"I know, remember? I'm the Somali guy. I know the lingo."
Mustafa sighed. Bleeker cringed inside. Couldn't help himself. It wasn't that he was trying to disrespect Mustafa, but it seemed so goddamned easy to do. He was touchy. Guy gets away with killing some punks, and now he's noble or some shit. Still, Bleeker knew better than to burn a bridge while standing on it.
"I didn't mean…" Trailed off. Bleeker shrugged.
Mustafa started again, quietly. "This Imam, the kids call him Rockstar Muhammad. He revels in it. Anything to increase the flock. He's smart. He uses the language of the streets when necessary. Knows hip-hop lyrics. Hates them but knows them. So he ends up looking like he understands these young men when all he really wants is for them to be exactly what he wants them to be—Warriors for Allah. He wants them to either go and fight in Somalia, or head to Europe and Africa and all across the states and proselytize, keep building, until they can attack."
"Like Nine Eleven?"
"Not as flashy, but pretty much. Bombs, fires, mayhem, times a hundred. Also, sneaking themselves onto city councils, state legislatures, all the things Americans are scared silly of. Except, you know what they really want?"
Mustafa glanced over, hint of a grin. Held Bleeker's eyes.
"What's that?"
"White. Converts. Undercover Islam. Totally unsuspected."
"Like tonight?"
"No, no, not tonight. All Somali tonight. Rockstar travels around to the homes of donors, brings in new recruits, and pretty much tells them their lives are shit. All the violence, all the bling, all the drugs. Meaningless."
"And how's that go over?"
"Let's say there's thirty, forty there tonight? He'll get maybe ten, fifteen who want to join him. They'll play militant for a week or two, then fade back into what they were doing before."
"Because they don't like being told what to do."
"Exactly. He'll push them hard, too. Weed out the lazy, the rebellious, and the proud. Until there's one left."
"Like Jibriil."
"Just like Jibriil. But the Imam doesn't do all the legwork. He's very subtle. He's a preacher, that's all. A religious teacher. He has a small mosque in Roseville. Nothing fancy, very modest. From the outside, almost like a storefront. I think it used to be a pet shop. Behind the façade, he's building an army."
"And Al Jones is the one doing all the heavy lifting."
"You got it."
They didn't say anything else the rest of the drive.
*
For three blocks around the house, cars stretched in all directions. Lots of them tricked out imports like Mustafa's, some old Chevys and Lincolns from the 90's, mom and dad's old cars getting a second life. All of them dark, empty, the snow not yet covering them completely, but coating the windshields. Footprints converging on the two-story suburban cookie cutter in a development built maybe ten years ago.
Mustafa said, "The family who lives here owns two Super America stations. They're doing pretty well. It's their son who put this together. He's not a banger, but he knows plenty of them. And they got carried away by Al Jones singing the Rockstar's praises."
"What do we do?"
Mustafa smiled, pushed the car door open. "This."
He got out. Bleeker followed. Mustafa was striding, not a care in the world. Bleeker was starting to worry, though. So two uninvited guests show up at a private recruiting party. One obviously a white cop. Everyone will face the wall and wait to be handcuffed, sure, exactly.
"Seriously, what do we do?"
Mustafa kept on walking. "Ring the doorbell."
"You have no idea."
Mustafa stopped, turned. Middle of the street. "Got something better?"
"I'm not walking in on a bunch of gangbangers and terrorists if you've got no plan."
"Do you have one? I can't call for back-up. How about you?"
"This is crazy."
"Nobody is going to do anything." Mustafa reached over, gave Bleeker a couple of pats on the arm. "Keep cool."
Up the walkway, which had been plowed, shoveled and salted, only a sheen of frost and clumps of wet snow on the concrete. Bleeker wondered if he should have his shield ready, but then decided against it. He was going to shove his hands deep into his jacket pockets and not say a word unless someone asked him a question.
Mustafa rang the doorbell.
Moments later, a tall Somali woman opened the door. Hard to tell her age with skin that smooth, but Bleeker guessed around forty. The elaborately patterned yellow and violet hijab covered her head and neck, framed a face that immediately recognized Bleeker as police. The rest of her was clothed like an American. Slacks and a loose silk blouse. Maybe flaunting her freedom in front of Rockstar, or maybe he was the type that turned a blind eye.
