Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem)

by Anthony Neil Smith

  Outside and nearly blinded by the sun reflecting off the building across the street, the crew slipped into two waiting Aston Martins and were instantly cool and dark. It had been easy, and worth it. As soon as Gunfighter was clear of the ship and out of danger, leaving behind his crew for the authorities to mow down, the Benefactor had promised to reveal the last known location of Sufia. That's all he wanted. One and done. No more suits, no more bald head, no more legend. He sighed. The guard beside him turned, grinned, and said, "You too?"

  "Always."

  *

  About an hour later, his coffee untouched, growing cold in front of him at a crowded café, Adem stared at the aftermath on a giant TV. He knew he should have been on the move, but he couldn't believe it. Just...unbelievable.

  Gunfighter's band of pirates danced out onto the deck, the Indonesian crew crawling along with them. Filthy, broken, blinking at the light. The news camera was bobbing and far away, the focus blurring, correcting, blurring again. Must have been on a boat. The view pulled out when the helicopter appeared, circling the deck.

  Dancing, shouting, kids playing with guns, cracking off shots into the air.

  But then Gunfighter gathered them all together, just as the chopper was coming in for a landing, and had them line up the original crew along the edge of the deck.

  No no no. Adem's mouth hung open. God no, please no.

  Soundless gunfire. The shots slammed into the cringing prisoners, all of them trying to itch skin that was no longer there, right before they fell into the ocean.

  Soundless cheers from the pirates. More dancing.

  The helicopter door was opening and the camera quick-panned towards it. Adem realized it had no markings. Pure, light-devouring black all over. It was a military chopper, room enough in back for a couple of handfuls of soldiers. And that was exactly what came out of those doors. Armed, ready, fully fatigued, their faces covered by keffiyeh.

  Adem gripped his hands together, an effort to keep them still. This was bad. Real bad. Played him like a drum, they sure as hell did. What an idiot. So what plan was he on now? C? D?

  The reporters were shocked into silence, only just now peppering the scene with reminders of what they had just seen. Replaying it over and over. The ship now under command of a true terrorist cell, not a rag-tag group of kids. Back to the newsroom. The anchor struggling to regain his composure. That's when they decided to flash Mr. Mohammed's photo, one from the day before, from the hall outside the conference room. One of those security guys had filmed him. Look at his calm face and stupid grin.

  As they talked about Adem's alter-ego on the news, several of the men in the café had turned. They were staring at him, whispering to each other.

  Adem got up and left the café before anyone else could recognize him. Bolted down the street. His dad's voice echoing in his head: You'll write us. Emails. One a day.

  Something as simple as that had his nerves wound up bad. Just "Write us." Things had been so much simpler only a few days before, hadn't they?

  THIRTEEN

  Mustafa awoke in luxury. The sheets, the mattress, cradling him as if they were custom-made to do so. He hadn't even opened his eyes yet. For a very short moment, he thought maybe it had all been a bad dream, and he picked up right where he had left off—in Prince Heem's bed.

  Squeezed his eyes tight, hoped for the best, and finally blinked them open. This wasn't the Prince's bedroom. It was a nice room, absolutely, but it was in a hotel. Something about hotel ceilings, it always gave them away. He could never feel at home under a ceiling like that.

  His mouth was dry, and when he tried to smack his lips he found something in the way under his tongue. Cotton. That was all the reminder her needed. The pain was back just like that. Much more dull, of course. Someone had given him painkillers. When he yawned, the holes in his jaw and nose bit him like fire ants. Made him sneeze. He propped up on his elbows. Three big sneezes, all aimed at his chest. A plug of bloody cotton popped out of his sore nostril.

  The man sitting in the office chair, laptop open on the desk, didn't say anything. He watched, a small hotel coffee mug in his hand. It was the Arab who had taken him from Poe's torture chamber. He was still wearing his suit's slacks, but he'd stripped to his undershirt and socks. Mustafa wondered if he had been there all night, watching while he slept. Or more than one night. It sure as hell couldn't be the same day, anyway.

