"Please. This will be over soon, somehow. Let me try to end this as quietly as I can. I can get them to pay. But they have to be convinced it's the only way."
"The only way?"
"A failed raid makes them look stupid, reckless. A successful raid means the pirates will be nastier the next time around. The only way, then, is to pay."
"Yes, yes, I know what you mean. I know. But the true only way here is for them to fear us. Fear what we can do to them."
Spoken like a true pirate. Adem sucked in his top lip. Bit lightly. He lifted the phone again, eyes on Sufia as he pressed a button, held it to his ear. Several rings.
"Garaad? I need you. Bring two pistols." He closed the phone, put it back in his pocket.
Sufia brushed past him, headed back into the hotel, making Adem regret the day he'd ever met her.
*
The driver took Adem and Garaad to the hotel, one of the newest in town. While white like so many of the other buildings in Bosaso, almost a Mediterranean feel, this hotel immediately felt phony. Prefab rather than organic. Adem was sure there would be a lot more of that, as he'd seen back home, with strip malls around Minneapolis going up in miraculous amounts of time while abandoned buildings sat collecting graffiti and broken windows. How long before that split was obvious in Bosaso?
Very busy, lots of fancy cars, much like their own. Europeans on holiday, mostly. Adem was forgetting the shock of Mogadishu here, so much growth so quickly that he felt swept up in it, no longer afraid like in those first days when he went to sleep in his locked condo thinking Garaad would let in a brigade of young soldiers to drag him back into the desert.
Garaad had turned out to be less awful to live with as time went on. He seemed to enjoy his new wardrobe, especially the straw fedora. As both bodyguard and their own private eye, Garaad was finding his niche. Still had no manners, still thought Adem was a pussy, but he was becoming, well, civilized. Adem hated to use the word, but what else was there? Whichever of Garaad's Muslim beliefs had caused him to sign up to fight for Sharia, they were taking a backseat as he relished his new role.
The driver pulled up in front of the doors. "Sir?"
"Take the block, park somewhere. I'll call you when we're ready."
They got out of the SUV, Garaad already looking conspicuous to the doorman and porter. Like the bulges weren't obvious. Adem had forgotten to take one of the guns, so there was Garaad like a Wild West gunslinger, sure to get them confiscated. While on the way over, Garaad had told him who this Iles guy really was. Took nearly an entire day of digging into it.
"Private security."
"What, like, bodyguards?"
"No, bigger than that. Have you heard about the American mercenaries in Iraq? An entire company hired by the government to be soldiers, but not playing by the rules. Iles is one of those. He runs a company you can hire if you want a private army."
It made sense then. This was worse than if the Americans got involved. In a sense they already were, just with Iles instead of the official armed forces. A private army, accountable to no one, preparing to raid the Canadian ship.
It had sent Adem reeling, trying to sit there quietly and hide the panic. Would they blame him if this went bad? What would happen to the three of them, sent off to do a mission and end up causing a secret war? Garaad kept talking, details about who Iles met, how many men were at his disposal, how much he was getting paid, and how he had this entire city under his thumb. Throw a little money around here and there, and everyone was on Iles's side.
"It is not as bad as it sounds." Garaad, that wicked grin. "They shoot under cover of darkness, yes, but not if it costs them money."
"Good to know."
Adem walked several feet behind Garaad as they approached the big double doors, surrounded on all sides by landscaped tropical plants, palm trees, like the Garden of Eden. If the doorman grabbed Garaad for the guns, Adem wanted to be able to slip inside anyway, act like he didn't know this thug. Instead, the doorman smiled as they both approached, even said, "We've been expecting you, Mr. Mohammed."
Great.
He opened his door with a flourish, and the cool air from inside brushed over them like an ocean wave, instantly chilling, even a little painful. A white man stood inside, hands clasped in front of him. Definitely bodyguard material, wearing a golf shirt that squeezed tightly against his upper arms and chest, but was loose at his waistband. He nodded at Adem. "Would you gentlemen come with me, please?"
