TWENTY-SIX
Fifteen minutes. Twenty. Twenty-five. Adem climbed out of the Rover.
"Where are you going? You're staying here."
Adem shut the door. "I'm going to find Sufia."
"No, wait." His cousin had been sprawled across the front seat, barely awake. Now he scrambled, got his rifle, climbed out and wobbled, fell down.
Adem thought about taking a gun, but then decided it didn't matter. They knew who he was around here. Why not flaunt it? He started towards the city. Then his cousin began shouting at his back, "Stop! Stop, don't! I'll shoot you! I fucking will!"
Adem turned. Smiling. Yeah, the guy really had his rifle ready. "Why would you shoot me? You know that my father flew from America to get me. A really long way. And you helped rescue me! So why would you be stupid enough to shoot me? What are you thinking?"
"I'll shoot you in the leg. Then you won't go anywhere."
Adem stopped, started back towards his cousin. "Which knee? The left here? The right? Which one is my stronger knee? And how will you stop the bleeding? Can you guarantee I won't bleed out? How will you explain it?"
Adem's cousin did not respond. He was shaking a little, the rifle barrel wavering. He wasn't going to kill anyone. But Adem could tell that he was dying to pop off a shot. A nick. Maybe a toe. Anything. No joy in doing it to Adem, but he'd come all this way.
Adem said, "Are you coming?"
"What?"
"You've got to come with me. You have to keep an eye on me, make sure I don't do anything stupid. Better than sitting here all day."
The rifle dropped a couple of inches, enough for Adem to see both the man's eyes. "I'm not going in there."
"I guess you don't have to. But I am. Better if you do."
This guy, he was really afraid. Would he have been if Dad had chosen him over Dawit? Was there some reason he hadn't? Did they know he wasn't up to it?
The cousin—Adem didn't know the name of his own cousin. "What's your name?"
"You don't know?"
"I've known you for a day and I don't know. Tell me."
"Chi. I'm Chi."
Adem smiled. It meant God. "Well, look at us, God and the First Man. Absolutely. We're more than family."
"You're one of them." Louder. Stressed.
Adem's brow tightened. "One of who?"
"One of the soldiers. The kids with the guns. You work for them. This is all some, some sort of, ah, it's a trick." He raised the rifle, settled it against his shoulder. "That's what I'll tell them, too. You tried to escape. Tried calling for help."
It was as if the man was trying to convince himself. Grasping, holding on to any shred, all on faith. Adem hadn't really thought about it. He was still one of them. He hadn't made up his mind, had he? Being rescued from a bad situation—from pirates, for God's sake—convincing his dad to come back here, none of that made him free yet, did it? Finding Sufia, taking off together, only the two of them, that was freedom. What was waiting for him if he found Jibriil? Or if he flew back to Minnesota? What was there, really?
He didn't hesitate. Walked right up to Chi, slapped the barrel aside and grabbed the gun, gave it a hard yank. Chi held on. Adem yanked it again. Chi let go. He didn't step away, though. His nostrils flared. His left eye blinked over and over.
Adem stayed close. Eyes to eyes, except Chi was blinking and looking down, anything to avoid looking right at Adem.
"You stay here, then. I'll go, you know, rejoin my brothers."
He backed up, turned, let the rifle dangle in one hand. He'd probably get rid of it as soon as he could. Same with the suitcoat. Ridiculous. They all knew who he was, all the anonymous warriors in their checkered headscarves. He could always rejoin their ranks, cover his face, march in formation. There was a peace in that, the feeling of being part of a cause so much larger than himself. God said, and thus you do it. It was comforting. He wouldn't have to compete for grades anymore. He wouldn't have to work so hard to make inroads with the white kids in a Midwestern farm town who pretty much thought he was Muslim already anyway. Why not stick it out awhile, see where this led? He still had plenty of questions, plenty of doubts, but he wouldn't get any answers by running back home.
Then again, there was Sufia. The exception to the rule. The wrench in the works. Someone so beautiful, smart, able, and she chose to come back in spite of what sort of life awaited her here. She fought him tooth and nail until that last moment, asking to go to Cairo.
He had to find her. He had to see if she'd meant it.
