All the Young Warriors

by Anthony Neil Smith

  "I was too young. I remember being told not to look when we passed the dead or soldiers or fires. I remember my father and uncles sleeping all day, only coming out of hiding at night to take over from our mom and aunts. Otherwise, they might be drafted into the army. So I don't know these men anymore, but we all went through the same thing. They won't let us down."

  Bleeker didn't know what to say. "You know, Cindy's partner, Poulson? The one Jibriil shot first? He was in Somalia back then. In the Marines."

  "Yeah?"

  "Oh yeah. He talked about it with me. Guess it was his only time out of the country. But he said it was dull. They weren't allowed to do anything. He was there when Blackhawk happened, and still, what could they do? They pulled everybody out right after. As far as I know, he spent the whole time checking in equipment."

  "No action? He didn't see the riots? The dead?"

  Bleeker shook his head. "He was a guy with a clipboard. But still, even with all I saw in Iraq, and even with me supposedly being good with the Somalis in town, I'm thinking he understood you guys better than I did. He had a chip on his shoulder."

  "Too bad."

  "Not like he hated them. More like, I don't know, he made a lot of jokes. He liked to laugh with the local Somalis, even if they didn't get it. Or they did, and knew he was making fun of them. That's the sort of guy he was."

  "He underestimated Jibriil."

  Another pirate boat. Warfaa said something to Mustafa, who nodded. "If they stop us, you've got to be cool. They'll notice you eventually, but don't give them a reason to."

  A nod. Then, "Did you underestimate Jibriil, back when he was friends with Adem in high school?"

  Mustafa was keeping an eye on the pirates, who were too close for comfort. Warfaa waved. The pirates circled the boat, one lap, then waved back, went on their way.

  He said, "Back then? He was nothing. A wannabe. Tried to join up with my old gang all the time, and I kept telling them to push him away. There was no way I was going to let one of Adem's friends drag him into that."

  "What if you had? You know, what if you had let him?"

  Shook his head. "Boy would be dead. He would've gotten tough with the wrong man, got himself shot. It would be all my fault."

  "Then he wouldn't have gotten wrapped up with the Muslims."

  "One of those things, like, it was fate. If I went back in time, right? Tried to do it different? There'd always be something happen to make sure we ended up right here. Never going to change." Mustafa handed over a bottle of water, already warm. "Get yourself full. It's still a long trip."

  *

  They pulled up to a concrete pier jutting out from a shore of giant rocks, a large cargo ship nearby while many smaller boats came and went around it. Bleeker saw lots of these piers along the way, the deep blue water stopping against the rocks. Machine noise all around. Past the rocks farther ashore, Bleeker saw the arms of cranes, bright yellow, moving back and forth. Cargo containers, bundles from the farm, wooden crates.

  One of the cousins tied the boat around a post sticking up from the concrete. They all steadied the boat, pulled it against the pier. Couple of scrapes, then Warfaa pulled himself onto the dock and reached down to help Bleeker and Mustafa out. Then the cousins, except for two who had to take care of the boat and would meet them later. And there they were. Bosaso.

  Even after being on the boat for so long, surrounded by the deep and watching the land grow closer, the view from land was even better. Bleeker thought about the lakes back home, how he'd been sleeping on a frozen one that stretched for miles and miles only a few days before, and how now he'd spent most of the day on the Indian Ocean. Cindy would've loved it. They might have traveled one day, when the child was old enough. They would've taken her to Disney World. They would've left her with grandma and taken a trip to India.

  Hard to keep his mind on the job at hand with a view like that. Mustafa laid a hand on his shoulder, gave it a shake. Bleeker swallowed, took a deep breath, and said, "Okay, I'm ready. Okay."

  On down the pier to a dirt road, the left leading to other piers, other boats, and the right leading over to the larger docks. Warfaa spoke with Mustafa, pointing, nodding, and they started off. Thicker crowds along the way, and Bleeker began to feel self-conscious—all covered-up, face hidden from view. Yeah, he got looks. More and more. He thought a Muslim woman's burka might be a better choice, no skin at all and a slit for the eyes.

