A big laugh. Rolling. "The first man! Yes! He says it like, ah, Clint Eastwood. A, ah…" Chewed on the word in English. "Cowboy."
"I'm from Minnesota. The cowboys are from next door, in South Dakota."
Mahmood leaned forward, his knees moving ever higher. "You've seen real cowboys?"
"Some. They're not like in the movies."
"No, I bet they're better. Movies clean up all the good stuff. I'll bet they're cold hearted killers, aren't they?"
Why the hell not? "They can be, if someone gets in their way."
Mahmood loved it, clapped his hands and laughed. Looked at the Dutch captain, called him Jacob. "He's a real American, Jacob! Look at what we have. You'll be home in no time."
A worn-out grin from the Dutchman. "Sure, sure. No time."
Adem had been briefed. The hostages had been there seventy-four days. The captain and sixteen others. Three had died—during the initial raid, trying to escape, and from a heart attack. The question Adem wondered: Once your spirit was broken down so small, what kept you alive?
Maybe he would have found out had they not plucked him from the hospital.
That made him feel better. His wounds were not his whole world anymore.
Mahmood tuned his attention to Garaad, who had been very quiet. He lurked behind Farah. Adem wondered if the pirate captain intimidated the soldier. Mahmood looked him over.
Farah stepped forward, whispered, "Bodyguard."
Mahmood pursed his lips, nodded. He'd seen plenty of tough young punks, right? But Americans, not so much. He said something to Farah that Adem didn't catch. But they laughed together. Garaad seemed to shrink farther back into the wall.
Adem asked Mahmood in Arabic, "What do you want, and what have they told you?"
He shrugged. "Five million American dollars."
Adem looked around at the faces, all waiting for him. "Is that normal?"
Mahmood, either enraged or overjoyed gave him a wide-eyed look that Adem had only seen on circus clowns. His raked eye was cloudy, red. "It's not that bad, even to you, eh? Is it?"
Another roar. The laughter was frightening.
Adem took a wild guess. "They don't want to give you anything."
Mahmood shrugged. So did Jacob, who spoke up for the first time. "Maybe they never will. Please, whatever it takes. It's just money."
Mahmood was out of his seat, at the Dutchman's side. Slung an arm over his shoulder. Jacob didn't look at him. Down and away.
Another round of tortured English. "This man, this is a good man. An infidel, but a good man. He's no hero. There are times to be a different sort of hero. That's what he is being. I would love to have him as one of mine, except that I'd be afraid he'd surrender too fast!"
More laughter, echoing back at them. Farah looked annoyed with it. It was becoming more clear who was the real brain here, with Mahmood a Blackbeard-style figurehead. It was Farah who spoke to him on the way back to the chopper after Mahmood had more fun talking about American movies—Predator! Unforgiven! Star Wars!—and playing the role of Han Solo instead of answering Adem's questions. Garaad stepped up to Adem's side, said softly, "He's lost his mind. The most dangerous sort of man."
Mahmood swung Adem's way once more and grabbed his jaw, scaring Garaad back five paces. Looked at his teeth. Nodded.
"Good teeth. I'd like my mouth to have good teeth. And good clothes, not these. He's American, man! Make him look like one."
And that was that. It was Farah from then on. Back to the deck, chopper blades starting to whirl. Farah told him, "The idea will be to get three million. Fight hard for five. Make it seem like Mahmood is a crazy man."
"I can do that."
"Don't write things down that will leave a trail. Some notes if you need to, yes, but something that a stranger or policeman would not be able to interpret. Everything else is word of mouth. A handshake."
"And all of the details? The names of the company and the banks and the government officials?"
Farah pulled a thin manila folder from his coat. It had been folded longways, and he must have been carrying it for weeks, from the looks. "When you've memorized everything in this, burn it."
He lifted the cover, but Farah held a hand over it. Motioned for Adem and Garaad to get back on the helicopter. Farah wasn't coming along this time. "Wait until you're there. Don't let anyone else read it. You choose what to tell your partners. And, when we meet again, don't use your real name. Think of something…important."
