Mustafa took the computer back, started working on something else. "No, no, not that. I tried to find other stories about this, finally got one in English. He's calling himself Mr. Mohammed. What he does, he's an interpreter."
"Okay."
"But also like an agent. He can help with negotiations because he can speak English and Somali, all the different dialects. He's a smart kid, you know his grades. They tell him what they want, and he tries to get it for them like a businessman. No blood, no threats."
"He's been doing this the whole time?"
"He's suddenly shown up the past couple of weeks. This Dutch thing was his first, but he's moved on to a Canadian ship. He must be doing well. They're letting him negotiate on his own sometimes."
"This in the news?"
"Some, but not here. Americans don't realize how many ships are taken. Only when it's a cruise ship does it make the news."
"Jesus." Bleeker shook his head.
Mustafa turned the computer around again. This time it was a story in English through the BBC website. Another mention of Mr. Mohammed, translator for the pirates. He dressed in nice Western suits and held meetings in hotels. He always had bodyguards and a secretary with him.
"Why don't they arrest him?"
"No, man, they're not going to do that. In almost every case, the pirates release the ship once the ransom is paid. No harm to the hostages. So, you know, better to pay and keep the law out. Let the navy do their job once the boat's in the clear."
"You think he's being forced to do it?"
"I don't know what to think." Mustafa got louder. Antsy. "Just…look at him. He's okay. My son! He's alive!"
He pulled the computer back one more time. "I didn't know if he would be. Someone sent me a link to this. I mean, it's hard to tell, but…"
One more pass to Bleeker. YouTube. A mob scene. The camera was jittery. But a man was on his knees, someone next to him reciting from the Quran. Another put a blade to his neck. About to slice right through, enough of a cut to make blood run down, and then, more yelling. Someone from off camera. The man with the blade pulled the knife away and let his intended victim drop to the ground.
"And?"
"That was Adem. The one they cut. I swear."
In the booth ahead of them, a woman looked over her shoulder. Mustafa covered his mouth with his hand, breathing heavy through his nose. Blinking away tears.
"Okay, it's okay." Bleeker grabbed Mustafa's other wrist. "He's okay. That's good. They almost killed him, but stopped. That's a good thing. But doesn't this show he's still working for terrorists?"
Mustafa wiped his face. "I don't care. He's alright. We're all good if he's alright."
"No sign of Jibriil, then."
"If he's there, I haven't found him. Just like him to get shot down already." Mustafa raising a finger gun. "Pow, like he even lasted a week. My boy's still going strong, though."
"Do you mind?" The lady from the booth ahead. Voice sharp like a dog's teeth.
Bleeker said, "Sorry about that. It's okay."
"If you can't…control him, maybe you should leave."
Bleeker leaned back, close to her ear. "How about you shut the fuck up and eat your bagel? Guy's a little excited is all."
"Oh my god!" She was out of her seat in a flash. "My god! I'm going to find the manager."
Off she went, a loud "Excuse me, excuse me" to the people behind the counter.
Mustafa was staring out the window. Bleeker looked down at the story on the screen again. No mention of Jibriil, unless that bodyguard they talked about…it would take proof. Real honest to God proof that the murdering punk was dead.
The woman showed up at the table again, right behind a man who didn't look like the manager. More like a cook, beefy, in his fifties, thinking he was tougher than he really was. Arms folded. "You two are done. Get out."
Bleeker felt the blood flowing again. Oh yeah. Drop this guy with a shot to the kneecap. Bang his head on the tile until he's got no nose left.
He rose from the booth, got in the cook's face. The cook stepped back, loosened his arms. Held them at the ready. "We're going to call the police, but that doesn't mean I can't defend myself first."
Bleeker laughed, dug in his jacket pocket. Hoped it was still there, and it was, nearly frozen. He pulled out his shield. "Hey, look, I'm a cop, too. How about that? So what was it you were planning to do again?"
The cook backed off farther. "Hey, we're just saying, you understand. Our customers are trying to—"
"This bitch assaulted me. I can sell that story. Threatened me, too. Racial slurs against my friend here."