  Mustafa's head was still foggy, but he started sorting out the basics: he wasn't in jail, wasn't in a hospital. These guys could give a shit if he was a gang leader or not. But they knew who he was, since they'd been able to follow him to the house and get him out of trouble at the last minute.

  Loud slurp from the Arab. Just a guy sipping his coffee, staring at Mustafa. Maybe in his thirties. Freshly shaved. He wore a decent watch, functional, but nothing fancy. The Arab pointed bedside. Mustafa turned. A full bottle of water, the cap still on.

  "It might help with the dryness," the Arab said. "I promise, we didn't put anything in it."

  Mustafa rolled onto his side, reached for the bottle. He checked the cap. No obvious needle holes, but the needles were so small these days that they could have injected it without anyone being able to tell. But who was "they" in the first place? He had an idea, but it seemed far-fetched, and not at all good news.

  He thought, The hell with it, and unscrewed the cap, took a long drink. He fought past the dryness, then the creepy numb feeling that comes from Novocain after a doctor's visit. He always imagined it as a drip of mercury down the throat. But it didn't matter this time. He was thirsty and drank nearly the whole bottle before some trickled into his windpipe and he choked, spewed the rest across the floor. He pounded on his chest and kept coughing until he settled down. That's when he noticed the blood all over the sheets.

  "We explained to housekeeping," the Arab said. "You got drunk, had a fight, you lost a tooth. We'll have to pay for new sheets and a comforter, but that's okay. How're you feeling?"

  Mustafa's ears weren't playing tricks on him. Last time, the guy had been speaking Arabic, but now he sounded like he'd been born and raised in Indiana. Mustafa tried to talk. He couldn't stop clearing his throat. It would be like that most of the day, he already could tell. He finally managed to get enough air in his lungs to ask, "Where..."

  "Downtown. It's the Westin. Nice place. My first time in the Twin Cities, by the way."

  "Hm...hm....who..."

  "Oh yeah. My name's Jacob."

  Mustafa shook his head. "No, I don't care." Coughed again. "Who? Like, who, man? You know what I mean?"

  Jacob nodded. He set the mug down and leaned forward in his chair. "I was talking to your son a couple of days ago."

  "I don't believe you."

  "Really, I'm serious." He reached for something on the desk beside his computer, tossed it over to Mustafa. A passport. Mustafa didn't want to open it. He knew what it would be. "How do I know it's real?"

  "I don't care if you believe it or not. It is, period. And I'm going to keep talking anyway. You cool with that?"

  Mustafa picked up the passport and flipped it open. Adem's face, grinning, but his father could tell he didn't want to. He wanted a tough-guy photo, but he couldn't do it. The kid had had a charmed life since scraping the bottom in Mogadishu. No matter what sort of ridiculous scheme he'd gotten himself into—and Mustafa knew damn well the boy wasn't in Mecca—it couldn't have been as bad as that.

  "What's going on? You're with the government, right? You've been watching him all along."

  "We sure have. If not for us, he would've never gotten past the airport."

  Mustafa swung his legs out of bed, wearing only his briefs, he now saw, and sat on the edge, flopping the passport back and forth between his thumb and fingers. "You let him do something dangerous, didn't you? Like he's some sort of bait? How did you get this, anyway?"

  "He's fine right now."

  "That's not what I asked."

  "Should I ask how you ended u
p with a freak shoving dental tools through your jaw? What was with that drill?"

  Mustafa looked away. "Just...some turf issues. It's nothing."

  "Okay, then. I don't tell you the details, you don't tell me about your gang war."

  Someone at the door. The lock disengaged and the other man walked in, the white one. He carried a steaming bag from Panera Bread. He looked surprised to see Mustafa up. "You know, it didn't even occur to me...I only got enough for us. You want me to call room service?"

  "Not yet." Tea. He wanted tea. "But thank you."

  "How do you feel?"

  Now that it was two on one, Mustafa didn't feel like playing along. He stood. "My clothes, please?"

  Jacob shook his head. "They got bloody, too. We were going to get you something later. There's a Target a few blocks—"

  "I know where the fucking Target is."