Adem nodded at all this, then climbed aboard beside Sufia, still as he left her. Garaad sat across from them. The chopper lifted off the pad and everything large became small again.
Except for Adem, growing taller by the minute. He reach over, patted Sufia's hand, right in front of Garaad, too, and told her, "We're in business."
She looked at him, his retreating hand, then said, "With devils."
Devils or not, he'd do the job. Didn't mean he had become one of them, did it? He looked back at the shrinking ship. No skull and crossbones. Just business.
*
Lunch, at a fancy table, inside. Water and hot tea instead of camel's milk. Clean silverware. Adem had gained a few pounds back. He looked forward to meals more than anything. Most of them alone. Sufia would come along between meetings like this, but he had yet to get her alone for dinner. She always declined, took meals with her landlords. Fine, fine. She'd come around, he hoped. They had time. As much time as there were ships that dared sail through pirate-infested waters and companies that would rather pay a tiny fraction of their profits to get the ship and crew back than risk starting World War III.
Sufia didn't say much. Polite, but not like when they were talking business. That was when she came alive—she had the figures down cold, and she knew the players better than Adem did. She fed him and Farah the intel she picked up. Who reacted to what, who was getting notes passed to them from outside the room, who wasn't paying attention. Beautifully smooth. She was mostly ignored in the room except for the Western men wondering what she looked like without her hijab and modest dresses.
"I swear, it's like I'm back home." Adem lifted a forkful of chicken, cooked over a wood grill. Wonderful kebabs. He avoided the camel meat, but they always had chicken, beef, goat, a never-ending supply, it seemed. He didn't mind eating alone, because with each bite he could pretend he was home in Minneapolis, a restaurant in a strip mall with his parents and grandmother enjoying a night out. His cousins, his older sister, all there, warm on a frosty March evening.
Sufia had made herself small, ate barely a third of her lunch. She said, "Do you always order so much?"
"I didn't have much to eat at the hospital."
"But it was enough."
He pushed spicy chunks of chicken around on his plate. Not hungry anymore. "What have I done to offend you? I thought…you and me…"
She took a sip of water and then went right to, "When we resume, I think you should be cautious with the American." She flipped through her notes, but Adem knew she didn't need to. All the names were committed to memory, same as with him. "Derrick Iles. We still don't know why he is in the room, but he's been receiving notes and calls today, quite a few."
He didn't want to talk business. Tired of business. He had expected a break between ships, but it seemed as if only a handful of hours after the Dutch ship was released, Mahmood leapt onto the Canadian boat and Farah put him back to work. "Listen, truly, I want us to be friends."
A strained smile. "We are, Adem."
"I know you have ways of doing things different from me, I understand that. But then let me do things the proper way. Tell me what it takes."
"I don't think this is the time."
"It never is. It never will be. Is there some reason you are closing the door on me?"
"You assume I had opened one?"
"Well…if not, then I apologize. It was never my intention—"
"It was. Don't lie. Not now. You've been as honest as a man can be until now. I knew it wou
ldn't last forever." She dabbed her lips with the linen napkin. "You make a big leap and expect me to follow. You forced me to come with you. I had no choice. You asked for me and they handed me over. What made you think—"
"Are you telling me you don't love every minute of it?" He had raised his voice. Caught the attention of other diners, even a couple of Canadians from the negotiation room. He brought it down, eased his chair closer to hers. "This sort of work, you're great at it. Whenever we talk about the work, I've never seen you more alive, more vital!"
"The work. Not how I got here. You expect me to throw myself at you like an American whore. Like all of us are really American whores at heart, and that's the last thing we are. We are jewels! We are valuable! Allah has made it so. It is men like yourselves, dirty in your hearts, who mess up the will of God. Especially you. Americans. The light of the world. Freedom above all else. That's what you believe. God follows the flag, not the other way around."
The words, the heat behind them, took their toll on Adem. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar. Throat bulging. "I…I really didn't know. I…it seemed…."
What to say?
"I thought you were different, but I was wary. Good thing. Of all people, I thought you would ask me. Not send a soldier, force me onto a jeep."
"I didn't have a choice, either. Did you think about that? I had to choose, right then. Go or not. If I had chosen not, then my fate was in the air. I had to, and I chose you. If I could've told you face to face, don't you think I would have?"