The lobby was immaculate, like a theme park version of Africa but with lots of wasted water—fountains everywhere. Tile, stone. A recreation of a grand and stately culture, one for kings. And weren't all of the visitors royalty? Wasn't their need to be pampered the way they were back home the reason the people of Bosaso had these new, less backbreaking jobs? Adem caught touches of gold trim, marble, and ivory. Only the best and the rarest, damn the elephants.
There were only three stories, no real need for an elevator, but here it was, gleaming steel, with a TV monitor inside showing scenes of the tropical shore, the wild animals, the sand, the jungle, whatever else a tourist hopes Africa is supposed to be. Tribal music, cleaned up and digitized, cliché. It was only once they were in the elevator that the guard, so cordial up until then, whipped out his pistol and held it like a pro, not far from Garaad's nose. Garaad's hands went up. Up up up. Like a dance.
"Sir, I ask that you hand over your firearms while guests of Mr. Iles."
Garaad was trying the little bit of English he knew. "Please, I don't do anything. Don't kill me. It's good, eh? Eh? No kill?"
Adem translated, calmly, and the wicked grin slid up Garaad's face again. In Somali, he said, "Sure, sure. Tell him I'll hand them over. Just tools. We've got plenty of tools back at the flat."
Garaad reached for his waistband. The guard pushed the gun into his face, stepped forward. "I'll do it! Tell him I'll do it! Keep his hands up."
The guard yanked the first gun out of Garaad's pants. Then turned him around, grabbed the second. Garaad winced. The guard shoved the guns into his own waistband, front and back. He looked at Adem. "Two guns?"
"One was for me."
"When we get up top, someone will check you."
A digital chime rang, and the doors slid open. A couple of similarly dressed men were waiting. The one in the elevator kept the pistol on Garaad while he handed out the other two guns. Said to his partners, "I'll finish with this one. You guys take the negotiator."
It wasn't so much that Garaad got rough treatment. These were the same as any American cops Adem had ever run into—and they were Americans, which was weird enough—but exceptionally polite. It was that when it came to Adem, they were even more polite. They brought him off the elevator with a guiding hand on his arm, and that was it for contact.
"Would you mind holding up your jacket? I do apologize. It'll only take a second."
So he did, and he rotated left and right, and they told him it was alright. They asked if he was comfortable seeing Mr. Iles alone. "He would prefer it. We can keep your friend company."
Splitting them up. Could they do this? Make the negotiator disappear? At least until after the raid.
"Garaad is sworn to protect me. He can't do that from outside the room."
"Scout's honor, you won't need protecting. Neither will he. A nice friendly talk is all."
Garaad looked pissed, like it was Adem's fault he couldn't come along. He wasn't afraid of these men like he was of the Ethiopians, though. It was a sign. Or an omen. Whatever. Adem had to go it alone.
One of the guards, hardly able to tell them apart in their golf shirts and slacks, led Adem down the hall to a hotel room door, partially open. A couple of quick knocks, and the guard announced "Mr. Mohammed."
A cheery voice inside. "Great, great, send him in."
The guard motioned towards the door and stepped back. Adem waited a moment. "This is Mr. Iles?"
The guard motioned again. "Please." Turned and walked back towards th
e checkpoint at the elevator. Garaad and two of the guards were already going in the other direction, maybe to his room, maybe to the stairwell, no idea. Adem flexed his fingers a few times. He'd had them balled tightly without noticing. Aching.
He pushed into the room, a suite. The front room was dim, a couple of amber-tinted safari-themed lamps glowing. A couch. A couple of chairs. A television, a wet bar, a coffee table full of papers next to a laptop. Derrick Iles was on his feet, closing his cell phone. Confident steps, pocketed the phone, reached out to shake Adem's hand. All smiles. "Good to see you, so good. Glad you could make it."
"Sure, sure." Adem started to close the door.
"Whoa, leave that open, okay? I've got a thing about closed doors. Like a cat. Ever had a cat do that? Open a door just to make sure it's open. They hate closed doors."
Adem left it open. Even better for him, so no problem. "I've never had a cat. Some fish, though."
"Hey, good English. Where'd you pick up the American accent?"
"America." Mess with him some. "I've been there a time or two."
