"I'll go and tell them you're awake." She turned, swept through the net and curtain.
"Wait." He brushed her arm before she could get away. She stopped, turned back. "I don't know your name. How can I thank you?"
A moment. She looked over her shoulder, then side to side, then whispered to him. "Sufia."
Adem closed his eyes. "Okay. Thank you, Sufia. Can I ask you something else?"
"Hurry. I'm supposed to tell your superior as soon as you wake."
"Promise me you'll come back. Come back and talk to me."
Her eyes told him she wanted to, he was pretty sure. But her mouth, the lines around them, showed something else. "If I'm asked to help you again, I will."
She dropped the curtain, pulled it together so he couldn't see out anymore. He sensed men in the beds around him. From somewhere far off, he heard babies crying. Then Sufia's voice, in Somali again, calling for Jibriil.
It should have eased his worry, knowing his friend had been waiting for him. The last thing he remembered, his head being held up to look into the video camera as a punk kid, face hidden under a red scarf, held a knife to his neck. He reached his free finger from his right hand to his neck. Another bandage, right where the knife had been held. Only a second or two from losing his head. What had happened?
Bootsteps. Two men. Then Jibriil swept through the curtain followed by the old man who had handed him the machete for taking the convicted soldier's hand. A holy man, someone who had great influence among the ragtag boy army. Same gray suit. Same white hat.
The tent filled with Jibriil's odor and the dust from his boots. He was smiling. "Back like new, yeah? Like your old self?" Spoken in Somali, Adem supposed as respect to the cleric.
"I thought I was going to die. I thought I was dead."
"Almost. But I stopped them."
He wasn't even there. How did he stop the mob?
Jibriil gestured to the old man, who stood peacefully, hands clasped together.
"We did it. I heard what was going on, and I was with the Sheikh at the time, and pled your case. He made the call to stop your execution."
Seconds from having his head sawed off. A humiliating, unearned death, much like Wayne's. Wayne's dead face.
Adem blinked, lifted his eyes to the old man. "Thank you, Sheikh. I humble myself before you."
The Sheikh nodded. "You are special, your friend tells me. I trust his word. But you were also trying to escape, correct?"
To admit it would mean a death sentence. He'd escaped one, so why would they expect…but he noticed Jibriil's expression, urging him to say yes. To apologize.
Adem said, "I don't belong here. I only get in the way of God's will. I have failed, and I should be sent home."
"A brave young man. You lived through a firefight. You took this beating. You attempted to escape when the odds were against you. No, I don't consider you a failure at all."
Adem couldn't help himself. He started crying. Mercy. He chopped off a man's hand for less than what he had tried, and this man was showing him mercy. He cried and said Thank you over and over even though it made him feel sick.
The holy man moved closer, took Adem's hand, said blessings for him until his tears dried. The Sheikh embraced Jibriil and then left through the curtains. Adem heard more footsteps follow as he walked away. Bodyguards. In case Adem tried some sort of craziness, he realized. Under Jibriil's command. Becoming more and more clear.
Jibriil settled beside his friend, pulled one boot up onto his knee. Big grin. Adem wondered how many bodyguards remained outside waiting for their commander.
"Why, Adem? You could've come to me. Could've said something." In English.
"I did. I tried. But what can you do? What is so hard about sending me home?"
Jibriil shook his head. "I can't."
"Why not?"
Jibriil crossed his arms, yawned. "It's…complicated. You tried to escape. If I were to send you back to the States now, they would see me as weak. They would see you as worse. Everything bad about the West. And they can't let you go."
Adem pushed himself up onto his elbows. Every nerve shocked him with pain. He said through strained teeth, "They tried to cut my head off!"
Jibriil was on his feet. Slapped Adem hard across his cheek. "And you tried to leave like a coward! You tried to kill our brothers! Because, what, you miss the snow? The food? Cow's milk?"
Adem didn't have an answer. Plenty he wanted to shout—I almost died in Ethiopia. The soldiers think I'm a traitor. A pussy. A target. I hate the heat and the dust and the smells and…what they've done to Islam.
