Dead Centre - Andy McNab [55]
Nadif reappeared with a pewter teapot and glasses on a tray, just like he would have back in the old country.
‘Nadif, I’ve been sitting here thinking about how to get that sort of money quickly. It’s very, very difficult. But I have come with some money. I’ve got three thousand pounds on me – nearly five thousand dollars. Maybe that would be enough for you to let me speak to them now.’ I paused. ‘And whatever money is finally agreed, maybe … maybe twenty per cent could go to you when they’re released.’
I knew he’d be making about five per cent from the clan. And if he went the hawala route with the money, maybe he’d take another five per cent on top.
He sat down again and poured the tea, slowly and from a generous height. The oxygen it absorbed as it splashed into the glasses was supposed to improve the flavour. I smelt apples as the steam came my way.
Somalis are a cultured and ancient race. Even when they’re living in shit, they show each other great politeness and respect. Centuries ago, they were pouring tea like this when we were still burning witches and gnawing turnips. At the same time, they could be savagely brutal – though I guess they saw it as no more dramatic than a lion killing an antelope. Not evil or malicious, just the way of the world.
I sat and waited for him to complete the ritual of the tea, and the ritual of making me wait for his answer. To be a demanding arsehole didn’t work with these people. They were businessmen, and their business just happened to be trading in humans.
The pouring stopped. He offered me sugar. I shoved in three teaspoonloads and stirred. He did the same. And then, lifting the glass gently between thumb and forefinger, he offered a toast.
‘I think that’s a very good suggestion, Nick. If you pay me that cash now, I will make contact, and we can start getting your loved ones back. You can pay me in instalments as everything moves on. But can I trust you?’
‘Of course you can trust me.’
‘These people are very dangerous. You can’t deal with them. Only I can get your loved ones out.’
‘I know that, Nadif.’
I pulled out the roll of money and put it on the table. It sprang open and doubled in size. Seeing cash physically increase in value always focuses the mind on the deal.
We raised our glasses, clinked, and both took a sip of tea.
He looked at me. ‘You know, my friend, I think we will get your loved ones back home, and safe, quite soon.’
I got some very sweet apple tea down my neck.
He took another sip and then got up. ‘Please excuse me …’
He went back into the kitchen and I watched as closely as I could while he fumbled about under the sink. He conjured up a mobile, an old grey pay-as-you-go thing, like a rabbit out of a hat.
He checked his watch once more. Mogadishu is three hours ahead. It would be very early morning there.
‘Nadif, aren’t you worried that the police, or the intelligence service, can hear what you’re saying?’
He smiled as he dialled. ‘Please do not be concerned. No one cares about being listened to. Nothing will happen. In Somalia, there are no police, no government, no army – no one. And here, why would they want me to stop? I am performing a service. I return people’s loved ones to them. I help them. Your government, they do not. The Americans – they too can listen if they want to. Will they come back into my country after what happened to them last time? I don’t think so, my friend.’ I could hear the phone ring. ‘You see, everything is fine. Please be calm.’
He brought it up to his ear. I caught a few syllables of Somali waffle. Nadif didn’t bat an eyelid.
He turned and looked at me, phone still glued to his ear. ‘Nick, it may be a little time until you can speak to them. They have been moved – for their own safety.’
I was about to open my mouth when his hand came up.
‘It’s OK. I will make sure they are not harmed. Trust me, Nick. Please,