Iles let go of Adem's hand, said, "Please, sit. Sit." Offered one of the chairs as he sat on the edge of the couch, knees bouncing. He wore cargo shorts and a green pullover Polo. A trim guy, clothes fit snugly. Boat shoes, no socks. Some kind of preppie.
Adem crossed one leg over the other, the way he'd seen other important men in suits do. Wrapped his fingers around his knee. "I have to say, I was surprised to receive the invitation. I'm not sure we've met before." Keep playing along. Act as if he was a minor player in the room, unnoticed.
Nothing could get the man's mood down, though. The easy-going nature didn't feel like an act. "Sorry about that. I'm more like a consultant. You've been doing a great job, I wanted to tell you. These guys were smart to hire you on. Otherwise the whole incident could've gone to hell pretty quickly."
Iles was on his feet again. Not exactly pacing. The door to the bedroom was closed, and Adem wondered why that one wasn't left open, too, or if the room was full of men ready to rush him and wire him up to a car battery.
"You want a drink?"
Adem waved it off.
"Or water? If you're a Muslim, you wouldn't drink. Sorry, about that. Do you mind if I…?" Iles held up a bottle of wine. "South African. Good stuff."
"We'll need to get back to the table soon." Adem looked at his watch. "Is there something I can help you with?"
Iles poured his glass of wine, deep violet. He swirled it around the glass, legs thick as syrup. "Right, okay, right. I don't mean to hold you up or anything. Still, if you don't mind me asking, how'd they find you? An ad in the paper? Friend of a friend?"
Adem's legs twitched. He wanted to kick like the doctor was testing his reflexes. "Again, I appreciate the chance to, um…get to know you better. But I must insist. The gentlemen will be waiting for us."
Still standing, leaning against the wet bar. Still swirling. "That's not a problem. They won't meet unless I tell them it's okay. It's already taken care of. We can talk as long as you'd like."
Adem's leg shot out, banged the coffee table. He reeled it in. Breathing quicker. Shit. This man, shit, he was the one, shit. He was the shit. The one in charge.
"Good to know. What would you like to talk about?"
Iles reached down for the laptop, one-handed it to Adem. "Take a look. Tell me if you know these guys."
As Iles handed it off, before he saw the screen, Adem expected to see Jibriil and other soldiers, hung by the neck. Or Garaad on his knees, blindfolded. He thought he had prepared himself for whatever it was so he wouldn't react. He had to keep his cool.
Then he saw the screen.
The whine that escaped his lips was a dead giveaway. Arms weak. The computer dropped onto his lap.
A photo of two men, one white, one black. The black man was his dad, Mustafa Abdi Bahdoon. Holy shit. Both were alive, in a room much like the one they were in now. Same paint on the walls. Sitting on a bed, it looked like.
"Does that mean you know them?"
"No, I'm sorry." Adem cleared his throat. "I don't know these men."
Iles's grin turned funny, furrowed brow. "Really? Is it a bad photo? You should look again."
Adem looked. He didn't want to, but he was busy thinking, wondering if his dad was in the bedroom. Wondering what he was even doing here. Was Iles powerful enough to grab his father from the States, bring him over? And who was this man in front of him?
The blanks were filling themselves in. Not Iles's fault. Dad must have come over on his own. The white man had to be helping him somehow, like a guide. Not doing a very good job.
Adem closed the laptop. "I'm sorry."
"That's a shame. How long has it been since you've seen your dad, then?"
Adem uncrossed his legs before another spasm hit. He stood, smoothed his suit jacket. "I don't understand what that has to do—"
"Look, Adem, I deal in information. I know a lot of things. So I'll stop kidding around if you will. Very soon, we're taking the ship back. It's going to be messy and a lot of people might die, even the hostages. No one wants that, but that's the way it is. The company would rather pay me than give one dime to the fucking pirates."
"Please, don't."
"It's my job. But we never go rushing in guns blazing. That's the cool thing about information. If we have enough, we can achieve the objective without all the dirty work. My men still get paid. I still get paid. It's pretty sweet." Iles finally took a sip of the wine, made a bitter face. "Gah, I've had better."
Adem decided to take a chance. He walked past the couch and over to the bedroom door and flung it open.
