by Tom Young
“A mile in what direction?”
“Ah, east. It’s between here and Ras Kamboni.”
“See any bad guys?”
“Yes, sir. A patrol of five dudes came down a dirt road west of here about half an hour ago. They all had AKs. They wore black smocks or just ratty civilian clothes, so I’m pretty sure they were al-Shabaab.”
“Good eye, Geedi,” Parson said. The flight mechanic had fallen back on his military training, and he’d apparently remembered the SALUTE acronym for reporting enemy movement: size of the unit, activity, location, unit identification, time and date, equipment observed.
“Did they see you?” Gold asked.
“They did, and I wandered around so they wouldn’t see me coming back here. They didn’t bother me, so they probably thought I was just a camel boy or something.”
“That’s good,” Chartier said.
“Great work, Geedi,” Parson said. “Sit down and try to get some sleep.”
Geedi fished his Bulova out of his pocket, nodded to Carolyn Stewart, and placed the watch back on his wrist. Stewart gave a weak smile.
Parson still hated that he’d sent Geedi out on such a dangerous recon mission. But no one else could have pulled it off, and now Parson had a little more information: There was another hiding place nearby, and the enemy still lurked in the area.
Now that he knew about another refuge, the question was whether to use it. If al-Shabaab fighters were looking for him and his crew, the bunker might be a place they’d check. But maybe they’d already checked it.
Worst case, Parson thought, if they find us in the bunker, we can defend that position better than this death-trap cellar. And we won’t get Nadif and his wife killed in the process. And if I’m above ground, he considered, maybe I can communicate.
Parson did not have to make a decision right now. In no case would he move in daylight, so he had the rest of the day to catch up on his sleep and think about it.
• • •
Part of Hussein felt relieved when Geedi came back. At first he’d hoped this kafir who consorted so easily with gaalos would get killed out there. Hussein had no idea why the man had left the cellar for so long, and after a while he’d assumed Geedi had encountered the al-Shabaab brothers and received the punishment deserved by all infidels.
But, Hussein realized, without Geedi there was no way to communicate with his captors. He would not believe their lies, of course, but hearing anything at all might give him clues.
“How do you feel?” Geedi asked in Somali. The gaalos looked on as if they could understand.
“Almost half my foot is blown off,” Hussein said. “How do you think I feel?”
“I can imagine.”
“No, you cannot.”
Geedi stopped talking for a couple minutes, and Hussein felt glad. He wished this sinner, this friend of Crusaders, would shut up and die. But Geedi did not shut up and die. After a few moments, he spoke again.
“You do not look like a bad sort,” Geedi said. “How did you get mixed up with al-Shabaab?”
Bad sort? Who was this kafir to say something like that?
“I am a soldier of God, and you are His enemy,” Hussein said.
“I already told you, I am a Muslim, too. All my life.”
“You lie!” Hussein said. Here they went with their tricks and deceit again.
The one called Geedi did not seem insulted. He even smiled. The other infidels looked on. That irritated Hussein even more; this was none of their business.
“Hussein,” Geedi said, “if not for the grace of Allah I could be in your place. I simply got lucky.”
What foolishness was this? Crazy, vexing words from this lover of gaalos.
“You think yourself lucky?” Hussein asked. “You are going to hell. You will scream in pain forever.”
The idiot smiled again. “No, Hussein, I will not,” he said. “I have read the Quran. Someone has misled you. Our faith should not be twisted into a cult of blood.”
Hussein wanted to kill this kafir, to drive a blade right through his neck. Bragging of his ability to read, Hussein thought, and trying to confuse me. Because of his wound, Hussein could not strike out. He could only seethe and listen to this blasphemy.
“My friends have shown you mercy,” Geedi said, “partly because you are so young. I do not know what they will do with you, but I do know they will not hurt you unless you try to hurt them. This could be your last chance to do something with your life other than throw it away.”