She said, "I'm sorry officers, is there a problem?"
Mustafa said, "You have a lot of cars out here."
"I'm sure we can move some if they're in the way."
"What's going on here tonight?"
She knew they knew. Something about the tight lips, the posture. "A private party. For our…church."
Mustafa nodded. "May we come in?"
She backed away from the door. "Please remove your shoes, coats, and hats. Don't drip on the hardwood."
They stepped inside the foyer, tiled, that opened into a sitting room, obviously not used all that much. They had taken great care with the décor—much to remind the visitor of the family's Somali heritage, art and pottery, alongside a contemporary American leather couch and glass and wood tables, very pricey. Dim table lamps barely lit the room, throwing amber light and creating fuzzy shadows. The lady of the house took their coats, hung them in the entryway closet. A man came from the hallway at the back corner of the room, gray slacks and a blue button-down shirt, your typical middle-class manager ensemble. Clean-shaven, rich brown skin. Obviously the husband, and probably ten years older than his wife.
He said, "Late arrivals?"
Mustafa didn't wait for the wife to warn him. He stepped out of his shoes—slip ons. Smart. Bleeker was still untying his boots. Reached out for the husband's hand. "Mr. Hassan? Nice to meet you. I'm Mustafa Bahdoon."
Hassan's cheeks sank, eyes widened. If the wife hadn't recognized him, the husband sure did. "Bahdoon. You are here to see…here for…?"
"Please, tell me what's going on tonight."
He glanced at his wife. Smirched his mouth. Bleeker checked her out. Talking with her eyes. Looking down at the floor. The basement. They were all in the basement.
"It's nothing." Hassan spoke low. "A sermon, my son's friends. He's a good boy."
"Sermon?"
Hassan motioned. "I'll show you. Downstairs. Please don't interrupt, though. I'm sure the Imam will talk to you after."
"I'm not really interested in him."
They stepped out of Bleeker's sight. He yanked off the boot, dropped it. It bounced off the tile onto the hardwood, the gorgeous rug laid out in the room. Melted snow splattered and Hassan's wife let out a sharp breath.
"Sorry." He stumbled, pushed himself up with a hand on the wall, and followed the men.
They had gone through the kitchen, still talking softly, and turned at the stairs to the basement. Bleeker saw trays of crumbs. Spices in the air, more than one, swirling and combining and releasing. Made him hungry. He'd need a Smashburger later.
He caught up with the men on the carpeted stairs. They'd ceased talking. Below, a voice in Arabic, louder than conversation, not quite shouting, then another loud voice right behind the first, in heavily accented English. "When Jay Z tells us it is a hard knock life, we accept it to be so. We accept whatever we are told. We think the government hands us our rules. The government judges whether it's hard knock or not! Does that make any sense to you?" Then more Arabic.
Mustafa and Hassan stood at the bottom of the stairs, watched. Bleeker made it down, looked out at the very American den with the large flatscreen TV, entertainment center, sectional sofa, La-z-Boy
recliner. Nearly every square foot of floor space covered with young men in hip hop jeans, T-shirts and polos, their shoes lined-up in a utility room to the left. Riveted. Before them, a man sitting crosslegged on top of a big wooden box set in front of the TV. He looked old but vital. Salt and pepper beard. Chubby. A white robe, white prayer hat, very dark skin. He was the one speaking Arabic.
Where there had once been a bar, Bleeker supposed, was now what looked like a place to pray. Several rugs on the floor. A woven wallhanging, more Arabic. The flag of Somalia beside it, a creamy blue with a single white star in the center.
Too busy noticing all that to notice the bottom step. He missed it, flung out his arms, grabbed Mustafa and Hassan before falling on his face, slammed his feet hard onto the floor. Plenty of bangers turning to look, creased brows, angry eyes. The Imam stopped mid-sentence. The translator stood. Somali guy in a fine business suit, fine silk tie, spread collar shirt. Balled his fists. Like he was going to beat the shit out of whoever dared interfere. Then he saw Mustafa.
Fists loosened into fingers again.
Mustafa wrapped an arm around Bleeker's waist, pushed him towards the utility room while Hassan apologized, begged them to "Please continue. Please. Don't mind us."
