execute us by beheading, but I’m scrambling for any other explanation for all this. I am on a terrain of fear I’ve never known.

When beheading is the goal, a modicum of respect is granted if a single swing of a long blade is used, assuring instant death. But
special contempt is expressed by sawing through the throat with a long cooking blade, assuring a fully conscious experience for the victim.

I know nothing else to do but scream to God in absolute vocal silence. I silently scream with all of my heart and soul, knowing full well I will not be able to scream once they slice in hard across my throat.
God almighty!
To endure this piece of Hell
 . . .

My blood inches through me like frozen slush. If there’s a personal terror more extreme, I hope to never feel it. All I can do now is to keep silently telling myself I’m too young to die. A few times I whisper the words. For the rest I just repeat it internally, as if it’s a protective mantra:
too young to die, too young to die, too young to die
. I whisper prayers for mercy, for strength.

I can’t imagine never seeing Erik again. It seems completely unreal for our future to be stolen from us in this way.

And then the attackers order us to get down onto our knees and turn our backs to them.

Within hours of the kidnapping, President Barack Obama received a security briefing letting him know a thirty-two-year-old American humanitarian aid worker named Jessica Buchanan had been snatched off a roadway in southern Somalia, along with a sixty-year-old male Danish colleague. The NGO had informed the American Embassy in Nairobi about the incident, which triggered the case with the FBI and notice to the White House. Apparently the emerging philosophy in that region was to ask, “Why not start kidnapping Americans right along with everyone else? Equal opportunity misery for everybody.”

Still, the fact that it had actually been done electrified underground news lines. The early information was sketchy, but from the opening details it was clear this case represented a whole new threat level in Somalia. There was no provocation to the attack; this woman had been in the region teaching children for several years and also worked for a Danish NGO instructing local people how to avoid deadly war munitions. Her work was nonpolitical and nonreligious. As a statement of utter defiance of American authority, the kidnappers could hardly have picked a worse victim. The actions were the international equivalent of
hard fighting words, along with a high-stakes gambler’s bet that this American president might rattle a saber or two but would ultimately do nothing to stop the criminals behind the operation.

The takeaway for the president was that the Somali pirates had graduated from seizing merchant ships on the high seas and were now seizing innocent people on land. Moreover, they were willing to capture American civilians—even those in their country peacefully working on behalf of the local population. As the president’s experts were also aware, the percentage of survivors in such cases was very low. These two captives were reportedly surrounded by dozens of heavily armed men. These were impossible odds.

•  •  •

Approximately one hour after the kidnapping, Jessica’s husband, Erik, still had no indication of trouble. He was about to head off to a workout over in the small city of Garowe, about a hundred miles north of where Jess was working, when the call came in from Dan Hardy, the regional security advisor for Jess’s NGO. His voice sounded so upset it caused Erik’s adrenaline to spike before he caught any details. He quickly got the main message that his wife, Jessica, had been kidnapped. It hit him like a haymaker to the face.

Dan Hardy went on with details, but Erik couldn’t seem to take it in. His head jammed on the thought,
After everything we talked about and everything we feared, it’s actually happened?
It simply couldn’t be true. But Hardy went on to explain that unknown forces had somehow waylaid the caravan, probably using overwhelming numbers. The NGO was already forming a Crisis Management Team and they felt certain she had survived the initial assault. Nobody could say where she was. They assumed she was still alive at this hour but couldn’t confirm it.

Erik found himself standing on the roof veranda trying to get a better cell signal and shouting, “What
are you saying, Dan? What are you saying?” But there was nowhere to turn for more information. There was nothing to do but wait to be contacted, hope to be contacted, pray to be contacted with word that Jessica was alive.

Dan Hardy told him all they could do was keep quiet and say nothing at all, publicly, do nothing to give these kidnappers any information that might be turned against the families. Beyond that, every other thought ended in a question mark.

He felt the specter of death throw his love for Jessica into strong relief, along with a dark wave of guilt over allowing her to talk him out of his position against the trip. This news threw him up against the cold truth that simply fearing the worst doesn’t protect you from it. He now had to face the terrible fact that he had willingly kissed her good-bye.

Erik hung up and immediately began a call to Jessica’s father, John Buchanan, who lived in Virginia. He cringed at the thought of dumping this news on a single, isolated man who had been living alone since his wife’s passing and would absorb this news on his own. John had married his high school sweetheart. After both experienced a spiritual rebirth, they raised their family in a Christian household. It was strict, but not overbearing, and the family was supported across the years by John’s skills as an expert woodworker carving period furniture.

John taught his spiritual message by example while independently earning his way with his own handiwork, loving his wife and family. Then came a vicious strain of flu, just fifteen months ago. She fell sick fast and hard. The end came for her within three days.