Empty. Not even a back-up guard. A rumpled bed, some empty wine glasses, and his most recent suit, tossed on the mattress.
Iles came up behind him. "Yeah, no. I'm not that stupid. It was easy to catch them, too. Soon as you showed up on the scene, I had some people start digging. Turns out you and your buddy left a bit of a mess back home. Then these two turn up. The mourning cop and the crazy gangbanger daddy. I knew about it when they caught the plane over. I knew when they tried to zig zag, go off the grid. And I knew when their boat landed here. We were there to pick them up."
Adem tried laughing. So fake. "This is ridiculous. Obviously, there is a misunderstanding."
Iles squeezed past him, sat on the bed. "Sure, you need to do this, I get it. Part of the script or whatever. Here's what we do. You get Farah to give up the boat. I know he's the real pirate captain here. Get his people off, leave the crew on-board and safe. Not one drop of blood. Get them off. We're not out to make some symbolic strike against piracy, god no. We want the ship back. Period. If you convince him to do that, I'll give you twenty grand and let your pop go. You two can get the hell out of the country or whatever. If you can't do it and I have to go ahead with my raid, Daddy and his buddy aren't going to make it. Sorry. Some sort of boating accident."
Adem braced himself on the doorframe. What had happened to him? Where was the smooth? Come on, Adem, talk him down or up or something. "Twenty grand?"
"Well, I'm not a Bond villain." Another sip of wine. Another grimace. "I'm a businessman, and I know money is a better incentive than almost anything. You try, you fail? Your dad dies, and you tell yourself it was inevitable. But toss some cash in? You try, and you try, and you fucking try, man. From what I know about you, this sort of lifestyle suits you. Condo near the beach, nice suits, chauffer, good food. Easy money."
"You don't know me. I do what I do for our cause."
"You didn't believe in that cause until six weeks ago. Come on. I saw the video online." Iles drug a finger across his neck. "Almost lost your head. Goddamn, that was nasty. You pissed off a lot of crazy people, then you pop up here. That's not for the cause. That's someone saving your ass."
Adem stood up straight. "I'm not sure why you insist on this…mistake. What if I were to persuade Mahmood—"
"Farah. Fuck Mahmood. What sort of movie did he climb out of?"
/> "Fine, Farah, then, to accept your original offer? Three sixty-eight. Or let's round it up to an even four. I'm sure—"
"Wrong!" Iles slapped the glass onto the bedside table, sloshing his wine over the rim. "Not even that. Not anymore. This is no longer about the pirates. They get nothing. They either get nothing and live, or they get nothing and die. Their choice. I'm guessing they'll muddle on, survive, and will probably not hire you to work for them anymore."
He stood, came right up to Adem, inches from his chest.
"This is about you," Iles poked Adem right over his heart. "And me. Don't tell your partner or your bodyguard. Don't tell the pirate leader. This has to feel like it's coming from you. Farah's a smart one. He'll understand. This is our little secret. Drop by after they jump ship, collect your fee and your old man, then we're done."
Adem's cheek itched. He wanted to scratch it. Instead, he backed up a step into the other room. He didn't like Iles's body wash and sweat, too sweet and sour. His breath was like rotting vegetables. Adem swallowed hard to keep from throwing up.
"You're not ready for the raid. I know this. We have our own sources."
Iles nodded. "Good, I like that. Maybe I'll hire you after all this. But the price on your head after you accept my offer will probably screw up the insurance costs, so forget it."
"If the Captain moves the ship now, we can stretch this out for days."
"No. Nice idea, but no. The boat moves, Daddy dies. Easy. Didn't I tell you this is the end? It's not another negotiation. This is, like, the whole enchilada. You like enchiladas?"
Adem breathed through his nose, barely got out. "How long?"
Iles grinned, sat on the couch reclined, his feet on the edge of the coffee table. "Four hours? No, three. Do it in three. I'll set up the press conference. Three hours, the pirates are off the boat and we win. You can even announce it, act like a hero. Let's plan on it."
How did this asshole get to decide the endgame? How did that happen? Adem found some dignity, put it into his stance. "I'll call you."
All the Young Warriors Page 20
