One of the older officers, fully bearded with more of an Arab look, said, "And not running away this time. That's good."
No one introduced themselves. They acted as if they all knew Adem's story already. He didn't know if he should drop to his knees or fear for his life. Jibriil would've told him, he was sure. So he stood there. Not a word.
His friend now motioned to the tall man. "Go ahead. Really."
Now that they were closer, Adem saw that the green beret had a bullet hole in it and was stained by blood. The tall man's blood? Or had he taken the hat as a prize?
He'd been used to the mix of Arabic, English, and Somali he'd heard, but when the tall man began speaking, it was different. He immediately understood-this was Northern Somali. The "official" version, slightly different in dialect from the Mogadishu version. "I am Farah. And yes, I took this beret from the head of my enemy."
Adem didn't realize he'd been staring at it. Farah took it from his head. "Shot him by my own hand, back when I did that sort of thing. Next time I'll aim lower and keep the hat clean."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean…I wanted to ask."
"Absolutely. Tell me, your family is originally from the eastern coast?" Switching over to Arabic.
"Yes, north of Mogadishu. I've never been there, though. I might have some uncles and cousins there. I wouldn't know them."
"Shame, then. You came so far to be so close and still not know. Are they Muslim?" This time switching to Af Maay Maay, a Southern dialect, almost a different language. It was like watching a bad Minneapolis comedian doing a Texas twang. Was this a test? Adem's father knew Maay, taught Adem a lot about it while he was in high school.
"Yes. We all are. I'm pretty sure."
Farah glanced at Jibriil and the others. Nods, raised eyebrows.
Then, in very mannered, rough English, "But this language, this is your bread and butter, is it not? An American college boy. You grew up speaking English. More than that, you know how Westerners think. You know when they mean what they say."
Back at him, in English, "What's going on here?"
In French: "Can you tell when an American is lying?"
"About as well as I can tell when Jibriil is."
Laughs all around. One of the officers slapped Jibriil on the back. But Jibriil did not look amused. Pain was creeping down Adem's leg again. He hoped they'd let him sit down again soon.
Farah said something else, something Adem couldn't translate. But he recognized it. "I don't know Dutch. Or Swedish. It's one of those, isn't it?"
Farah waved it off. In English again, rough indeed. "No matter. I need someone like you. We have importance…ah… importance for you. A job for you."
"One that involves talking to foreigners?"
"Can you tell where an American is from on accent alone like you can a Somali?"
Adem shrugged. "Sometimes. But a lot of people grow up watching TV now, so they're losing some of the differences."
In Minneapolis he'd hardly heard the typical Minnesota accent everyone laughed at and imitated. Then he moved out west for college and discovered many of the adults honked like that every day. The kids his own age, though, could've been from anywhere. He missed that sound-the flat, neutered English of his friends.
The men laughed the way older men do. Adem wasn't sure what was funny. Jibriil said, "Shall we go back now?"
They began walking the road to the hospital, all of them patient with Adem's limp, as if he was the most important among them. Jibriil and Farah flanked him.
"You're perfect for this. It's going to be great." Jibriil wrapped Adem up with an arm around the shoulder, a big squeeze, knocking Adem off-balance. They waited for him to get his rhythm back, started again. "They need a translator."
"Who are they?"
A shrug. "Kind of like the navy."
Farah said, "When enemy states send their tankers and cruise ships into our waters as if they are immune simply because they are not on the frontlines, then we act. They take our fish, they poison our water. And we make those states pay for their transgressions."
It took a moment to click in Adem's head. He turned to Jibriil. "You mean-"
"Yes, exactly. Pirates."
"Pirates?"
This was when Adem expected to wake up. It was bizarre enough to be where he was and to have seen what he had seen. But then there were pirates?
He didn't wake up. He was still limping towards a building he wished he'd never have to sleep in again, full of seriously wounded young men still dreaming of martyrdom. A woman he couldn't fall in love with even though he already had. A handful of newspapers he'd read forty times apiece.
But he'd rather sleep there than be a pirate.
"I can't be a pirate. Look at me! Just because I have a limp doesn't mean it's a wooden leg."
Jibriil laughed. The others didn't. Jibriil explained the thing about the leg, and one of the men said, "Oh, Johnny Depp. Pirates."
Adem hadn't meant to be funny, leaned in to tell Jibriil, "I can barely walk. I'm in a world of pain. This is ridiculous-"
Jibriil shut him up with a curled lip. No jokes.
Farah said, "You can come to Bosaso with me, and you will help me talk to the companies who own the ships. You will be my mouth. But they will know that you are an independent… ah… contractor, I think is how you say it. So if they were to arrest you or threaten you, it would not deter us. You will have no inside information. You will only know what we tell you."
Adem couldn't believe it. Bosaso. Like, a real city. Modern, growing, free. It was on the northern coast, near the horn, Puntland. Mostly untouched by his army. He was surprised to hear they had any presence there at all.
One of the other officers picked up again. "We have trained some of their men. They recruit from us. In exchange, we have been rewarded very well. A vital source of help to wage our campaign."
"So I don't have to be on the ship?"
Farah said, "No, no. To put you there would be pointless. I need you on land, in meetings with me, talking to moneymen and politicians. They won't see you the same way they see us. We dress like them, talk like them. We will give you a place to live, on your own. When your job is done for the day, you will be free to move about the city. And you will be given money to cover your living expenses, and a small portion of any ransom you help negotiate."
Another glance at Jibriil. Grinning, made his scar look more frightening. "You're perfect for this, Adem. It's what you've been studying for. It's business, politics, world affairs, all balled up into one."
It hadn't come out of the blue. That was obvious. Jibriil must have used his rank to ask around, find a way out for Adem. Not a real way out. As the man had told him, he would be "free to move about the city", but he left unsaid, but not to leave it.
"I don't know," Adem said. "I need to think about it."
Farah looked down on him, a sour look on his face. "I don't have time."
Jibriil pulled Adem aside, spoke softly. "What are you doing?"
"There's a big difference between fighting a war and becoming a criminal."
"Not really. Not here. Look, to kill a man, for the glory of God even, is still killing a man. What will you be doing for these men instead? Talking. Just talking. Not killing. Some of us are called to fight. But you're special. You are not a fighter. But goddamn, can you talk."
Adem shook his head. "Too fast."
"You've been here over a month now. How much more time do you need? I've been trying to help you, and now I can. Please, take the job. You'll be like an ambassador. Adem, please."
He was right. It was better than what he had expected. Lying awake at night, waiting for his guard to tell him it was time to go back to the camp, gear up for another fight. Or worse, for the guard to take him out back, put Adem on his knees, and finish the job the mob had started. This limbo was nice-Sufia, the beach, the quiet. But once it was over, there would be no plane back to the States. Farah's offer was the best chance he had.