Let it slip out. "This war. It's not about God."
Jibriil leaned closer to his face. "It will be when we win."
His friend's odor, days now without a shower. Intense. Jibriil believed what he'd just said. Without question.
Jibriil sat down again as Adem turned on his side away from him.
Jibriil spoke again as if nothing had happened. "They caught the traitor, though. They don't think it's you anymore."
"Who was it?"
"I can't hear you when you mumble like—"
"Who was it?"
"Okay. Okay. I guess he had an Ethiopian wife. You don't know him. He was in another truck that night. So, like I had said, he stayed behind. But I guess he didn't give them enough intelligence. He showed up again this morning, telling us how he escaped and hid and walked all these miles."
"You didn't believe him?"
"He looked in perfect health. Not a scratch on him, well fed, in good spirits. I sent out patrols. We found his motorbike hidden in a burned-out home on the edge of town."
Adem curled tighter. "How'd you know it was his?"
"I told him we'd found his bike. Told him there was a note from his wife in the storage compartment behind the seat. He broke down. Pleaded with me. I told him we could track down his wife now, sneak in tonight and grab her, let her suffer for both their crimes."
"He didn't know about the note? She'd snuck it onto the bike?"
"There was no note. I made a guess."
Adem went quiet. How had Jibriil become so smart so quickly? A week ago, he'd shot two cops for no reason. Now he was Sherlock Holmes, flushing out spies. Commanding an army. Right-hand man of the Sheikh.
"No one blames you anymore. You took your beating well. It was the bravest they'd ever seen you."
"Sure, thank them for me. I don't think I'll ever walk normally again."
A laugh. That was funny?
"Seriously, Jibriil. I'm a wreck. I can't fight anymore."
"You'll heal up. In the meantime, maybe you can train the new recruits. 'How to Survive'. Something like that."
"Stop already. It's not a joke." He pointed to the bandage on his neck. "They'd already started to cut. Would you have laughed if I'd died?"
Jibriil let out a sigh. Adem turned his head towards him. He was staring away, at the mosquito net, at nothing. More of the baby's cry. Another man's breathing ramping up nearby. He began moaning, then screaming for help. The pain. The fires of hell. Help. Unbearable. Crows screeching.
Jibriil peeked through the slit in the curtains. "He was burned in an explosion fighting government troops. Yesterday."
"Where am I?"
"This is where we heal our wounded."
"A hospital?"
Jibriil shrugged. "Our guys already bombed the hospitals. Weakens the resistance of the city. We'll control this place soon, you know. The whole city. All of southern Somalia. Our own government. Our own land. No more fighting."
"I don't see it happening."
"Whatever. I do. All of the blood will be worth it when everyone sees what we can do on our own."
Adem laughed, but coughed, swallowed hard. He shook his head. Rattled out, "Not a chance. You don't get it."
Jibriil stood, reached down to grip his friend's leg below the knee. A shock of pain nearly took Adem's breath away, but he held his tongue. "Get some rest. I'll be back as soon as I can and w
e'll talk about what to do with you."
"What are you going to do with me?"
"Sleep. Relax. We'll talk later."
He swept out, humming to himself. Barked a few commands at his guards. They answered, a clipped simultaneous reply. Bootsteps leaving quickly. Adem was alone again. But not really. He saw the shadow of the guard Jibriil had ordered to stay behind. Keep an eye on him. No more escapes.
*
He'd lost count of time. Lost count of sleeping versus waking, except that his dreams made more sense than when he was awake hearing labored breathing, screams, gunfire, muffled explosions, babies. A long dream, continual between fits of thrashing and pain. Adem was at an airport. An American airport, all the signs in English but he couldn't read them. He could never read anything in dreams no matter how hard he tried. The letters shifted before his eyes. He knew he was supposed to catch a flight to Paris. No idea why. But it seemed he kept missing flights, or he'd get lost, or he'd get to the plane and fly to a connecting airport but not remember the flight. One airport after another, always lost, always running late.