The woman gasped, then said, "I never, not at all. I would never say something like that."
Mustafa finally pushed out of the booth, closed his laptop and tucked it under his arm. "Ray, let's go."
"Didn't you hear the way she talked about you?"
"Let's go. Now. We need to roll." Mustafa reached into his jeans pocket, brought out some folded up cash. He flicked a couple of twenties from the center, tossed them on the table. "I'm buying that lady another bagel if she wants it. Come on Ray."
Bleeker waited another minute, eye to eye with the cook, who was withering. Good. He liked when they did that. Had forgotten how it felt. Until he remembered it was all his fault and the guy didn't deserve it. He dropped his gaze and caught up with Mustafa, who was already pushing his way through the door.
*
They didn't talk on the ride back to the shack. Mustafa switched from talk radio to FM and found some oldies. The Commodores. Followed by The Doors, so Mustafa turned it off. "I hate that organ. Like fingernails on a chalkboard."
Once out on the ice again, parked, sitting there in the car, Bleeker said, "I stood up for you."
"I didn't ask."
"Didn't have to."
"Man, you messed up. That was some sort of crazy you pulled. If you can't hold it together…shit, I don't know."
"What? What are you talking about?"
"Never mind. You need to take care of yourself. Just thought you'd like to know Adem's alright, that's all."
He opened the door, set a foot on the ice, then, "Listen, you've been cool with me, and I respect that. Did me a solid back in the Cities. It's a shame to see you like this. Wish I could help. Say the word."
Bleeker held onto the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. Not a word.
"Stay up, Ray." Mustafa climbed out, closed the door. Bleeker flicked his eyes over. The little yellow car. Mustafa opened the trunk, put his laptop into a bag, then closed it. Dropped into the driver's seat, cranked up, and made a slow circle until he was headed towards the dock.
Engine noise faded. Snow building on the windshield, smearing across with the wipers. Bleeker didn't move. The coffee had left a bad taste in his mouth and Mustafa wouldn't let him smoke in the car. That whole thing with the cook and the woman. Wondered if they'd have spoken up if he'd been with a white guy. Or if he'd been dressed in more than sweatpants and a t-shirt under his jacket. The shit he used to take for granted. People weren't really like that, were they?
Didn't matter. He rubbed his aching jaw.
Mustafa played it cool. For Bleeker's sake more than his own, now he could see that. And coming all this way, only to take off quick like that?
Bleeker slammed the Buick into drive and spun around. Had to catch up. Dangerously fast, slipping all over. Mustafa couldn't have been more than a half-mile ahead, not yet off the ice. Bleeker gained on him. Flashed his headlights. Finally got his attention. The little yellow car's brakelights flamed on, and Bleeker had to swerve. Slid off to the side, then started a one-eighty. Got control and ended up in front of Mustafa, facing him.
Bleeker got out, walked over to Mustafa. The car window eased down a couple of inches. "What, you crazy, man?"
"What did you come here to ask me? I want to know."
Mustafa shook his head. Heat poured from the window. Snow melted as it hit the glass. "Aw, man, you don't worry
yourself about that."
Bleeker pounded his palm on top of the car. "Tell me! You want to go over there and get him, don't you? That's what you're here for. You want me to help you."
"It's okay. Don't even think about it."
"That's it. I know it is. You want me to go with you and bring him back."
Mustafa opened his mouth. Closed it. Let out a breath. Bleeker brushed snow off his head. Not going anywhere until he got an answer.
A long wait, but Mustafa finally said, "Would you go if I asked?"
"To get Adem? Not Jibriil?"
Shrugged. "Don't even know where that boy is, man."
"But maybe Adem knows."
"Alright, so maybe he knows. As long as it doesn't fuck with getting Adem back home safely, you can ask whatever you want."
Bleeked nodded. Snow collecting all over him, but he felt warm. "And when he's back here? Are you going to hide him, or make him talk to the police?"