  He walked around the bed, brushed past the white man, and opened the closet. A couple of terrycloth robes in there. He pulled one out, threw it on. Then into the bathroom, where he locked the door and looked at himself in the mirror. Bruises, cuts on his face, but nothing permanent. The real pain was all over the rest of his body where they had kicked him. He reached into his mouth and pulled out the bloody cotton wads, same with his nose. He spit into the sink. Not that much blood. Couldn't say the same for his nose, drip drip drip, so he walked back out, pinching his nose, and asked Jacob for another cotton ball.

  Plugged again, Mustafa leaned against the wall. The drugs both Poe and these two had given him still kept him numb in spots. His legs felt just this side of falling, and his head was two sizes too large for his skull.

  The white guy said, "Maybe you could come sit down and talk to us."

  Mustafa shook his head. He started for the door. The white guy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, but Jacob called him "Benny", stopped him.

  "Where are you going?"

  "This place has a pool, right?"

  "Nice one."

  Mustafa smiled. "I'm going for a swim. The key?"

  He held out his hand. Jacob was amused. Tried to hide it, but Mustafa could tell. After a minute, Jacob shuffled some of the loose change and crumpled receipts on the desk and found a key card. He flung it across to Mustafa, and the leader of the Southside Somali Killaz was gone.

  *

  He had the pool to himself. Dove right into the deep end and kept on. It was stainless steel, with subdued lighting and new age mood music piped in. The shock of the cool water woke up his sleeping nerves and lit the pain in his nose and mouth. But he kept on through it. At the shallow end, the water was only thigh high, but he crouched down and went for another lap.

  He wasn't ready to leave. If these guys had news about Adem, he wanted to hear it. His stomach was in knots waiting for it, making them wait for him. But he had to feel out why they needed him. Obviously following him for a while in order to do the rescue thing. If it was an informal call or an emergency, either way, why not go to his apartment? Talk to Idil about it? No, they tracked Mustafa down specifically because they needed something from him.

  More laps.

  The girl he left behind, Sufia. That's what this was about. The boy went looking for his girl. From what he had told Mustafa, she had been left terribly scarred by acid, a punishment not for anything she had done, really, but more for Adem's willingness to break the rules for her. His own best friend had done it, too. Jibriil, who went over as a wide-eyed American-born Somali kid, but became a leader within a couple of months. He took to it naturally. By the end Jibriil was willing to kill Adem, Mustafa, and the white cop whose girlfriend Jabriil had killed before they left the States.

  All these years, Adem had been planning to go back and look for her. Adem didn't think his dad knew, but he did. Never told Idil about it, that was for sure. So when all the pilgrimage talk started, Mustafa knew he was going to have to let the boy go rather than be the hard ass, and that the authorities would probably stop him at the airport before he got into any worse trouble.

  Unless they had wanted him for some reason. Fucking Feds. Just what Mustafa had been dreading. He came up for a breath at the shallow end and there was Jacob in a lounge chair, reclined, ankles crossed, hands together on his lap.

  "I sent Benny to get you some clothes. Then we can get you out of here."

  "No questions? That's it?"

  A shrug. "I'd still like you to listen to me."

  Mustafa climbed out of the pool and slicked the water off his face, intentionally flinging it in Jacob's direction. He stood over the agent and said, "Alright."

  "I think I know why you took over the Killaz again. Pretty sure. We've been paying attention."

  "Spying on my family?"

  "Well, shit, think about it. Your son became some sort of folk hero over there, negotiating for pirates. And you, you somehow snuck a white cop out of the US and into Somalia without it showing up on our radar until way too late. That made you dangerous. Getting your son out again made you a pinch away from getting on the most wanted list. Like, worldwide, I mean."

  Mustafa shook his head, grabbed his towel. "It wasn't like that at all."

  "To you, maybe. So we debrief the kid, and you, and we figure he's really innocent. Pretty smart, though, finding a way to stay alive after nearly getting his head chopped. And then this acting job he did, this Mr. Mohammed, wow. That's impressive." Jacob clapped his hands a few times, and the echo slapped back at them from all corners of the room. "Seriously, man."

  "That's my son." Mustafa's dislike for this agent was intensifying. He wondered if there was a back-up plan in case he got physical. A sniper, a stun gun, any of that. He guessed Jacob was gambling, and could take care of himself just fine.