He woke after flying somewhere…Chicago maybe? Detroit? Next to a girl from school he liked. One of the RA's. They would never be more than friends, though. She'd made it clear, no matter how many times they'd kissed or she'd draped herself on him or spent time in her room listening to music.
Tried to close his eyes again to recapture the flight. Let me talk to her again. Let's take a trip together.
But he couldn't. Eyes wide. It was darker, setting sun making everything orange and shadowed. Someone beside him again. He didn't wait for his eyes to adjust. Reached his hand for whoever it was.
Soft fingers took his, moved his hand back across his body, laid it on his chest.
"Sufia?"
She blinked. Became clearer. She lifted a glass of water, held the straw to his mouth again.
When he'd had enough, she said, "You're lucky. The others here, if they don't improve, they'll be taken away soon. But you, lucky warrior, are protected."
"You've met my friend? Jibriil?"
"Your commander. Yes. I have. He asked me to take care of you."
That dog. Adem smiled.
"Sorry, but your English is perfect. How did you…where?"
"I studied in London. Lived there for several years before coming home."
"Really? And you came back?"
A look on her face like Adem was stupid. "Home is home."
Adem thought Yes it is. "Right now, where I'm from, there's two feet of snow on the ground."
"Sounds terrible." She lifted a cloth from a bowl of water. Wrung it out, then folded it. She wiped Adem's forehead and cheeks, careful around his bandages.
"No, not terrible at all. In fact, it's beautiful."
Like you.
No, not yet. That wasn't the way things were done around here.
She shook her head. "When I was in London, I used to dream of home. The trees, the colors, the food. It's pretty bad here right now, I know, but there are still all of those. And we owe Allah the praise for it."
A believer. Like Jibriil. All about God's will. Doing their part.
He changed the subject. "When we were in school, Jibriil and I were singers. He's a great singer."
She scrunched her eyebrows. "Singing?"
"Like show tunes."
Sufia laughed. Good, he could make her laugh.
"Really? Show tunes? Like West End?"
"Broadway."
"Those are forbidden."
Adem smiled. Cracked lips split wider, but it was worth it. "Yeah, maybe that's not a bad idea."
She laughed again. It was darker outside. She said she had to leave soon, but would be back tomorrow. That was okay, Adem told her.
When she was gone, he thought about her. He was feeling better. Even the pain felt sweet.
FOURTEEN
People back in New Pheasant Run were looking for Bleeker. Calling him day and night. He only returned one or two calls, told them he was ice fishing and to leave him the hell alone.
He worked out in the hotel gym. He was alone because it was after four in the morning and he couldn't sleep. More and more of those nights. It hurt but pain wasn't something you tried to get rid of. It was something you used to get you back to good. He needed pain, goddamn it, or he wouldn't know which direction to go. Cindy had been brutally cut down. To end that pain, Bleeker needed to see her killer's body on a slab.
He got tired of the weight machine, just bricks on wires. Not the same rush of free weights. He moved to the stairclimber. Would've been happy to take a run outside, but the wind was blowing like hell and the snow was coming down again. Didn't bother him out in New Pheasant, but here he was a fish out of water. Too much slick ice, too many cars. So he pushed himself up the fake stairs on the hardest setting, pumping, pumping. Gritting his teeth. Bring on the searing jaw pain. He'd push through that shit, too.
Mustafa. On his mind. Not what he expected. The gangsta mannerisms of that first meeting had slacked off. That shit was even infecting the Somali kids out west. Whatever video they'd seen, whatever music had been spewing from the speakers. A collage of it all, pasted all over these kids' fashions, language, attitudes. And the baddest of them all, supposedly, had turned a new leaf.
It wasn't the most comfortable feeling, pairing up with this guy, but the one thing he trusted was that Mustafa wanted his boy back safe and sound. And that he hated the cop-killing fuck Jibriil. God, a bit naïve, thinking Adem was clean like spring water, but Bleeker would go along for now, see where it led.