But there was nothing else to come. The Imam began speaking again—in English this time—blessing the boys and telling them there would be time to talk again later. A rumble in the room, disappointed Aw, man all over the room. This is bullshit, scared of the police same as any bitch and Shit, Bahdoon just shut him down, man. That's cold.
In the washroom, Mustafa shoved Bleeker against the washer, turned him around and grabbed him two-handed at his collar. Boiling eyes, red veined.
"Let go."
"How the hell can you be an expert on us? You step on us like dog shit!"
"I said let go."
Mustafa let go. The gangbangers had to come in to retrieve their shoes on their way up the stairs, getting a glimpse of their hero. Like an idol, the way these guys looked at him. More reverence than they showed Rockstar Muhammad, even.
Bleeker said, "I missed a step. Anyone could've."
Hissing. "Anyone would've been more careful. Like handling a beehive."
"I'm sorry, okay?"
Hands on his hips. A step left, one right. Head down. What was the deal?
Hassan waited at the door. Bleeker was about to leave, wash his hands of the whole damned mess, when the thick black man in the suit shoved Hussan and Bleeker out of the way, headed right for Mustafa. Mustafa shouted and smacked the man on the side of his head, over and over. Didn't phase him. Punched Mustafa in the face, sent him reeling into the wall, knocking over detergent, fabric softener, and a bag full of lint. Mustafa went down. The translator picked him up like a rag doll. Grains of detergent in Mustafa's hair, stuck to his face. The translator held him up, arm over his shoulder, and drug him from the room. With his free hand the translator gave Bleeker a hard shove that knocked the wind out of him.
Bleeker, wheezing on his hands and knees, got the picture. That translator was the "Al Jones" they'd been looking for.
He heard the big man's voice booming. "The Big Bad Bahdoon thinks he can interrupt our teacher? Thinks he can tromp his traitor ass all around, drag this infidel along with him?"
Bleeker made it to his feet. Pulled out his pistol.
The scene: Rockstar Muhammad hadn't moved. Still serene on his pedestal. Al Jones stood over Mustafa, writhing in the middle of the floor, hand on his back. From this angle Bleeker saw more of the room, the steps and door that led to the backyard, where some of the gangbangers had surely escaped. A handful of rough and tumble guys in identical North Face parkas stood sentry over there, AR-15s in their hands. Shit.
They noticed Bleeker's pistol, took aim, started barking at him. "Drop the gun! Drop it! Drop it now!"
Al Jones turned his head, pointed a thick finger at Bleeker. "Drop it or I stomp his skull."
He lifted his foot, set his bare heel on Mustafa's head, pressed down.
Instinct. Not like on TV. Not so easy to give up his gun. Not so easy to fire, but easier to do that to solve a problem than make them both helpless.
Bleeker fired from the hip. Powerfully loud, everyone ducking, covering ears, squinching eyes. Bleeker had missed badly, way right, busting up a rack of DVDs. A burst from someone's AR-15. Bleeker dove behind the couch. Hassan, back near the stairs, grabbed his guts and dropped dead. His head flipped back when a late round got him, dead eyes and surprised, bloody mouth staring at Bleeker. The cop peeked over the back of the couch at the action.
Al Jones, screaming and waving his arms. Still standing with his foot on Mustafa. Mustafa grabbed the foot, pushed and twisted hard. Kept at it while Jones hopped with his other foot and tried to shake Mustafa off.
Bleeker was up again, took quick aim. Fired two shots in the direction of the sentries. One flinched, went down. Another dropped his gun, grit his teeth. The other two stepped ahead and started in, bursts of fire into the sofa. Bleeker dove flat on the ground, covered his head. No fucking way they could miss him. No fucking way. The rounds thudded into the wall behind him, all around. No fucking way.
Then the gunfire stopped. They run out of ammo? Were they waiting for him to pop up again? He could hear that Al Jones was still struggling with Mustafa, but then another voice, the Imam's, rose above it. In English again.
"Now is not the time! Not now!"
Bleeker raised up on his elbows, crawled to the edge of the couch where he still had cover from the end table. Sentries, guns down, helping the other two. Neither one dead. Jones still struggling with Mustafa, until Mustafa gave the man's ankle a mighty twist, the guy's knee going with it, toppling to the floor. Mustafa got up, not going for his pistol, backed away. When he saw that Bleeker was okay, he stood his ground, stared down Rockstar Muhammad, who was now standing on the box, head and shoulders hunched to avoid the dropdown ceiling.
