A steep, narrow stairway with a threadbare brown carpet led into the gloom the other side of the gate. The woodchip wallpaper could have done with a few licks of paint.
My new best Somali mate stood at the bottom of the stairs, wearing the kind of smile that any vicar would have been proud of. A good six feet tall and slim, with fine features and high cheekbones, he really did come from the place where Africa meets Arabia.
‘You are Nick.’
The voice belonged to a man about three stone heavier. Mr Lover Man back in Moscow would have given his right arm for a voice like that.
I nodded. ‘Nadif?’
16
He checked left and right my side of the gate.
‘Where is your car?’
‘I took a cab.’
‘You do not have a car?’
‘It’s nothing to shout about.’
‘What sort of car do you drive, Nick?’
‘An old beat-up Renault. Why?’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Where do you come from, Nick?’
‘I was in Hereford this morning. That’s where Tracy comes from. Her sister, Janet — you called her, yeah? — she still lives there.’
He nodded slowly and undid the D-lock. The gate squeaked open. It looked like it had come from a garden centre. He was in jeans, cheap brown Burberry-check slippers and a grey hoodie with a faded black star across the chest, none of which matched his stature and his long, thin, delicate hands. This lad could have followed Jules down the Calvin Klein catwalk. He’d never been near a building site or a fishing boat in his life.
I stepped inside. The stairwell stank of cigarettes and microwaved ready-meals. His eyes never left me as he closed both doors. I moved to the bottom of the stairs. He gestured politely. ‘Please, after you, my friend.’
I didn’t follow his invitation until I’d seen what he did with the keys. The double-glazing meant I wouldn’t be able to jump out of a window if there was a drama. He slid them into his pocket, quite casually, like a man who didn’t have six mates upstairs as a welcoming committee. If I was wrong about that, I’d soon be finding out.
The room above was a mess. It looked more like a boffin’s bedsit than the HQ of a kidnap king. The only new bit of kit was the aluminium MacBook sitting on the cheap veneer table to the right of the door. Beside it was an old, steam-driven fax machine.
Back issues of Newsweek and estate agents’ brochures were heaped on the floor. Two steel Parker pens lay on top of a pile of folded local and national newspapers. He was either going to read them later or have a crack at the crosswords. A couple of ashtrays, each with only one or two stubs in them, sat beside a velour armchair that was a bit short of velour. An equally moth-eaten TV showed BBC News 24 without the sound. In Bahrain, Saudi armoured vehicles were well and truly bedded in.
I nodded in the direction of the screen. ‘Any news on Japan?’
‘Not good, Nick.’ He shook his head mournfully as he pulled a folding wooden chair from under the veneer table. ‘But let us talk about other things. Please, Nick, sit.’
He waited for me to do so before he settled into his armchair. He rested his chin on his steepled hands.
‘Now, Nick, tell me. Will you be able to get the money? It’s the only way I can save that small child and the others too — Tracy and Justin …’
‘I’ll do my very best.’
‘Nick, you have to get the money as quickly as you can. It’s the only way I can get them out of that hellhole. I worry so much about them. You are their friend, yes? Do you love them? Do you love them enough to help me free them?’
My chair creaked as I sat back. I caught a glimpse of the kitchen. Washing dishes obviously wasn’t high on Nadif’s list of priorities. The guy had bigger fish to fry.
‘Yes, of course. I’ve been asked by Tracy’s sister and Justin’s family to ensure their safety. You’ll have to help me, Nadif. Three million dollars is such a lot of money … It’s going to take the families some time to raise it. They were on a nice boat but they are not rich people. I hope you can use your influence. A man like you, I’m sure you have much respect in Somalia …’
He liked that.
‘But first I have to know that they’re alive. Their families … everyone’s really worried. We don’t know the people who have them. Can you arrange for me to talk to them? Please …’
He glanced at the red Swatch on his wrist and lowered his hands onto the arms of the chair. ‘Would you like some tea, Nick?’
‘That’d be good. Thank you. Thank you very much. Then can I talk to them, please?’
He got to his feet. ‘All in good time, my friend. Be patient. These things take time.’
He disappeared into the kitchen. So far, so good. He liked being thought the top banana — or, more probably, that I seemed to think I was smoking him like a kipper. These guys were far too smart to be taken in by flattery, however much it was part of the ritual. A Somali taxi driver in the UK had brokered the deal to repatriate the kidnapped British sailors, Paul and Rachel Chandler, after they were taken hostage on their yacht between the Seychelles and Tanzania in 2009. For all I knew, he might have been Nadif. Whoever it was, I bet he used the same gentle, sympathetic patter.
He brushed aside the crap in the sink enough to fill a kettle. ‘Nick, my friend, how much money can you raise immediately?’ His deep baritone resonated round the small room. ‘I think we need to make a show of faith. But I also need to know I can trust you, personally, before we go forward and try to get your loved ones freed.’
17
As glasses and spoons clanked in the background, I leant forward and riffled through the paperwork around me. There was all kinds of stuff, but nothing that gave me a clue about where they were being held. The Savills brochures were for houses around the £500K mark, countrywide. School prospectuses invited dutiful parents to invest almost half that figure to ensure their kids got to wear the right kind of tie. Next to the Mac was a list of local papers Nadif had logged onto. Several were crossed out.
‘Of course you can trust me, Nadif. That’s why I’m here. We’re desperate. Whatever I have to do, I’ll do. I just need to be able to speak to them. I need to know that they’re alive.’
‘Tell me, Nick. Do you own a home? As well as your car?’
‘I’ve just bought a flat in London.’
‘What about the other families? Do they have homes?’
‘Justin’s family live in a council house.’ I knew fuck-all about them, but I wasn’t going to admit it, and I needed to keep his expectations low. ‘Tracy’s sister rents her place. She hasn’t much money. But don’t you worry, Nadif. We’ll find some way of getting there.’
Guys like Nadif didn’t miss a trick. They’re negotiators, the middlemen between the hostages and the clans. He was going to make it work both ends.
And judging by the contents of his archive, I could see he was a whole lot more than a broker. He was the spotter, too. During the negotiation he’d be looking to find out as much as he could about the payers. He had to make sure he was squeezing out every last drop. If a family claimed they were doing everything they could to raise the cash, he’d go round to the house and make sure it was up for sale. And if they couldn’t come up with an interim payment, he’d be telling them to sell the BMWs in the drive. If they claimed that they were trying, he’d say, ‘I didn’t see any details in the local newspaper. Maybe it would be best to go to a dealer.’ Or, with just the right degree of sympathy, ‘Your three children are at Marlborough. Wouldn’t they prefer to have their auntie back home with them?’