While it would be natural for Jessica’s dad to reach out to his closest friends and relatives for support, it was vital to close down as much public information as possible, as fast as it could be done. Erik expected the commercial media in the United States to find Jess’s father.

He was so shaken he placed the call before thinking up a clear
strategy for revealing this dreadful information. As soon as John Buchanan got on the line he decided there was no reason to withhold anything.

“John, it’s Erik . . . John, I don’t know how to say this, but I have some very difficult news. Dan Hardy, the security advisor over at Jess’s NGO, just called . . . John, they believe Jess and one of her colleagues were kidnapped this afternoon.”

There was a pause, then John’s quiet voice: “God in Heaven. Not Jess . . .”

“John, I, I want you to know, there’s no reason to believe she isn’t still alive.” His fingers were damp and his hand was shaking. It was hard to keep a grip on the phone.

“Is there a reason to doubt it?”

“No, no! They were clear about that part. But you know she’s so smart and resourceful, and she’s received special training for things like this.”

“Do they know why she was taken? Or where she is?”

“They know more than they’re willing to tell me, for security reasons, but the security advisor thinks it was done for money, not to make an anti-American statement or anything like that.”

“What can I do besides pray for her? Is there anything you need?”

Erik thought about the famed Somali gossip lines running through every level of their society, as old as the people there, an invisible network linking families, friends, and cohorts all across eastern Africa. He considered the fact that each and every one of those kidnappers also had family and friends. Any one of them could be a source of information passed on about Jess to somehow use against her or against her negotiators.

“I think we should all keep in mind that her kidnappers might try to get personal information on her, to force ransom negotiations in one way or another, and we shouldn’t help them.”

“So we need to keep this quiet?”

“Please. Completely. You can never tell where something could leak out. Her NGO is putting together a Crisis Management Team, and as soon as I have a number for them, I’ll put you in touch.”

Erik could hear the concern in her father’s tone, but the older man kept his voice strong. “I’m so glad you’re there for her, Erik. Please, if there’s anything I can do . . .”

“Just keep up good thoughts, John. We’ve got no reason to think this was done to make a public statement of some kind.”

Of course he didn’t know that for certain. And he couldn’t tell if his words sounded as hollow to her father as they did to him. If so, he noted that John Buchanan was the kinder of them for not mentioning it.

There was little more to say but to exchange awkward assurances. After he hung up, he found the call most notable for what John Buchanan didn’t say:
You promised to take care of my daughter!
Erik wouldn’t have blamed an anguished father for jumping to that thought, but he heard nothing but concern in her father’s voice. It eased the guilt but didn’t make it go away. The older man’s generosity of spirit made him feel as if he had swallowed a lump of iron.

Shortly after he hung up on that call, his cell phone rang again.

“Hello?”

“Is this Erik Landemalm?”

“Yes, who is—”

“Agent Matt Espenshade with the FBI Legal Attaché Office in Nairobi. But please call me Matt. Anyway, we’re responsible for investigating major crimes against Americans here.”

“. . . Yes. Uh, hello, Matt.”

“I just want to check in with you, let you know we’re on this.”

“Holy . . . I mean, who called you? I
just
found out myself!”

“Yes. Now while we wait to be contacted with their ransom demand, is there anything special you need from us?”

“Is there going to
be
a ransom demand?”

“If there’s a crime against an innocent American citizen, there will be an FBI foreign office responsible for that region. It’s our job to oversee live investigations. That’s why you’re hearing from me and not someone from the Agency. The CIA goes after political players, military players. We step in when American citizens get snared in local crime.”

“I’m serious; is there going to be a ransom demand?”

“Of course that’s what we hope for.”

“But will there be one?”

“Well, these things tend to resolve one of two ways: ransom or rescue.”

“Then you mean one of three ways, yes?”

“Let’s think positive.”

Erik felt the wiggle room in that reply, and his stomach sank. “Okay.” He exhaled a deep breath. “Well, I’m amazed you guys responded so fast, that’s all. And that’s great. It’s great. But listen, first of all you need to understand that Jess isn’t some idiot backpacker, taking risks out there for nothing. This is her life’s work. She didn’t even want to go near the Green Line, but she felt pushed to do it. And now this has happened.”

“We know about her background. I’m working on this along with my full staff. I want you to know that when we open a case, it
will not end
until she is back with you. Now, what can we do for you at this point? Have you been in touch with her family?”

“I’ve spoken with her father, but I don’t know how he and Jess’s family will hold up. Can someone from FBI contact them to assure them you’re on this case?”

“We’ve already sent a car over there with colleagues of mine who are trained to take care of situations like this.”

“Oh. Wow. Thanks. I appreciate . . .”

It hit him then. He felt a sudden rush of dread. He had no proof this guy calling himself “Matt” was an FBI agent at all. What if he was a snoop from the media?