The Devil`s Feather (20 page)

“What sort of a question’s that?” asked Dan angrily. “You know damn well your chance of catching these bastards is zero. Zarqawi’s got a ten-million bounty on his head…and no one’s turned him in. If you increase it to twenty-five million, they still won’t. What can Connie tell you that’s going to change that?”

“Nothing, as far as Zarqawi’s concerned. I’m willing to accept she was taken for onward sale, but in that case why didn’t he buy her?” He held my gaze for a moment, then turned back to Dan. “There’s a lot of mileage to be made out of female journalists. They’re known to their fellow professionals, and women under threat make good copy. Connie and Adelina Bianca have inspired more column inches between them than any other hostages.” He flicked another glance in my direction. “Why would Zarqawi—why would
any
terrorist—turn down publicity like that? It sure as hell doesn’t make any sense to me.”

It didn’t to Dan either, but he fought my corner as he’d promised he would. My only leverage was the fact that we’d known each other for years. I’d first met him in South Africa when I joined the
Cape Times
as a rookie sub-editor from Oxford, and he was a columnist. We overlapped for a year before he moved abroad to join Reuters, but we knocked into each other regularly when he was sent to cover an “Africa” story. He came from Johannesburg, but his primary place of residence—according to his tax returns—was County Wexford, Eire, where he “lived” with his Irish wife, Ailish, and their daughter, Fionnula.

It was a strange relationship. His visits to Ireland were even more intermittent than the occasional postings that brought him and me together. I asked him once how he came to marry an Irish girl, and he said it was a shotgun wedding when she fell pregnant. “She was a student in London and was frightened to go home without a ring. Her father believes in hellfire and brimstone. He’d have kicked her out to fend for herself.”

“Why didn’t she have an abortion?”

“Because Ailish believes in hellfire and brimstone more than her old man does.”

“It didn’t stop her sleeping with you.”

“Mmm…except some sins are smaller than others”—he grinned—“and my charm might have had something to do with it. It’s worked out for the best in the end. Fee’s a grand kid. It would have been a crime to abort her.”

“If you feel like that why don’t you make more of an effort to see her?”

He shrugged. “It causes too many problems. The only time the family argues is when I’m there. They all approve of the monthly cheque but not the lodger.”

“Does she live with her parents?”

“Not quite. Three houses down. They’re a close-knit bunch. She has three brothers within a two-mile radius who turn up in force every time I visit to make sure I’m not going to renege on my responsibilities. I feel a bit like Daniel entering the lions’ den whenever I go there.”

It all seemed very peculiar to me. And rather sad. “Do you still sleep with Ailish?”

His eyes crinkled at the edges. “She lets me stay in the spare room, but that’s about as far as her hospitality goes…apart from keeping her lover at arm’s length for the duration.”

“You’re crazy,” I said in disbelief. “Why don’t you get a divorce?”

“What for? There’s no one else to marry…except you…and you won’t have me.”

“You can’t cook.”

“Neither can you.”

“Precisely, which is why we’d make a lousy couple. We’d starve.” I bared my teeth at him. “Are you sure it’s not a scam to avoid paying income tax? Everyone knows writers and artists are zero-rated in Ireland.”

“Only creative writers…and you have to spend six months a year in the country to qualify. Journalists are excluded.”

I couldn’t see that stopping him. He’d worked on a Reuters financial desk at one stage in his career and claimed to know every tax-dodge going. “Are you planning to live there when you write the great novel?”

“It’s crossed my mind.”

“With Ailish?”

Dan shook his head. “I’d rather have a cottage in Kerry, overlooking Dingle Bay. I took Fee there the last time I was over, and it was beautiful. We walked along the beach.” He paused. “By the time I take the plunge—
if
I take the plunge—she’ll be a grown woman. What do you think she’ll make of her father then? Will she still want to walk in the sand with me?”

