Impossible Odds

intended to keep the bulk of the “millions” in ransom for himself.
    Have you ever tried to convince someone you don’t have money when he is convinced you do? Very hard to do, if it’s possible at all.
    It was about this time that word came down to Jabreel that he would no longer be allowed to speak with Mohammed until Jabreel got either my husband or Poul’s wife on the phone and negotiated directly with one of them. He was to get them to personally confirm that Mohammed was truly speaking for us, for our families, and for our employers.
    Jabreel had the phone number for the director of the Danish Refugee Council for the Horn of Africa. It was on an emergency card they found in our belongings, which they still kept away from us as punishment for the fact that we were failing to make them millionaires.
    Poul had a longer relationship with the NGO staff, so he made the call to the director’s number and gave his instructed lines, which in this case happened to be true. He revealed the kidnappersor pirates or whatever they ought to be called had demands about verifying Mohammed and added they were furious over the low amounts offered for our ransom.
    I could faintly hear the director’s voice. Then first thing I noticed was his attitude; he sounded engaged and concerned. His tone made me glad somebody was awake at the wheel on the other end. He assured Poul he would have Erik personally call Jabreel the following morning to confirm Mohammed’s validity. It was all good to hear, and a few weeks earlier I would have been jumping out of my skin at the news. But I had already learned not to put faith in mere hopes.
    Instead I spent the night and the following morning on pins and needles. Even though Poul is more reserved than I am, I didn’t doubt he felt the same way. Finally the hour arrived. We made the ridiculous precall preparations, traveling out into the scrub for miles, then stopped and waited for Erik’s call.
    Somebody decided to allow me to answer the phone this time. Maybe they wanted to see me break down at the sound of my husband’s voice, but the opportunity was too precious to waste like that. I resolved to keep my voice and emotions steady, no matter what I heard, no matter what happened, during every second of time that the phone connection was live.
    For now, there was nothing as important as resetting the relationship between our captors and our NGO or the FBI or whoever was controlling Mohammed. And I would be damned if I would allow anybody in that place to make me scream or cry out in any way as long as Erik could hear me. I couldn’t begin to imagine the torment he was suffering, in its own way as bad as mine, and I’d die before inflicting those sounds on him and then leaving him with a dead phone connection to contemplate.

CHAPTER TWENTY
    Dear Jess–
    I had a dream last night about my early days on the job. It seemed to concentrate this toxic frustration down to its essence. The details were different but the frustration was very much the same. My response was exactly what I’m dying to do today.
    I’m at the doors of Galkayo Prison, scheduled to make a visit to check the conditions there to see if the prison qualifies for my NGO’s help. I have an appointment, but nobody is coming to open the door. I stand with my small team feeling too angry at this neglect to simply walk away. It’s early during my career in this country and I still have something of a cowboy mentality toward my job.
    I stand beating on the door until my hands begin to bleed. Finally, in a dark imitation of the entry scene for The Wizard of Oz, a guard opens the door, pretending not to have known we were there all that time. We are admitted inside.
    Before long, I’m almost sorry we got in. This isn’t a prison; it’s a dungeon, and in all the worst implications of that word. The men receive no fresh air or sunlight, and I already know some of them have been there for years without being brought to trial or even formally charged with a crime.
    I notice they are chained together in groups of about ten men apiece, and I ask the purpose of this. They tell me the policy helps prevent escapes by making it hard for the men to move. But why, I ask, are so many men chained in a single group? And how can they use the toilet that way?
    The guard just grins and points at a hole in the floor over in the corner. “All go together, every time!” He laughs. They live in the stench of one another’s filth. As a