She pushed her chair from the table. Adem began to rise as she did, but a cut of her eyes sent him down again. "I don't know. This way you got to be my hero. How does that feel now?"
He looked around, raised his hand. "Please, sit. Please. Where would you go?"
Sufia huffed, but she sat. Adem was about to pour out his heart, every contrite thing he could think of to bleed at her feet. Make her see the real Adem. No, he knew better. The Adem he wanted to be for her. The man he wanted to be from then on.
But he looked up and saw Garaad weaving through the tables, approaching fast. Adem wondered if he'd seen any of the fight, especially Sufia trying to run off. But Garaad was oblivious, a sheen of sweat all over him, his new lightweight button-up silk shirt and thin linen pants sticking to his skin in spots. The obvious bulge of gun and the tip of his knife. Not subtle, but better than the whole camo get-up.
He took a seat without asking, reached over for an empty water glass, filled it from the pitcher. Downed the whole glass. Slammed the empty on the table, let out a loud belch. More attention from the diners. Great.
"I did what she told me." He never spoke to Sufia directly unless it was an order. "I followed Iles."
Adem hadn't known about this. Yes, the American had become more active after a couple of days when he had seemed some sort of government token player, never saying a word or even paying close attention. Today, though, it was as if he was the center of attention, all unspoken. The Canadians would stop speaking when a text message buzzed, or when someone handed him a slip of paper. He would take a look, and either nod to have the speaker continue, or he would leave the room, coming back minutes later with either a head shake or wink. Three hours of that today. At least ten times.
Adem said, "What did you find?"
"He goes back to his hotel. I pay a girl on staff to tell me what it's like. He makes a lot of requests—laundry, room service, extra pillows and towels. He's not carrying a weapon. He is constantly on the cell phone, never raises his voice. Definitely some rich asshole."
Adem thought he could've figured that out without paying anyone. "What else?"
"Lots of men in and out. Some of the Canadians. Some Americans who haven't been in the room. Some of these men, all pretty tough. They are armed. I don't know how. I don't know if they are military. Maybe CIA."
"Why would the CIA care about a Canadian freighter?" Adem said it aloud before realizing it. Garaad glared.
Sufia said, "Unless it's an undercover operation. Not really what it appears to be."
"Maybe so. Which is also why they are treating us this way. Lazy negotiating. No movement. I thought it was a strategy. Maybe they're waiting for something, though."
"For us?"
"No. But we can push the agenda. I need to talk to Farah, explain."
Garaad pointed at the leftover food. "You done?"
Adem waved the plate away. Garaad took both his and Sufia's. The sound she made, she must've still been hungry. But not a word. She watched Garaad devour the food. Adem picked up his phone, said to her, "Why don't you take a break? Make sure your mobile is on. I'll see you back in there."
Maybe she was tired of him ordering her around, but the relief at being sent away from the table was obvious all over her. Once she was gone, Garaad made a rude noise. Eyes on Adem. Then: "Don't worry. She'll be eating out of your hand again soon."
"Excuse me?"
Garaad smiled. It stung whenever he did. Something so smug about it. "Lover's spat. But you grab her by the neck, she'll fall in line."
Adem shoved his chair back, nearly knocked it over. Gripped his phone tightly, like he might crack it. "I have a call to make."
"You already paid the bill, right?"
Adem ignored the guy, shoveling in food without taking a breath. He walked out and called Farah, told him Mahmood needed to go batshit crazy on cue. "Sometime around two this afternoon would work."
Closed the phone. Found a cozy chair in the lobby. He rubbed his temples with his fingers and closed his eyes. Repeated in his mind, You will go home again, she will go with you, You will go home again, she will…
EIGHTEEN
By the time Bleeker and Mustafa stepped off the boat in Bosaso, Bleeker was in awe of how two American teenagers had managed to make it even farther. It had taken a day or two of planning the trip, trying not to draw attention to where they were ultimately headed. They needed to leave separately, different airports, different destinations. Then, once there (New York and Toronto), book flights to London. Same airport, but still not ready to travel together. Two more flights, one to Prague, one to Northern Italy. Bleeker traveled by train from Prague to meet up with Mustafa at a mountain villa, where they began laying down plans for the rest of the trip.