  Mustafa led. Bleeker caught up.

  "Are we heading straight there?"

  "Not yet. First, Warfaa wants to get a look at the place. It's a hotel. He can get a lay of the land and we can draw it up. I'm hoping we can do this without a fight. Find him when he's alone and just go."

  "After we ask about Jibriil."

  "Risky."

  "That was the deal."

  "No, it wasn't."

  Bleeker stopped, grabbed Mustafa's arm, pulling him back. "Wait a minute, are you trying—"

  "The deal was that Adem testifies. He answers all questions. We always said it was about Adem."

  "If Jibriil is here, we go after him, too!"

  Through gritted teeth. "That will take a fight. On foreign soil, far outnumbered."

  "Sure, fine. I'm ready. I told you."

  Mustafa shook his head. "I didn't come here to watch you commit suicide. Stupid! I knew I should've never…So stupid."

  He left Bleeker behind, the cousins following. Bleeker caught his breath, sea-salty and wet. The deal had been Jibriil. Of course it had. Adem was Mustafa's problem. Bleeker wanted Jibriil's throat in his hands. A confession right before the life was choked out of him. Even if it meant neither one would make it out of Somalia alive.

  A minute or two of standing there, then he realized people were staring back. Talking about him. Who is that? The man with the pale hands?

  He sped up as the dock faded and a busy city street opened up a block away, but the cousins were splitting. Fast, left and right, leaving Mustafa alone as a couple of white men who had gotten out of a sedan with blacked-out windows came right for him. The fuck was this? Had his "family" sold them out? Bleeker hurried. Mustafa stopped when he realized, looked back, saw Bleeker reaching for his pistol. Mustafa sliced the air with his hand down low.

  Good thing. The white guys, sunglasses, slacks, oversized golf shirts with the tails hanging out, had to be packing too. One was reaching same as Bleeker, but his partner barked, got him to back down. They slowed next to Mustafa, asked him a question. Mustafa shook his head. Bleeker was still a good twenty feet away. The partner started towards him, his hand out. "Settle down, everything's good, Detective. No problem."

  They were both tough guys—biceps, big trunks, thick necks. The one with Mustafa was a bit on the older side, Ex-Marine, maybe. The young one, shit, Bleeker couldn't make heads or tails of it. He'd covered his tracks pretty well, he thought. If someone was going to find him, he expected it to be later, not five minutes after they docked.

  Bleeker didn't raise his hands, didn't say a word. The young tough guy inched closer, finally reaching out and taking off Bleeker's shades. The light off the white buildings pretty much blinded him. He squinted, tried to get a clear picture.

  "If you could ride with us, we'll explain everything. Come along."

  The young guy let Bleeker lead, put a hand on the back of his shoulder once he'd taken a few steps. What, the kid was going to catch him if he tried to run? The Marine was doing the same with Mustafa, but all it took was one roll of his shoulder for the tough guy's hand to let go like it had been bitten by electricity.

  Opened the sedan's back door. Mustafa went in. A few moments later, Bleeker dropped in beside him. Door closed. Cool and quiet in the car. Bleeker was about to say something—about the cousins, about someone ratting them out—when the two toughs climbed in front, shutting him up.

  The younger one drove. The Marine turned in his seat, elbow on the back. "I appreciate you cooperating. You are not in any danger, I promise."


  "Are we getting sent back?"

  "I don't know anything. You'll have to talk with Mr. Iles."

  "What, CIA? FBI? We need their help."

  Mustafa nudged Bleeker. Felt like Shut up already.

  The Marine had this barely-there grin, like he was a bit too proud of how easy it was to grab his marks. "Hot out there, Detective Bleeker. Maybe you'd like to roll up your sleeves."

  Bleeker looked at Mustafa. "Sold out."

  "I ain't saying anything."