"Hey, he's going to tell them the truth. Even if that means we've got to fight in court, cut him a deal, whatever. He's got to own up. But I'm thinking we've got to recognize that Jibriil talked him into this shit with lies, and once he was over there, he was forced to do what they told him."
Sounded good. Sounded right. If Mustafa would stick with that, it was all good. "He's got to testify about Jibriil killing Cindy. If your boy fired one shot—"
"Don't push it. Don't even."
Okay. Okay. Thinking. "Just the two of us?"
"I still have family over there. Battle-hardened men. We'll have help."
He didn't need to hear any more. "I'm in."
Mustafa rolled the window down more. "For real? Look at you, can't even dress yourself."
"A bad month, that's all. Deal me in."
Mustafa looked out across the ice, hand dangling over the top of his steering wheel. The snow blew right in on him. He didn't flinch.
Then, "Let's get you back to the shack. Fuck those bagels, man. I want some McDonald's. Then we've got to book some tickets."
Bleeker said alright and went back to his car. He climbed in, started back towards the ice shack. More snow. Heavier and heavier. But so what? He finally felt like he was thawing out. Turned on the radio. Oldies. "Dancing in the Streets". Bleeker hated that song. Didn't matter. He tapped out the rhythm on the wheel and realized he hated ice fishing almost as much as anything in the world.
SEVENTEEN
Air conditioning. Six weeks without it, Adem would never take it for granted again. He'd also never live anywhere this hot as soon as this job was done. The suits fit nicely, the shirts very soft, fine. The shoes, Italian leather. He had silk ties but only wore them when he knew there would be cameras.
Like today. The negotiators for the Canadians had asked for a break. Farah had let Adem handle the meeting on his own for the first time, and he could tell the men on the other side were a little uncomfortable with that. Maybe they believed he was softer than Farah. Maybe the whole break was meant to throw him off his game. Adem and Sufia stayed behind in the hotel meeting room as it emptied out, leaving only the two of them and their pirate bodyguards. Not Garaad, though, since he always seemed to be out of sight except when Adem wanted him that way.
He kept smiling at simple things. The pitchers of clean water around the table for anyone to drink at any time. The easy internet access—although he never had much time to look at it and Garaad was always right there in case Adem were to write emails back home. No, he knew what that would mean. He had to be careful.
Adem leaned towards Sufia. "What did you think?"
She looked at her notes. "They're stalling, obviously. Hoping the Americans will help, give them a cheaper way out."
Although she'd been forced to take the job, she was coming to relish it. Adem treated her as an equal and let her talk in meetings. He'd given her more than she had expected from his own payments so she could buy nice clothes and afford a good room. She was staying a block away from his condo, the home of an older couple with two rooms to rent since their children had left home. An ideal situation.
He nodded at her assessment. "I think Farah can be convinced that he should look to end this before the US sticks its nose in. He knows the hostages are worth a lot, but not that much."
"They've only ever come shooting after the cruise ship. Never for a freighter. And the President isn't looking for another war."
"How far do they want to push? If we come down in price a few hundred thousand—"
Sufia covered her mouth with her hand. He knew what she was hiding.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're laughing at me."
She sighed. "You've done this twice now. Always ready to cut the price."
Was she calling him a coward? He didn't like it, but he liked it. Showing a side of herself that would have been unheard of—punishable, even—back in Mogadishu. Sufia was playing the devil's advocate, teasing him.
"The first time was nerves. This time, it's reality. If the Canadians think the Americans will swoop down and rescue them—"
"More likely with money than manpower. We will get the number we want." She didn't need to say Because that's good for our own pocketbooks, too.
Adem lifted his water glass. Condensation made it slippery. He gripped tighter, took a drink. A small piece of ice washed into his mouth. He crunched it, liked the cold on his tongue. The simple things. Ice on his tongue. He'd missed ice.
Sufia closed her notes, stacked her papers. Adem never carried his own. Hands always free to shake or embrace as needed.
He said, "Hungry?"
Another of her You don't get it looks. "Please, Adem."
"We're partners. It's a business lunch. Come on."
The wheels turned. Always turning. She'd already played the social game once in London, so why was she so guarded now? A few more seconds of stacking, arranging, and she said, "Okay, just lunch."