One of the women, Yellow Hair, said something in American or whatever awful language they spoke. Geedi and Yellow Hair talked for a long time, all the while looking at Hussein as if he were livestock, a goat tethered to a tree.
Near midday—the darkness of the cellar made it hard to tell—the old man Nadif brought bread and tea. Hussein did not want any of his wicked gifts, but by now he was starving. The steam rising from the teapot smelled like heaven itself, and the sight of the bread made his mouth water. He decided he would eat their food and get stronger, and he would kill them when he could.
“Are you better?” Nadif asked.
Hussein looked up at Nadif and did not answer. He started to tell the old man to go to the devil, but a strange thought kept him silent. If my father had not been killed, Hussein thought, he would be almost as old as Nadif. Would he look like this man? Hussein tried to imagine how his father would appear now.
“I am hungry,” Hussein said finally.
“Then eat,” Nadif said.
The old man’s voice had an even, cool tone. He did not sound friendly, but he did not sound hateful the way Abdullahi often did.
Painfully, Hussein leaned forward while Nadif placed a plate of bread on the floor. Not only did his wound hurt; all his muscles felt sore from yesterday’s struggle. Hussein snatched a round of bread from the top of the plate and tore it in half. From one of the halves, he tore off a smaller piece and stuffed it into his mouth. Chewed twice, swallowed. The lump of bread went down his throat like a stone.
“Slow down,” Nadif said. “No one will take the food away from you.”
Hussein ripped off another chunk of bread. This time he chewed it four times.
“Slow down,” Nadif repeated. Folded his arms and looked down at Hussein.
Hussein gulped the food again. Yellow Hair poured the tea into cups brought by Nadif. She handed a cup to Hussein, and he took a sip. The hot liquid warmed his tongue and felt good sliding down his throat; he had never tasted anything better than this lightly sweetened tea. He put down the cup and took another bite of bread. This time, he chewed it enough that it did not hurt to swallow.
“The one called Geedi talks too much,” Hussein said to Nadif.
Geedi did not seem to hear. He sat with the infidels and spoke in their language.
“The one called Geedi is a smart young man,” Nadif said, “and the only difference between you and him is a long airplane ride when he was little.”
“I am nothing like him. He is a kafir.”
“Then why has Allah smiled on him so? He has a good job. He comes from a good family. Everyone he loves is still alive.”
Nadif’s voice broke as he uttered that last sentence. The thought gave Hussein pause as well. Nearly everyone he loved was dead, and while he was still so young. Why was this? Some punishment from Allah? Perhaps because he had not fought hard enough?
Certainly not, Hussein decided. He could not have fought any harder, and his parents had died before he was big enough to wage jihad. And Allah would not have taken someone else’s life for Hussein’s sins. That would not have been just, and Allah was infinite justice.
Why, then? Hussein took another sip of tea and tore off another piece of bread. He placed the bread in his mouth and chewed it several times, pondering this mystery. He decided the answer was not fo
r him to know, at least not until he gained more understanding and could read.
Nadif stood over him as if he had more to say but could not find the words. Hussein wished he would leave.
“The bread is good,” Hussein said, not so much in gratitude but in hope it would make the old man go away.
“You are welcome,” Nadif said. After a few minutes he added, “Islam demands kindness to travelers. I have shown kindness to them”—he gestured toward the infidels—“and they have shown kindness to you.”
Hussein looked up at the old man and blinked. Did he really mean to say the infidels had done the right thing by Islam?
This was all very confusing.
29.
Parson and the others passed the day in Nadif’s cellar, trying to sleep. The cool earth offered some relief from the sun beating down up top. As evening neared, the fissures of light shining through the cracks in the door began to dim, and Parson knew he had a decision to make.
“Let’s move to that bunker when it gets dark,” he said. “We can’t stay in this hole forever.”
“Ouais, c’est clair,” Chartier said.
“What about Hussein?” Gold asked. The boy looked up when he heard his name.
“What about him?” Parson asked.
“Do we take him with us?”