  The air conditioner ran full on. Goosebumps on Bleeker's skin. He hadn't minded the way Bosaso looked with his shades on, but he hated the way it looked through these tinted windows, all the bright white buildings muddled, all the people shadows.

  NINETEEN

  They would take a step forward, then two back. Almost as if the Canadian negotiators forgot each day's progress and came back exactly where they'd been before. It was ridiculous. Even when Mahmood dangled a handful of crew off the side of the boat by their wrists, all Adem got was lip service. Farah held off his pirate's growing bloodlust—he'd wanted to gut a crewman and use him to catch a shark—by telling them that would pull in the American Navy, and those guys never paid. Never will.

  Adem fought to hold his tongue when the exec across the table said, "We don't understand why all of our good faith is being stepped on. The offer of three hundred and sixty-eight thousand makes perfect sense."

  It was a number they'd spit out a few days back. It was a joke. Farah had explained that, calmly, as if he was talking to a class of kindergartners. It was funny, the way he'd actually started to explain extortion as a simple economic transaction. Adem was beginning to believe it. In the same conversation, Farah said that they would begin with a number of six million American dollars, and that they would work it down until everyone was satisfied.

  And here was Three Six Eight again. The main negotiator was too embarrassed to say it, Adem guessed. That's why he uncaged the barking puppy to fight for a while.

  He looked at Sufia, taking her coded notes. She didn't look up. He needed her to. He was at a loss, except to say it was a stalling tactic. Maybe she was reading something more. But she kept to herself today, steady hand. Invisible. Adem poured more water. He could barely hold onto his glass already, thick with condensation. He had asked that the air conditioner in the room be turned low. After all, these were Canadian businessmen, not used to the heat. But neither was Adem, born and raised in Minnesota. He hoped his time in the desert would win out.

  "Gentlemen," Adem said, speaking loudly as if to an auditorium. "We seem to have a problem with our communications. I have already expressed that particular offer to the Captain, and we have seen his response. The blade's edge is at the neck of these men, understand? I say that in all modesty as an intermediary working for the best interest of both parties."

  He heard the older exec sigh and mumble My ass you are. The younger kept on, "He's crazy. This Captain can't expect to act like a two-year-old and get handed a bank for it. It has to stop."

  "It will, with the death of your crew. That is not a threat. It is simply the truth if we cannot find a way to appease the Captain, all of us, working together. I implore you, reconsider."

  The younger one shook his head. "Three sixty-eight. He's making a mistake."

  Adem felt the room slipping away. The heat? The situation? His water glass slipped through his palm, landed on the table, a two-inch drop and thump, splashing all over. He caught the lip, a tsunami of water soaking his sleeve.

  Sufia cleared her throat, barely audible. Adem looked over. Did she want to speak? He gestured at her, nodded.

  She said, "Two point one million. That is the number. It is the only number any more."

  What was she doing? If she shut this down by taking a hard stance, they were dead. Shark chum, same as that crew. What the hell?

  He used her code name, "Miss Leyla, please—"

  "A moment more. I am not speaking for the Captain or for Mr. Mohammed. I am simply setting the bottom line, which Mr. Mohammed has so far been kind enough to refrain from."

  The execs looked shocked. The younger one, eyes wide for a moment, recovered and said, "Well, Miss Leyla, I had no idea you had the authority to speak on this matter." To Adem. "Does she? What's the game here?"

  "There is no game other than the one you are playing." Think, Adem, think. "Time is running out. We should take a short break to allow time to consider—"

  "I don't think they need any more time." Sufia again. Where had this come from? Was she working for someone else now? "I believe it's now or nothing."

  The older exec sat forward in his chair, the first time he hadn't looked bored all session. He was about to say something, Adem was sure, but then he looked back over his shoulder at the line of secretaries and other hangers-on seated in chairs against the wall. He nodded at the one named Derrick Iles, who launched from his chair and stepped to the exec's side. Braced one hand on the table, his other arm on the back of the man's chair. Not quite whispering, not quite talking. But Iles shook his head several times. The exec finally said, "Are you sure?" Iles said something else, and the exec lifted his eyes to Adem. It was sudden, unexpected, and the exec looked away again quickly.