He looked over his shoulder, expecting Chi to catch up. But his cousin had already sat on the hardscrabble ground, his back against the Rover, eyes closed. Adem thought about calling to him, waving him over. But then he heard himself sigh and say, "Fuck it," and he kept on like he was bulletproof.
*
The BBC. Really? What sort of masochists were these reporters? They followed "Mr. Mohammed" for a couple of blocks, asking breathless questions, fending off the people on the street who recognized the pirate negotiator from the stories they'd heard from soldiers or read on the internet with their smartphones.
"No, you have me confused with someone else."
"But you heard about the raid? The ship sinking? The pirate leader escaped. Did you know he had rigged the ship with explosives?"
Adem wanted to ask questions, find out more. Mahmood blew up the ship? And Adem hadn't even known that part of the plan. He wanted to ask if the crew was lost. What about Derrick Iles?
The reporter kept on in that terribly same voice they all had, chipper but serious. "Weren't you arrested? How are you out? Why do you have a rifle?"
"I told you—" He stopped. The cameraman stopped too, moved even closer. The reporter, arms crossed, expecting an answer. Adem shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not this Mr. Mohammed you think I am. Sorry."
Adem tried to brush past the cameraman, who said, "Don't touch the camera!" So Adem lifted his rifle and butted the stock into it. Let the audience chew on that. The cameraman said, "Hey! You stay away!"
Adem kept walking. A man joined him, tried to hand him a cup of water. Told him he was praying for him. Adem wasn't sure if he should drink the water. Poisoned, maybe? Why were these people so nice to him? They hated the soldiers, hated those who had come into their city, attacked it, reduced it to rubble, and then forced them all to live under an increasingly severe set of Sharia rules. So why was Mr. Mohammed such a folk hero to both sides?
The man read Adem's mind. Said, "See?" He took a sip himself, then handed it to Adem. "Drink, drink."
Adem thanked him. He drank the cool water, which only made him thirsty for more. None of that. He didn't need distractions. He gave the cup back, thanked the man again, and kept on. A faster clip. He wanted to outrun the reporters, the well-wishers, the soldiers, all of them. He didn't care.
Soldiers on the corner, watching. Starstruck as if he was a soccer star. A couple of them already on their mobiles, leaving Adem alone. If anything, at least now someone knew he was coming. Alone, armed, and angry.
*
He began going over to the soldiers he saw. Most of them knew him, both as Adem and Mr. Mohammed. They acted as if they were all friends—asked about Bosaso, about the pirates, about being on TV, about the food, the beds. Laughed. They asked to see the scar on his neck.
Adem played along, sure. Anything to get on their good side. He asked about Sufia, described her, if anyone had seen her. He didn't come up with much. Some of them had seen her on TV in the background when Adem had been speaking. They said she was an angel. Then they said she was like, who was it, you know—Halle Berry. Yes. Like her.
For some reason, Adem began drifting towards the sea. He knew the way to the hospital, or whatever it had been before they turned it into one. The smell of the sea, the salt, leading him along. Smiling and waving now. Jibriil had to know, right? Phones were ringing all over town. Maybe Jibriil would be waiting for him. He couldn't send Adem back to Bosaso now. Every block
showed him that, more people now, like they were coming out specifically to see him. No, he couldn't go back. He was too important for….what? Morale? What sort of guy could appeal to both sides? Hell, they might have to make him President. Not that he'd have any true power, but the people would look up to him. It made Adem unkillable. Invincible! Necessary!
Sufia could be at his side while he ruled, right? If she didn't want to leave a fugitive, maybe she'd be okay leaving on diplomatic missions. Adem and Sufia, President and First Lady, jetting all over the world to extend a hand of diplomacy as they tried to stabilize the motherland. Spend most of each year on the road in the best hotels, chauffeured cars, first class flights, Michelin-starred restaurants. All paid for by pirate money.
If that's the way it was, then who was he to say it was wrong? Let the boys enjoy their playground in country. They needed someone like Adem out there in the upper echelons to legitimize the killing. A calm voice, a good suit, and a politician's handshake. For the cause, of course.