That was good enough. He rose from the chair, buttoned his suit coat, and escorted her out of the air-conditioned conference room into the lobby, and then to the hotel's restaurant.
*
The condo, lush. The only problem was that Garaad lived with him. Garadd was too loud, too selfish. He hogged the television. He wanted to know what Adem was doing every moment they were in the condo together. Garaad also held onto Adem's cell phone. Adem had to ask to use it. Humiliating. He wondered if any of these people would ever trust him.
But the nights, oh the nights. A queen-sized bed all to himself. Fine sheets, several pillows. Adem opened the windows every night and listened to the ocean. Garaad also had a bedroom, but mostly he ended up falling asleep on the couch in front of the TV, volume up to wall-shaking. The couch had been pristine when they arrived. Now it was covered with boot stains, dirt stains, sweat. Never mind, there were plenty of other chairs in the place, and Adem made sure not to allow Garaad into his room. Even had a lock and key.
And an honest-to-Allah bathroom. A shower! A sink! Adem's shower that first day took nearly an hour, half of the time standing under the hot water, crying. As for Garaad, he didn't seem as enthused about it. Their first fight was over Garaad taking a shower, since he didn't want to but Adem kept pushing, more and more angry, how important these people were, the ones they had to meet. Businessmen. Power brokers. If they sensed weakness, rusticity, simple-mindedness, then all hope for a successful negotiation was gone. Adem also ordered him to dump the battlefield clothes for something that made more sense. Some khakis, perhaps. A loose shirt to help hide handguns.
Even though the car wasn't his, it was still a Mercedes SUV with a private driver at his call, any time, day or night. He and Sufia saw the city from the back of the car, ate in as many of the restaurants as they could, shopped. Garaad was always lurking, but Adem had learned the limits pretty quickly—no phones, no travel outside of the city, no long conversations that were not related to the job.
He'd only met the Captain of these particular pirates once, the first da
y, as the helicopter landed on the huge Dutch ship before taking them to their new digs. It was impressive, so small on the horizon, surrounded by nothing but water for miles, a few small surveillance ships and small pirate boats, light and fast. But as they closed in, the ship was like a city block, maybe two. Adem had only seen them at a distance from the Lake Superior shore. No idea they were this humongous. How did they stay afloat?
They'd landed, the pad on the center of the wheelhouse's roof. Outside, the deck stretched on forever ahead of them. Farah had ordered Sufia to stay in the chopper, but Adem wanted her along.
A wicked smile on Farah's face. "Dangling meat in front of starving dogs?"
So she stayed. Adem's heart in his throat every moment away, so sure they would fly her away and he would be stuck here at the whims of pirates. An elaborate trick—let the pirates cut him up and throw him overboard instead of having to let Jibriil make that hard decision. Later, they would tell the young leader that Adem had died at the hands of government forces. Something like that.
Didn't happen. Adem was taken to meet "Captain" Mahmood, in the wheelhouse with the Dutch captain, who was filthy, unshaven, and humiliated, but in otherwise good health. Mahmood was a living skeleton, some sort of freakishly tall, bony, immortal. Sunken eyes. Hard to age him, but Adem guessed in his late-thirties, but he'd had a rough time getting there. Scars on his forehead and right eye like he'd been raked by pitbull claws. In the captain's chair, he was slumped low, his knees as tall as his head. But when Farah entered, the man sat straighter. Adem easily picked up on who had the upper hand.
Mahmood spoke in Arabic, accented heavily with Somali overtones. A thick stew. "You? You're our mouth?"
Farah said, "He's very smart, this one. Very bright young man."
Mahmood raised his ass from the seat, his voice a growl. "I was talking to the boy! He is my mouth, then he has to talk! Talk, boy, talk in English!"
The odors of the wheelhouse, the heat and sweat and unwashed men, made Adem choke. Held a hand over his mouth. Not a good time to lose it. He cleared his throat, breathed through his mouth. "You can call me Adem."
All the Young Warriors Page 17