“Hell, no. It’ll be dangerous enough as it is. We can’t drag a wounded kid with us.”
“If he stays here, Nadif and his wife are still in danger,” Gold said.
Parson pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. She had a point. A long time ago in Afghanistan, the family who had helped them lost their lives. He didn’t care to repeat that horror, but he had no easy options.
“Yeah, I know,” Parson said. “But what if he starts screaming and gives us away?”
“He hasn’t done that yet,” Gold said.
“Even if he never does, what would we do with him?”
“Let him get rescued along with us.”
“Rescued?” Parson said. “The little son of a bitch tried to kill us.”
“I know it, Michael. But the little son of a bitch is a boy. In his own way, he’s as much a victim of al-Shabaab as anyone.”
“He’s an orphan,” Geedi said. “That’s probably why they got him in the first place.”
“You guys are killing me,” Parson said. “We can’t save everybody in Somalia. We’re gonna need a lot of luck just to save ourselves.”
Nobody said anything for a few minutes. Hussein kept glancing around at everybody, and he looked more curious than scared. Parson went through the what-ifs: What if we leave him behind and he gets Nadif and his wife killed? What if we leave him behind and he just wanders off? Does he come back with his friends and take us out? What if he yells for help while we’re moving him to the bunker?
The safe option, Parson realized, would be to shoot him right now, and that was out of the question.
In the back of Parson’s mind, he knew what he’d do before he let himself say it out loud. What was that old mob saying? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. This enemy, he’d have to keep close.
“All right,” Parson said finally, “we’ll bring him with us. Geedi, tell him he’s going for a little excursion tonight. And he better not make any trouble.”
Geedi spoke in Somali, and Hussein looked angry. Parson needed no translation for his response; clearly the boy was saying he wasn’t going anywhere.
“He says—”
“I know,” Parson said. “Tell him it’s a statement, not a question.”
The conversation in Somali quickly turned into an argument. Parson rolled his eyes.
“This doesn’t require any more conversation,” Parson said. “He’s going with us or he dies. Simple as that. And he goes gagged and with his hands tied. All this is against my better judgment; tell him he’s damned lucky he didn’t get caught by somebody with better sense.”
Gold gave that half smile of hers. She sees right through me, Parson realized. Now that she’d talked him into taking Hussein, he was as committed to the course of action as she was.
“We can’t carry him that far the same way we got him here,” Chartier said.
Frenchie was right. They’d brought him from the hut to the cellar by simply lifting him on a blanket. Too cumbersome for carrying someone more than a few yards.
“We’ll improvise a stretcher,” Parson said. “We can take a couple of poles and roll them into the sides of the blanket. Then two of us can just lift the poles.”
Carolyn Stewart looked around the cellar. “I don’t see anything like a pole,” she said.
“Me neither,” Parson said. “Geedi, if you don’t mind going up top again, can you see if you can find a couple of fairly straight sticks?”
“No problem, sir,” Geedi said. “I’m sure I can find tree branches or something.”
Hussein started speaking again. Geedi ignored him.
“Tell that kid I’ll bitch-slap him if he doesn’t shut up,” Parson said.
Geedi said nothing. Gold gave another half smile. Yeah, Parson thought, they both know I don’t mean it. Just blowing off steam.
Sometimes it was hard to be a good guy. Good guys didn’t always act angelic. Sometimes they got pissed off. And being a good guy was what got him here in the first place.
The crew began to gather up their backpacks and other belongings. Hussein watched everything with interest but said nothing. Evidently, now that he’d been bandaged and fed, pain no longer kept him from taking stock of his situation. Parson could relate; from his own experience he knew you came out of severe pain as if returning from a foreign land.
But with Osama Junior feeling better, would he make a nuisance of himself, or worse? No way to know. For now, he appeared docile enough.
In the last moments of daylight, Geedi headed up the stairs to look for sticks or poles to frame the stretcher. Parson watched him swing open the door to reveal a sky already dim enough to reveal the brightest stars.
