But no one came and fetched him. Not even when he had to go to the toilet. He pounded on the door; he shouted and pounded again.

He didn’t know whether he could hold out, because he had no idea how long it would be before they let him go to the toilet. He looked around the room. In one corner there was a plate of bread crumbs, a cup and a half-full water bottle. His insides were about to burst. He filled the cup with water, so the bottle was almost empty. Then he pulled down his trousers, put the remains of the bread under his behind – and shat on the bread. Afterwards, he stuffed the bread and faeces into the nearly empty water bottle. Some of it stuck to the side, some of it stuck to his fingers; it stank and he was embarrassed, even though he was alone. He screwed the lid on the bottle, placed it in the corner and used the water in the cup to wash his hands and the floor. He felt relieved, but hardly dared to think about the bottle of shit in the corner.

Many hours later, when the guard finally stood in the doorway, he became angry.

‘Don’t you know that it’s haram to shit on your bread? How could you do that?’ he shouted.

Daniel explained that he had knocked on the door and had called out.

‘You have to tell us when you need the toilet,’ said the guard.

He was given a bath and clean clothes, while his own were washed. There was hot water and soap and Daniel wondered if they were getting ready to release him like Ayman.

The next day he was given a pen and some sheets of paper. He passed the time by writing a story that took place one thousand years from now, in 3013, which featured a family who lived in a basement during a world war. It was a story about living where there was never any light and still being able to create something.

He had been imprisoned for ten days when the door opened suddenly one evening. Masked men with weapons burst in. They were rough as they held his head and blindfolded him.

‘We will shoot you, kufr, infidel!’ they shouted as they dragged him up the stairs and out to a car. He felt alone without Ayman and had no idea where they were moving him. Were they taking their infidel further into Syria or to the gallows?

What did they want with him?

A Noose around the Neck

Arthur sat in a cafe in the Turkish border town of Kilis. In front of him was a cup of strong Turkish coffee with thick sediment at the bottom. He hadn’t slept for the last twenty-four hours, but was keeping himself awake with caffeine and cigarettes. The Syrian combatants were night owls; they went to bed at dawn and usually didn’t get up until noon, which was why Arthur spent every minute questioning anyone who might somehow be involved in the complicated network surrounding Daniel, as well as tracking down locals who could travel into Syria to look for him.

Across from Arthur sat a carefully made-up young woman with a tight scarf wrapped around her head. Aya was distraught that she hadn’t been able to get Daniel out of Syria with her. She had been hired to help Daniel, but had failed. Arthur scribbled down scattered notes as she relayed her version of what had happened on the day they were captured.

‘When we were sitting on the sofa, I actually felt quite safe, until the Iraqi turned up,’ she told him. ‘He accused us of being spies. I was so scared that I didn’t translate everything for Daniel.

She had recognized one of the men: the unmasked Tunisian. He was one of the men who had stopped them the previous day. He had appeared in the doorway when Daniel was handcuffed and dragged to the basement.

‘The Tunisian told me I deserved to die,’ she said, but she was released some hours later. Luck had been smiling upon her, Aya thought.

‘One of the men who was a foreigner later helped me get away,’ she continued. ‘He showed me his French driver’s licence and I think he released me without asking his boss.’ Aya was certain that Daniel’s kidnappers were Islamists. She had thought for sure that she would be taken captive too.

Arthur was particularly interested to hear that several foreign fighters were part of the group that had taken Daniel. He was also relieved that Daniel had been taken at the former regime headquarters. This would allow him to find out who had been in command in the house in Azaz that day. In the previous months at least five foreign journalists had been kidnapped by Islamists from Jabhat al-Nusra, but after a few days in captivity most of them had been released with no ransom demands. Daniel had already been held hostage for ten days.

Even though the fixer, Ahmed, had written to Signe on the first night that Daniel had been taken by Jabhat al-Nusra, new information suggested a different scenario. When Arthur spoke with the Jabhat al-Nusra contacts he had acquired while working on James Foley’s case, he was informed that Daniel was being held by a group that was beyond their influence. And, unfortunately, in the time it took for the information to reach him, the situation may have already changed. But several people in Arthur’s network independently reported to him that the captors were from Dawlah al-Islamiyah, otherwise known as ISIS. Since there were few precedents, nobody had the prior knowledge or experience to gauge what ISIS would do with western hostages. The informants said that the al-Nusra Front or other rebel groups might be open to negotiations, should they be the ones behind Daniel’s kidnapping, but ISIS was a different story. ISIS members rarely spoke to non-members, such as Arthur’s informants.

According to the information available, Daniel had been kidnapped for taking photos without permission and had committed a crime according to sharia law’s prohibition against pornography. Arthur couldn’t know that Daniel’s photos consisted of plum trees and doves flocking around two brothers.

Still, he couldn’t get any information on Daniel’s exact location. Arthur’s contacts were working on the assumption that Daniel was still in captivity in the border town of Azaz, where he had originally been detained. Therefore, they focused their efforts on trying to find key members of the complex network of rebel groups headquartered around the sand-coloured building where Daniel was believed to be held.

· * ·

On the tenth evening of his captivity Daniel was moved and led up a flight of stairs, blindfolded and with his arms tied behind his back. He felt several hands search the pockets of his leather jacket and trousers.

‘What’s this?’ asked a voice. Daniel guessed the guard had found the sheet of paper with his fictitious story.

‘A story,’ he answered, but he was allowed to keep neither the paper nor his leather jacket, which the guard ripped off his back, before forcing Daniel into a cross-legged position with his hands cuffed in front of him. Then he fastened Daniel’s handcuffs to a radiator. Facing the radiator and with his back to the room, Daniel was able to lift the blindfold slightly with the inside of his upper arm and get an idea of his surroundings.

From the little he could make out without his glasses, it looked as if he was in some kind of large foyer with corridors leading off to other rooms. The room echoed when anyone spoke and he could see a wash basin, a window and a table in the middle. Daniel could hear people walking past the wash basin; some splashed water on their faces or filled water bottles, while others just walked through.

A man gave Daniel some water and an omelette. Once he had eaten, he dozed off in an awkward, cross-legged position. He was suddenly awoken by a violent kick in his side.

‘Don’t sleep!’ came the order.

Daniel straightened up, but found it hard to stay awake, because everything was dark behind the blindfold. For a while, he managed to sit up whenever he heard steps behind him. But he must have keeled over at some point, as he was abruptly awoken by an excruciating pain in his back, as if he had been whipped with a cable.