It had cost Bleeker all of his savings, plus a quickie loan from the local bank, where he had a few longtime friends. One of the vice presidents had gone to school with him in the Eighties. Sure, Ray could have twenty grand if he really needed it. Everyone had heard how tragic his loss had been, how he needed a new place to live. He was good for it.
Not anymore.
They packed like tourists—lots of clothes, cameras, toiletries, all the stuff Americans were afraid they couldn't get overseas. Once in Milan, they dumped most in order to travel light the rest of the way. They needed lightweight clothes for the African heat, something to cover their skin. Bleeker was at a disadvantage. He could never blend in with his wintertime Minnesota skin like milk. They could lay on the fake tan pretty heavy, make him as brown as possible. Darker, but not dark enough. So they would have to say he was a writer, like a reporter, paying them to let him tag along. They could say he was Canadian.
Guns. They couldn't bring their own. Bleeker hoped they wouldn't need to use any at all, but just in case. Bosaso was a modern growing city, but Bleeker couldn't escape the feeling that it would feel like the Wild West. Mustafa said his people would take care of the guns. No worries. Sure, that was something easy to shove onto the back burner. Right.
Next, Kenya, where Mustafa's cousins and uncles lived. The country had been a refuge for Somalis escaping the war in the early years. Many moved on from there to other countries in Africa, then Europe, then America. Minneapolis, for some reason. It was a quiet welcome. A friendly meal, some prayers, and then the guns, both of them given cheap but reliable 9mm pistols. They looked like they'd seen plenty of action. From Croatia, the uncle said. Good guns. Bleeker wanted more stopping power, but he took
what was given.
Bleeker's attention drifted with a cigarette dangling from his lips, sitting with his back against the wall, looking out a window as the sun set, listening to Mustafa and his uncle talk in their native tongue. He could only pick up a few words here and there. But Mustafa had already told him what they would be discussing—how to get themselves into Somalia without anyone knowing about it.
One of the words he kept picking up: "Boat". From Kenya, south of Somalia, all the way past the horn, to Bosaso, without being noticed.
Bleeker thought he was laughing a little, right on the edge of dreaming. They'd come so far to be so close to bet it all on a crapshoot.
*
"That's a pirate boat, right?" Bleeker was going to point but Mustafa slapped his hand down. Not even to the halfway mark, early morning, and they were seeing the small fast wooden boats packed with skinny men armed to the teeth. If they had wanted Mustafa's cousin's boat—another long skinny skiff almost like the pirates—it was an easy target. But somehow they skated past. Nothing to see here.
"They're not a tourist attraction. Don't point." Even looking at them was a no-no.
"Shit."
A couple of cousins looked on, laughing. Altogether, there were seven of them. All black except Bleeker. They covered him up as much as they could—big sunglasses, a hat, shirt buttoned up all the way, a bandana around his neck, covering his nose and mouth. But those hands. No way to hide those hands. The heat was impossible, the gleam off the water as painful as needles in Bleeker's eyes. He would sweat pools of orange. That's why he had to wear darker colors, long sleeves. Mustafa and his people were in T-shirts and polos. He was obviously the odd man out.
"We're going to get caught."
"They've been up and down the coast for years. They know what to do."
"Did you ever go with them when you were younger?"
Mustafa shook his head, glanced at his cousins, then back at Bleeker. "Last time I saw Warfaa, there," he nodded towards the man manning the outboard, "we were both, I think, four, five. We left at about the same time. Our families had tried so hard to stay out of it, the war, and then our grandfather, Bahdoon, was killed when he refused to turn his sons over to one of the warlords, a man named Ibrahim. A military man. It wasn't like Arabian Nights with swords and genies. He had soldiers and guns and trucks. He stole food meant for starving people. He shot anyone who got in his way. The Americans were here, but they were useless. So my grandmother got us out. She died after the trip, but along the way, she was our rock. It was her sister in Kenya who helped us come to America.
All the Young Warriors Page 18