  What did they know?

  "Maybe the break is unnecessary," Adem said, interrupting Iles and the executive. "But I would like one just the same. Perhaps we can ask about the air in this room."

  He turned to Sufia, his back to the other side of the table. "What was that?"

  "Not in front of the Canadians."

  He was speechless. He wanted to take her hand, drag her to the empty conference room next door, and beg her to tell him. But they had to be careful, not let any more of their hand show. As if it wasn't obvious that Sufia had surprised the hell out of him. Farah surely hadn't given her permission to negotiate, had he? And not told Adem?

  They walked through the corridors, through the lobby, outside into the early evening, still hot enough to stick their clothes to their backs. They strolled easily, as if not at all wanting to scream at each other.

  She went first. "They were stalling. They've been stalling. We need an advantage. It's like they're waiting for something."

  "You could've passed me a note."

  "Idiot. They expect it from you. They don't know me. When I spoke, all of those eyes were riveted, confused, and panicked. He called Iles over, did you see?"

  What, was he blind now? "Of course I did. I think he said something about me."

  "Of course he did." She shot the same tone right back at him. "You're the one. It's still your game. But you were playing it to tie, not to win."

  "If I do that, it makes me one of them."

  "Them? Businessmen? Or them, pirates? You are afraid of the pirates? At least they don't lie about their intentions or motives."

  Adem laughed as if she'd told a joke. "Neither do I. But no one needs to die. No one at all."

  "Everyone dies. Better to die for something."

  "Die because someone else wants money?"

  She stopped. The expression was definitely not one he would expect from a secretary. There was her superior curled lip, the long blink. "How high-minded. As if the shipping companies don't risk lives for money all the time."

  Adem crossed his arms. He wanted to retreat within himself, avoid the manic pace of the street, the chatter, the dust. "I'll call Farah. We'll see."

  "Do that. He'll agree with me."

  "I'm not saying he won't. Why now? What have I done to make you so mad?"

  "You don't even listen! Not one word."

  "Sufia…" He reached for her hand.

  She pulled away. "Go back in and make the deal. They're up to something. We have to cut them off before they can make it happen."

  Same thing Adem saw. She was right, absolutely. But the company was a lot closer to being ready with whatever scheme they were planning than they were to handing over two point one million. She turned away. Adem pulled out his mobile, was abou
t to ring Farah when a hotel bellboy walked up to him. Stood there quietly. Adem lowered his phone. "You need something?"

  The bellboy held out a folded scrap of paper. Adem took it, opened it. Handwritten: "Hotel International. Room 14. Now."

  He looked up. The bellboy was still standing there. "Who sent this?"

  "Iles. Mr. Iles."

  "Iles?"

  "He sent me to find you, give you this. Alright, sir? Thank you sir." He nodded, took a few steps backwards, then turned and jogged away.

  Adem turned back to Sufia, her eyebrows squinched. "Iles? Derrick Iles?"

  "So we should have been paying more attention to him."

  "You don't know that yet. Let's go meet him."

  Adem shook his head. "I want Garaad to come along. You need to stay here in case something happens. You can step in for me."

  She was a whirlwind, the loose end of her hijab flying as she waved in the air like she was backhanding him. Inches away. "He would not have asked for you had I not spoken!"

  "You don't know that."

  "Then why now? I deserve to be there. I am as much a part of this negotiation as you are."

  "Yes, you are." How could he deny her? He had given her the opportunity, but the more awake she became, the more she was pulling away from him. "Yes. But we can't risk it. You can't go there alone. And we need someone here. And I need someone with a gun."

  She tossed the end of her hijab over her shoulder. Looked off down the street, all the people walking, a few cars coming and going from the hotel. "I understand."