  "Seems to me he learned his acting skills from his father. Right, Bahdoon? Are you playing a role?"

  "Either you know or you don't. Fishing won't get you a bite."

  Jacob shrugged. "I know where she is."

  Goosebumps. He dropped the towel and tried to hide the anxiety. Walked over to the hot tub and climbed down into the churning froth. Hotter than he expected, but he gritted his teeth and went all the way in, dunked under and held his breath, the water itching him all over. More, more. Let the air out slowly. Calm down. Not yet.

  And when he couldn't take the pressure any longer, he burst through the surface and took a wheezing breath. Jacob was now standing at the side of the tub, not at all bothered at his splashed shoes and slacks.

  "Okay, I'll stop kidding around. Her name is Deeqa, she's your cousin's daughter, and he asked you to find her. She somehow got herself shipped over as a prostitute, and for some ridiculous reason you thought the best way to find her was to start a gang war. Brilliant."

  Mustafa stood waist deep, deep breaths, breath hot, skin cold. He looked up at the agent, easy-going, hands in his pockets. Listening to him, Mustafa had forgotten for a moment that Jacob was brown. He sounded so much like a television star, a white boy, a flat accent that could fit into every nook and cranny across the country.

  "You'll help me find her?"

  "Sort of. I don't care if you find her or not, but I'll tell you where she is. It's not my thing, but I know a few people at the FBI, and sometimes we trade tit for tat. I got you the ballpark, at least. You can get the details from somewhere else."

  "You don't care? An innocent girl, forced to fuck God knows who, not even getting to keep the money, and you don't care?"

  Jacob shook his head. "I know more about it than you do, but I can't give it all away. I'm already risking a few jobs by telling you this much. They're watching, they're gathering info, and one day soon they're going to bust the ring. You want Deeqa, fine, I'll draw you a map. You've got to do it quickly. But first, you've got to help me."

  Mustafa knew what was next. He had been waiting for it the whole time, wondering when they would get to it.

  Jacob said, "I need you to help us get in touch with Adem, and I need you to tell him he should work for us. He'll listen to you
."

  Mustafa looked away. He couldn't help but smirk. A deal with the Devil was one thing, but this? Even the Devil might say, Tough call. Mustafa had known there was a reason why the Feds didn't come down hard on Adem knowing he had joined the terrorist army, knowing he had become Mr. Mohammed. They should've both been in prison, really. That one in Cuba. But this is what they'd been waiting for.

  "What if he doesn't listen?"

  "No deal. You keep right on trying to fight the good fight, but with some anonymous tips called in about who's in charge of the Killaz these days, it would be harder for you to pull it off."

  Fuck. Wasn't that always the rub? If the government needs you, they can give you the best toys and sweetest candy while at the same time cutting off your legs so you're stuck there, bleeding, surrounded by toys and candy you can't even enjoy.

  "He's my son, but he's his own man."

  "Damned right he is. I already tried once. I even waited until the bastards that had tricked him into coming to Yemen already had him. Another half-mile and I was prepared to jump in, shoot a few guys, and whisk him to safety. You know what he did? He made them crash the car. He got out and ran. Your son was awesome, I'm telling you." Jacob smiled, pointed to Mustafa. "You raised him up right, you did. Good going."

  Mustafa suddenly grew very tired. The hot tub had robbed him of the energy he'd built up with swimming. All he wanted to do now was sleep. He climbed out of the hot tub and grabbed his towel, sat on the edge of the chair where Jacob had been a few minutes earlier. He covered his head with the towel and leaned forward, head down, knees wide.

  Jacob said, "You know he went to Yemen right?"

  "I knew he didn't go to Mecca. He didn't tell me the truth, but I'm not stupid. I knew. I knew why, too."

  "Because of her."

  Mustafa pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Yes. I thought...I thought he had found her, too. Nothing I could've said would have kept him from going. I knew it. So I just went along, hid it from his mother. I didn't know...they were going to kill him?"

  "Or hold him hostage for a while. Use him for videos, make themselves famous. Then, probably off with his head. But, hey, no worries. He's free of them and the only people looking for him now are the police and us."