It was said in the same amused tone that he’d used throughout, but the words suggested something else. A feeling for his child that he wanted reciprocated. It surprised me. I thought he was like me, determinedly unwilling to commit as the only way to stay sane in a life that was nomadic. Perhaps his daughter had given him roots. I envied him suddenly.

And I envied Fee. Did she know how Dan felt about her? Did she know who he was? What he’d done? What he’d written? How he was viewed outside the narrow confines of her mother’s family?

“She’ll be a strange woman, if she doesn’t,” I said. “It’s feminine nature to be curious…comes from centuries of having nothing to do except analyse male behaviour. As to what she’ll make of you”—I paused—“I hope you’ll always be a mystery to her, Dan. That way, she’ll keep coming back for more.”

He made a passing reference to that conversation as he waited with me at Baghdad airport. “How am I going to get in touch with you? The only contact number I have is your mobile…and that’s gone. I’m beginning to realize how little I actually know about you, Connie. I need your parents’ details.”

I forced a smile. “I wrote their address and number on the pad in your flat when I called home,” I lied, “but you can always find them in the personnel files under next of kin.” In fact I hadn’t updated the details since my parents left Zimbabwe, so the only address on record was Japera Farm, and I couldn’t see Mugabe’s crony forwarding correspondence.

Dan nodded. “OK. And you’re happy with the arrangements? Harry Smith will meet you at Heathrow and steer you through the press conference. After that, he’ll ask for you to be left alone…although you’ll certainly be chased for quotes if and when Adelina Bianca’s released.” He reached for my hand. “Can you cope with all of that?”

I tried not to show how much I hated being touched. “Yes.”

“You’ll be asked about the length of time you were held. That’s the issue that’s going to interest them. Why only three days? Were you given the reason for your release? Who negotiated it? Was any money paid?” He gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. “It might be worth thinking it through on the plane. You can legitimately plead ignorance on most things, but they’ll want to know what you said to your kidnappers and whether you think that influenced your treatment.”

Twenty feet away, a woman smacked a toddler on the back of his head. I couldn’t see what his offence was, but the heavy-handed blow seemed disproportionate to any crime a two-year-old could have committed. I felt a rush of sadness in my throat—the precursor to tears—but I’d lost the ability to cry and gazed dry-eyed at Dan as I slipped my hand from his and hunched inside my borrowed jacket. Underneath, I was still wearing my “abduction” clothes, a cotton skirt and shirt, which I’d washed before Dan took me to the police station. I’d accepted the jacket from a female colleague in case it was cold in London.

“Are you asking me to make something up?”

He looked away. “I’m suggesting you get your story straight, Connie. You told the police you couldn’t speak because of the duct tape over your mouth…but in the next breath said you were given water regularly. That can only have happened if the tape was removed, so why didn’t you speak then?”

“Because it wouldn’t have made any difference. If they’d wanted to kill me they’d have killed me.”

“Then, yes,” he said with sudden impatience. “I’m suggesting you make something up. You know the deal. It’s all about column inches, so give them the best story you can.”

I dug my hands into my pockets. “Otherwise what?”

“They’ll compare you with Adelina, Connie, and look for bruises. They’ll ask for the doctor’s report—clean bill of health, with minor bruising on your wrists and some redness round your mouth and eyes from the duct tape—and they’ll want to know why you got off so lightly. What are you going to tell them?”

I ran my tongue across my lips. “That I don’t know.”

“And when they ask what you were wearing—which they certainly will—how are you going to answer that?”

I pulled the jacket tighter around my waist and hips. “What I’ve got on.”

“Then stick to the story we gave the police…that I had your clothes laundered because you had nothing else to wear. I’ll take the flak again,” he finished rather grimly, “even though it makes me look like a bloody idiot.”

He’d been given a rough time by Chas for allowing me to clean myself and my clothes before going to the police station. It was bad enough that he’d kept my release secret for three hours, worse that he hadn’t considered the implications of destroying evidence. There was some excuse for my behaviour because I was traumatized, but none for Dan. He should have known better. How were the authorities expected to secure convictions without forensic corroboration?

