Impossible Odds

about cashing us in for tens of millions, amounts so huge and fanciful the numbers didn’t matter.
    Two days after the proof-of-life call we sat stranded beneath the cover of the Banda place roof, which for some reason they’d decided to put us under for the day. The air was dry, disturbed by a warm dusty wind. It was hot, not at the level of the open desert’s kill-you-in-a-day heat, rather just hot and dry enough to gradually suck the water out of your body. Since the Chairman’s goons refused to give us enough to drink, the inside of my mouth came to feel like a realistic sand carving of itself, devoid of all moisture. The nagging sensation of thirst combined with the feeling of having a thick layer of dust covering every inch of my skin.
    The two acted together to weave a blanket of misery. I’m no princess and I can rough it when I have to, but this feeling of being filthy and unable to do anything about it was something I could have happily gone a lifetime without knowing. It had a surprisingly oppressive effect on morale. I couldn’t help but react to my strong sense that when a person gives in and accepts that level of filth, some line is crossed into territory where further difficulty, perhaps lethal difficulty, is guaranteed.
    We appealed for some water to wash our clothing, and a resentful young man brought a ridiculously small container of it. The same guard who pulled the machine-gun prank on Poul, who we later learned was called Fizel (or Failsel or Faisal; Somali names have multiple spellings), waited nearby until we moistened the clothing and rubbed in some soap before he sauntered in and kicked over the little container of remaining water. Boy, was he proud of himself for that. He looked like he could flap his wings and crow.
    We had to stretch out the soapy garments to dry as they were. By the time we put the crusty laundry items back on it was hard to tell if the whole endeavor got us any cleaner or if it just gave us something to do. Still, it was better than sitting idle and getting stuck thinking about all the things that could go wrong with this picture.
    Jabreel’s continued presence there paid off that same afternoon when he hurried over to us and announced we were going away to make another international phone call. I was ready to go in a heartbeat, eager to do anything to move this train along. I dared to wonder if this meant some sort of deal was in the making? My optimism ran too far in the other direction, and I found myself wondering if Erik and I might still be able to meet our friends in Zanzibar as we had arranged. Sure, our little vacation for four. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Why not? Why not?
    I kept right on grasping at straws while they drove us out into the middle of nowhere, but I couldn’t tell if their purpose had anything to do with getting good reception or if they thought they would somehow fool potential aerial surveillance by moving us around that way. They continued to be aware of the sky and watched for aerial traffic.
    Sure. The U.S. government knows all about this and they’re tracking us as we speak.
    I only found one explanation for this odd mix of carelessness and paranoia. Although these men understood how to use a cellphone and knew how to drive and do basic maintenance on vehicles, they were also unschooled in Western popular culture and they had major holes in their knowledge. For example, they knew about airplanes and international travel, but it was likely the closest any of these men had been to an airplane was to drive by the local Galkayo airport.
    Holes in their knowledge. It was the only place in the region where major air traffic could land, but the city was too poor to have landing lights. Planes operated in or out of there only during daylight hours.
    Holes in their knowledge. These men who had learned how to seek out phone signals by going to higher ground and who knew about airplanes capable of seeing us from above also had an important blank in their knowledge of flight—they had concluded from observation that planes did not operate at night. Pilots are only human, and see in the dark no better than they do. But they appeared not to have heard of infrared night vision cameras, or unmanned drones that can stay aloft for many hours, day or night, and even see you clearly in the darkest of night and under thick cloud cover.
    I filed away that piece of speculation with a mental note to watch them during this phone-home excursion for any