Closer still. He could hear waves now. He had lost the coat, rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, soaked with sweat and stuck to his skin. The last time he was on this street, he could barely walk. The soldiers were embarrassed by him, having been saved from a proper death and coddled here. His leg cramped a little. A phantom pain, had to be. He hadn't felt any cramps in weeks. Muscle memory, maybe. If he were to go left instead of right, he would end up on the beach, where they found him and changed his life. No matter what had happened along the way, he no longer thought coming to Somalia had been a mistake. It had taken until this moment—right as he came to the front of the building, people crowding around now, waiting for him to go inside—to understand that it had all been baptism by fire. Burned away everything about Adem that had held him back. Scorching, painful, but in the end he had come out the other side a new man.
A man who was going to walk inside, find the woman he loved, and win her over.
He dropped the rifle. He didn't need it. The guards at the front door weren't trying to keep him out. One even opened the door for him.
He thanked the guard and walked inside.
*
The third floor. His home for months, at first a prison before becoming his sanctuary. Some patients were scattered around in beds, quiet in the heat of the day. The guards continued to watch him with goofy grins on their faces, calling their friends, "Yes, yes, he's here! He's right here!" Nurses. They looked at him but wouldn't acknowledge him.
Where was she? Was she tending a patient? On a different floor? Or had he been wrong? The whole thing some misguided leap of faith to believe they'd let her live, let alone come back here. Mosquito nets. Buzzing. The smell of unwashed patients.
Adem saw a nurse he remembered from before, an older woman. He'd never spoken to her, but every day there she had been. Still here, still doing her duty.
"Ma'am, is she here? I've come a long way for her."
The woman closed her eyes, shook her head. "You shouldn't have come. They said you would, but you should not have."
"I don't understand." Was it a trap? He looked around at the guards. They weren't making a move. Goofy grins. Mobiles pressed to ears.
The woman took his hand. "Please leave. Please, go with God."
"I won't go until I know where she is. Can you help me?"
She continued to protest, but he caught her eyes flicking to the left. Back among the beds. One covered with more than just netting. A thick sheet, red and faded, splotchy, draped around a bed like a tent.
The woman said, "They said you would come. They said you'd tell me what happened. You'd explain why. But I don't even want to know why anymore. I don't care."
He squeezed the woman's hands, let them go, and headed for the tent. Behind him, the woman began wailing. Adem heard a guard say to her, "Not now, you hag." She kept wailing. No one said another word.
Adem wanted to throw up. He began coughing. Shaking. What was waiting there for him? All of it, the whole walk, it had all been set up for him. Maybe instead of being celebrated, all of the people were glad to see him so they could finally see the prank through to the end. Snapshots in his mind, what might possibly be behind the sheet. He shut them down as soon as they developed. Sufia dead—no. Jibriil dead—no. Dad—no no no, how could that be? They couldn't have found him already.
Trembling. He needed to pee. Badly. A catch in his throat. Almost there. Someone was sitting on the bed. A shadow appearing through the sheet. Living, breathing. Whoever it was moved, subtly. Adem swallowed, relieved. Let out a hard breath. He pulled back the sheet to find a woman sitting there, her back to him. But he recognized the hijab, one of her favorites. She loved purple.
"Sufia?"
Nothing.
"It's me. I'm sorry. I'm here for you."
"Go away."
It was her voice, yes, but it was defanged and scratchy.
"Please, I can't do that." He was so happy to see her. He wasn't going to let her talk her way out of it this time. "We need to talk. Whatever happened back in Bosaso, we need to get past it. I have an idea."
"Adem, no—"
"I'm serious. It's a good plan." He stepped closer, put his hand on her shoulder. "Look at me."
She turned around.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The only reason to take Bleeker as a hostage was because he was white and they could make demands, get attention, before doing unspeakable things to him. Some while alive. Most after he was dead.
He didn't know if Warfaa was alive or dead, limp like a scarecrow between two soldiers. They'd been walking a half hour, it felt like. But the sun was too bright for him to place it in the sky and follow it. All he could do was look down and try to create enough saliva to keep from drying out. He was determined not to ask these bastards for water. Sand in his boots, his socks. Grinding against his skin, creating blisters, then grinding into the blisters.