“Good man,” Parson said. “If you see Nadif, tell him we’re out of here, and we appreciate his help.”
“Yes, sir.”
Geedi eased the door closed, and darkness again cloaked the cellar.
“Every time that door shuts, I feel like I’m in an Edgar Allan Poe story,” Carolyn Stewart said.
“I know what you mean,” Gold said.
Parson had a vague memory of reading Poe in school. Stuff about ravens and pits and pendulums and people getting bricked up behind walls. A hell of a note, Parson thought, that some weirdo writer in the nineteenth century—in his most tortured, drunken imagination—couldn’t think of anything as bad as the real things people did in the twenty-first century. Progress.
By the time Geedi came back, night had fallen and the moon was beginning to rise. Bronze moonlight filled the cellar when the door came open. Parson wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. It meant he could see to travel without resorting to his flashlight, which could draw the wrong kind of attention. But if we can see in the night, he thought, so can the bad guys.
“Are we set to go?” Geedi whispered.
Parson climbed the steps, the medical ruck over his shoulder and his Beretta holstered in his survival vest. Geedi held two long branches with all the twigs hacked away. The poles weren’t entirely straight, but they’d do. Nadif stood nearby, holding a cloth-covered bundle.
“Just about,” Parson said.
“I’ll be right back,” Geedi said.
Geedi turned and strode toward Nadif’s hut. He went in wearing the clothes he’d borrowed from Nadif. He came out a few minutes later wearing his flight suit.
“We need to get Hussein ready,” Parson said. He placed the medical ruck on the ground. “Come on down and remind him we’re going to gag him and tie his hands. Tell him we won�
�t hurt him as long as he cooperates.”
Geedi dropped the sticks and followed Parson down to the cellar floor, and Parson clicked on his penlight. Hussein sat on his makeshift bedroll and looked up. Parson reached down and pulled on the blanket.
“Get off the blanket, dumbass,” Parson said.
Geedi said something in Somali. Hussein rolled to one side and let Parson take the blanket. Parson handed the blanket to Gold, then unzipped a flight suit pocket and removed his handkerchief. He unfolded the handkerchief, took it by two corners, and twisted it into a gag.
The effort triggered a memory of the last time Parson had gagged someone. In that case, it had been an elderly mullah so extreme in his beliefs that even some radicals opposed him. Gold and Parson dragged the mullah through an Afghan winter storm, suffering frostbite and other torments to keep their prisoner in custody. Parson assumed the old terrorist still languished behind bars at Gitmo or somewhere, but that was just a guess. Once he’d handed over the prisoner to proper authorities, the matter went above his clearance and pay grade.
“Tell him to open his mouth,” Parson told Geedi. He recalled asking Gold to say the same thing to the mullah all those years ago.
Geedi spoke in Somali, and Hussein balked, just like the old man had done.
“I don’t have time for this,” Parson said. “Tell him his choice is getting gagged or getting knocked upside the head and then gagged.”
“Michael,” Gold said. Once again, a voice in the dark urging compassion.
“I know, I know,” Parson said. “I won’t really hurt him. You know, Sophia, we gotta stop meeting like this.”
Gold laughed softly. Apparently the parallels of the situation struck her, too. Though Parson knew she had a sense of humor, he had rarely heard her laugh out loud.
Parson wondered how far those parallels would continue. The old man was a dead-ender, too long radicalized to change his ways. Given Hussein’s youth, could he turn his life around? Probably not, Parson figured. A person becoming a terrorist was like a dog getting rabies. Barring a miracle, the only cure was a bullet.
After a little more conversation in Somali, Hussein relented and let Parson approach with the gag. Just in case, Chartier held the AK-47 on the boy as Parson clicked on the penlight and handed it to Geedi. While Geedi held the light, Parson stuffed the gag into the boy’s mouth and tied the ends of the handkerchief behind Hussein’s head. He took care not to tie the knot too tightly.