Bleeker rose to his knees, kept the gun trained on the sentries. It didn't matter how much of a badass he'd been in Iraq. Didn't matter how intimidating he was to the Somalis over in New Pheasant Run. Here, he was scared. Trapped. Not sure how any of this was going to end. He took charge, marched over to the sentries while they were distracted, gun in their face, took their rifles, slung three over his shoulder and reached one back to Mustafa. He took it, but let it hang loose in his hand rather than covering the rest of the room.
Bleeker said, "Someone must've heard that. Cops'll be here soon."
Mustafa looked around. "Pretty soundproof room."
"Think, man! Automatic weapons fire!"
Shrugged. "A movie. Look at the set-up here."
Bleeker was about to say something else, something with lots of "fucks" and "shits" but not "niggers" because he was surrounded by black men and he hadn't said "nigger" in months and months, thanks to Cindy, but by God, it was on the tip of his tongue right then and he had to bite it back, bite it off.
The lightning crack of a handgun and the pain blacked him out. Reeling on his feet. The pain radiating up his arm, like hot lava across his back. He grabbed at the fire on his right arm. Split skin across his upper bicep, on through to his upper back. Not so bad. It would heal up with a few stitches. Still hurt like all hell. He sucked in a deep breath and turned. Hassan's wife, eyes wild, stood at the base of the stairs over her husband's body holding a pistol. Another crack, bullet went wide.
Mustafa lifted his auto and let loose, cut her down right across the middle.
Then it was quiet.
Al Jones grunted, pulled himself up onto Rockstar's box. "Look what you've done."
Mustafa, still staring at the wife. Like he was in shock. "We…wanted to talk."
"A peaceful gathering. The police can't accept that, can they? Have to make us all out to be murdering lunatics."
"But you are," Bleeker said. His arm was dripping red, filtering through the fingers clamped over the skin. "Tell them, Mustafa. Tell them why we're here."
> Al Jones, sitting on the box, rubbing his ankle. "Oh, I know why. We heard you coming miles away."
Mustafa said, "Why? A couple of stupid kids. You sent them to fucking die?"
"To fight. To bring glory to themselves in the next life."
"I need to know who. How'd they get there? Where are they?"
Rockstar sat down again, tapped Jones's arm, and leaned forward, speaking low into his ear. Jones nodded.
"Come on. Where are they?"
Al Jones said, "Are the Imam and I under arrest? I think it's important we understand our rights."
Bleeker said, "Yes, goddamn it, of course you're under arrest."
Mustafa said, "No. Where are they?"
"Wait." Bleeker stepped over to Mustafa. "Yes. I'm arresting them."
"We can't do that. This was a home invasion. A Somali gang hitting the Hassans because of something their son did."
Unbelievable. "The hell are you talking about?"
"They tell us where Adem and Jibriil are, and how to get them back, and then we get out of here. They're on their own."
Bleeker, the feel of the blood all over him making him sick, trembled. So pissed. "This isn't your fucking gang we're talking about here. You're on my team. Get used to it."
"Is it going to help us get Adem back? No, all it does is make us killers."
"Makes us heroes!"
"Is that what you want? Because all I want is my son!" Mustafa's face stretched and furious. Right in Bleeker's. Stabbing his finger into the man's chest. "You started this! I would've talked to them and we would have left. But you started shooting. You wanted to kill. Not them. You."
"I did what I was supposed to."
Mustafa looked tired. Screwed up his face. "Fuck you, man. We need to get you an ambulance."
"Excuse me." Rockstar Muhammad raised his hand. Didn't wait to be recognized. "I have not done anything illegal. I do not understand, this … this ..." He spoke to Al Jones in Arabic.
Bleeker couldn't figure it out. Too fast, and he wasn't concentrating. Mustafa bobbed his head, answered. Rockstar's eyes lit up. That set them both off in Arabic. Bleeker's arm and back hurt more listening to them babble, shut out of the loop. He stepped aside while the Arabic flew over his head, pulled out his cell phone and called 911.
All the Young Warriors Page 13