It didn't matter what shape he was in when he got to his destination. All he wanted was a chance at Jibriil. He'd hidden the blade. A stiletto. He'd taken off the handle, wrapped the bottom in electrical tape. Enough so he could grip it without slicing all his fingers at once. Flat. Taped to his shin.
Fuck Mustafa. Fuck Adem. Fuck justice. This was exactly what he'd wanted.
The streets were thicker with soldiers now, much closer to home, Bleeker guessed. Some of the boys were ignoring him, on their cell phones. Excited. Others stared at him as if he was a zoo exhibit. Chants. More of that inane laughter that made his skin crawl like he was cold in spite of the broiling heat. He could feel the sweat on his skin boil away.
The army had taken over the neighborhood. Buildings were teeming with soldiers, looking more like some kind of orphanage than an HQ, all the kids running around. A few women, the only ones who seemed to being doing any work, carrying supplies for dinner. Guns everywhere. A group of children on his left, looking up at him, all dragging rifles in the dirt.
Then there were the tents past the buildings, all made of rough tarp, held up on tall poles with heavy rope. Heading for one of those. The man in front swept open the flap and held it for the two men carrying Warfaa. Then it fell in Bleeker's face. He pushed through in time to see Warfaa being dropped to the floor. Warfaa screamed. Alive, good, alive. How much pain? How much life left?
Bleeker went to him, turned him onto his back. He'd been shot twice. Both on his left side. His shirt was gummy with blood, his breathing like a train on bad tracks. Bleeker looked back. What was Somali for "Doctor"? His Somalis all said "Doc-tar" but that was English, right? He tried it: "Doc-tar. He needs a doc-tar."
The first man came over, looked over Bleeker's shoulder at the blood. "Doctor, yes. No. No doctor."
Bleeker pointed at the blood. "Yes, Doctor! Come on." Bleeker found where the bullet had made a hole in the fabric, stuck his finger in. Warfaa gritted his teeth and whined. Bleeker ripped the shirt open wide. Rifle bullets. Full jackets. In and out, no massive exit wounds. The shirt had helped soak u
p the blood, hold it close to the wound. Now there was more blood flowing. Bleeker freaked, pulled the scarf from around his neck and shoved it against the wounds. More screaming. More shouting, "Doctor! Doctor! Goddamn it, get a doctor!"
One of the men mocked him, trying on a Minnesota accent: "Dok-tor! Dok-tor!" His buddies laughed.
Bleeker stood, ready to grab the man closest to him. "Listen, you—"
Rifle stock to the gut. Put him to the floor. The soldier lifted his boot, pressed it against Bleeker's face. Pushed his nose to the side, pushed until Bleeker's face was touching dirt. Then a last, dismissive shove that tore the skin under Bleeker's eye.
The soldier knelt beside Bleeker, said, "You lose head, American. You will beg for mecry."
"Fuck that right now. What about him?"
The soldier spit onto the ground by Warfaa's feet. "Hang him in tree, let him bleed."
Two other soldiers got up, each grabbing one of Warfaa's feet, and dragged him out of the tent. Bleeker scrambled to get up, to latch onto Warfaa's arm. More screams. More soldiers using their rifles as clubs to beat Bleeker back. He had Warfaa's wrist. Bleeker's hand covered in blood. Slipping. Slipping. A couple of whacks to the back of Bleeker's head. Slipped.
Warfaa was gone. Out of the tent flap, his screams loud then less so then faint.
The soldier kneeling by Bleeker smiled. "You're next."
He left the tent. Bleeker heard him shout a couple of names. Moments later, a handful of gun-wielding teenagers swarmed inside, took up posts all around the tent. One of them held up a knife. Nasty looking thing. Pointed it at Bleeker.
"Your neck. Mine. It's mine."
Bleeker sat up and pulled his knees to his face, wrapped his arms around. They weren't going to cut his fucking head off, not these kids. If he was going to go, he'd be fighting. A bullet. Not by fucking knife in front of a camera.
Or if it had to be like that, he'd demand that Jibriil do it. The only way. Jibriil had to be man enough to do it himself. And Bleeker would sure as shit bite the hand that held the blade.
All the Young Warriors Page 26