Dan had stood by me—in so far as he took the criticism on the chin and kept it to himself that he’d tried to stop me—but he made no secret of his suspicions now. “Why did you need to wash those clothes, anyway?”

“They were dirty.”

But we both knew they weren’t. They hadn’t even smelt dirty, which was why I’d washed them. I’d toyed with saying I’d been given an orange jumpsuit, similar to the one Adelina wore on her video, but I was afraid of provoking further questions. Why were there no orange fibres on my skin or in my hair? Why bother to dress me as a prisoner if no video was made? It was less traumatic to be accused of destroying evidence than admit to wearing nothing.

I wondered if Dan had guessed the truth because he didn’t pursue the issue. Instead, he told me what he planned to say when he announced my release to the press corps in Baghdad. There was heavy emphasis on my cooperation with the police, my refusal to say too much for fear of jeopardizing Adelina’s chances, and my undoubted “courage and professionalism.” It was a clear instruction to stay “on message” in London so that Reuters in Baghdad wasn’t ambushed out of left field.

I sent surreptitious glances towards the clock on the far wall, ticking off the seconds before I could reasonably head for the departure gate. The only luggage I had was a fabric bumbag (borrowed from Dan) which held my ticket stub, boarding-pass and emergency passport (paid for by Reuters), and £25 in precious English fivers from the Baghdad bureau coffers.

“Are you listening to me, Connie?”

I gave another nod. But as I had no intention of performing for the press, it was irrelevant whether I listened or not. If I failed to appear, the only source of information would be Dan’s press conference and, with no photographs, the coverage would be limited to a box somewhere. There might be speculation about why and where I’d gone into hiding, but it wouldn’t amount to much. Stories without legs and pictures died on the editor’s floor.

I’d made the decision to bolt when I phoned my parents from Dan’s apartment to tell them I was safe. My mother answered in Swahili. Literally. As a child, she’d learnt the language from Adia, her Kenyan nanny, and had passed on what she remembered to me. She spoke before I could say anything. “Jambo. Si tayari kuzungumza na mtu mie.”
Hello. I can’t talk to anyone at the moment.

It was a device we’d used when things became difficult at the farm. My father was convinced there were physical and wire-tap eavesdroppers. Swahili isn’t commonly understood in Zimbabwe, where English is the official language and Shona and Ndebele the native ones. In this case, I guessed my mother was expecting a call from my father, and was warning him there was somone in the room with her.

I answered: “Jambo, mamangu. Mambo poa na mimi. Sema polepole!”
Hello, my mother. Everything’s fine with me. Be careful what you say!

There was a brief pause. “Bwana asifiwe. Nakupenda, mtoto wangu.”
Thank God. I love you, my child.
There was a catch of emotion in her voice which she quelled immediately. “Sema fi kimombo.”
You can speak in English.

In the weeks after my release, that was the closest I came to breaking down. Had she been in the room, I would have become her “mtoto” again, stolen into her warm embrace and told her everything. By the time I saw her in London, that opportunity was gone. I took a breath. “Who’s with you?”

“Msimulizi.”
A newspaper reporter.

“Oh, Christ! Don’t let on it’s me!” I could hear the tremors in my voice. “No one knows I’ve been released yet…except Dan…I’m in his flat. I need time to…Do you understand?”

“Ni sawasawa.”
It’s OK.
She sounded so reassuring that I think she must have been smiling at whoever was in the room. “Nasikia vema.”
I understand perfectly.

“I’m flying out this evening via Amman, and should be in London early tomorrow morning.” I glanced towards the door of the room, wondering if Dan was listening. “Is this reporter a one-off or are they plaguing you?”

Another pause while she worked out a strategy. “Yes, indeed, it would be much easier in English. I’m very touched that you’re calling from Connie’s newspaper in Kenya. We’ve had interest from all over the world. As I speak, there are journalists and photographers in the road outside…all of whom are publicizing Connie’s plight. We’re deeply grateful for everyone’s support and assistance.”