After punishing himself on the stairs, legs like overcooked pasta, he walked across to the hotel pool, dove into the cool water, blew out as much breath as he could and did a few laps underwater until he was burning all over, the water around him going to boil if he kept it up. Then exploded up from the middle of the pool and sucked in as much of the room's air as his lungs could take. Stood shoulder deep, slicked his hair back. Finally noticed a housekeeper, middle-aged woman, Hispanic, watching him. Holding towels, hypnotized. They eyed each other a long time. She looked like she had worked so hard all her life that each hour had etched itself onto her skin, but she carried it with pride and a lot of eye make-up. She looked nice.
Bleeker swam to the ladder at the deep end, climbed out, and motioned to her to throw him a towel. "Please?"
He imagined her dropping the entire stack, stripping to her bra and panties, and diving in with him. Chasing each other, finally tiring, and floating together, wrapped arm in arm, kissing her lips, neck, shoulders.
But she looked weird instead. She didn't give him a towel. He stepped over, took one off the top, and said, "Thanks, yeah."
She nodded. Walked away. Placed the stack of towels on the rack near the door, and pushed through into the hallway. He kept watching as she went down the hall past the long windows lining the wall. Once she was out of sight, Bleeker felt cold. Stupid fantasy. Weeks since he'd been with Cindy, at his house while Trish was at work. Now she was dead. Hard to connect that.
He looked at the hot tub. Good long soak might finally relax him, let him sleep so he could be ready for the night's work. See if Al Jones could confirm that Adem and Jibriil had been sent to Somalia. Yeah, turn on the whirlpool and close his eyes. Maybe go back to the room, keep on thinking about the housekeeper, about taking her on the bed, stretching her toned worker's legs and hard scrabble feet for him. Jack off, fall asleep. Doze until dinnertime.
Instead, he dropped the towel and dove into the cool water, colder still now, for more breathless laps.
*
Mustafa knocked on his door after ten. By then the snow had piled at least six inches. Bleeker had slept maybe thirty minutes since parting ways with the city cop outside the pizza place. He chose not to pursue the housekeeper in his mind, keeping himself wound tight. Fell asleep mid-afternoon watching a butchered 80's flick on AMC. All the cursing tripped out. All the violence de-fanged. A joke. How the fuck did all those chan
ges make it any more classic?
Now up, two pots of hotel room coffee in him, another two large Burger King pops. Pissing all evening waiting, but awake, ready, and willing.
"You think anyone's tailing you?"
Mustafa shrugged. "If they are, we'll lose them later."
Bleeker didn't invite him into the room. Mustafa acted as if he didn't want to come in anyway, leaning against the opposite wall of the hallway. Bleeker slipped on his jacket, hunter's cap, and closed the door behind him. "Let's go."
Outside, the temperature drop was like stepping onto another planet. They climbed into Bleeker's Roadmaster, cranked up and waited for the engine to heat up. Five minutes. Ten. Warm air began to flow through the vents. Bleeker pulled out of the spot and slowly made his way through the lot, down the service road, and down the on-ramp to the interstate.
Mustafa said, "Eden Prairie."
Bleeker laughed. "You're kidding. Come on."
"Serious. Took a lot of work, so let's go."
"Are we expected?"
Mustafa rubbed his gloves together. "I hope not."
Eden Prairie was a suburb down in the Southwest metro, closer to Bloomington and the Mall of America than to the city proper. Bleeker drove through it every time he came and went, usually stopping at their mall to shop and their fast food joints to eat because it was less crowded, easier to navigate.
The drive was slow, the plows not out yet. Slippery roads. Not a lot of traffic on the way out. Mustafa brought along a Tom Tom he'd borrowed, the computer pointing the way, except it wasn't updated and got confused the closer they got.
Mustafa said, "A couple of sources, plus a couple more guys from my old posse confirmed this. They'd left the gang about the same time I did, got married, grew up. Both still Islam, but not the extreme kind."
"No offense, but it seems they're all extreme to me."
"Thanks, real helpful."
The machine told them to go straight and stay right.
Bleeker said, "Sorry, but, okay…keep going."
"So there's an Imam, like a pastor—"
All the Young Warriors Page 12
