Didn't happen. Adem was taken to meet "Captain" Mahmood, in the wheelhouse with the Dutch captain, who was filthy, unshaven, and humiliated, but in otherwise good health. Mahmood was a living skeleton, some sort of freakishly tall, bony, immortal. Sunken eyes. Hard to age him, but Adem guessed in his late-thirties, but he'd had a rough time getting there. Scars on his forehead and right eye like he'd been raked by pitbull claws. In the captain's chair, he was slumped low, his knees as tall as his head. But when Farah entered, the man sat straighter. Adem easily picked up on who had the upper hand.
Mahmood spoke in Arabic, accented heavily with Somali overtones. A thick stew. "You? You're our mouth?"
Farah said, "He's very smart, this one. Very bright young man."
Mahmood raised his ass from the seat, his voice a growl. "I was talking to the boy! He is my mouth, then he has to talk! Talk, boy, talk in English!"
The odors of the wheelhouse, the heat and sweat and unwashed men, made Adem choke. Held a hand over his mouth. Not a good time to lose it. He cleared his throat, breathed through his mouth. "You can call me Adem."
A big laugh. Rolling. "The first man! Yes! He says it like, ah, Clint Eastwood. A, ah…" Chewed on the word in English. " Cowboy."
"I'm from Minnesota. The cowboys are from next door, in South Dakota."
Mahmood leaned forward, his knees moving ever higher. "You've seen real cowboys?"
"Some. They're not like in the movies."
"No, I bet they're better. Movies clean up all the good stuff. I'll bet they're cold hearted killers, aren't they?"
Why the hell not? "They can be, if someone gets in their way."
Mahmood loved it, clapped his hands and laughed. Looked at the Dutch captain, called him Jacob. "He's a real American, Jacob! Look at what we have. You'll be home in no time."
A worn-out grin from the Dutchman. "Sure, sure. No time."
Adem had been briefed. The hostages had been there seventy-four days. The captain and sixteen others. Three had died-during the initial raid, trying to escape, and from a heart attack. The question Adem wondered: Once your spirit was broken down so small, what kept you alive?
Maybe he would have found out had they not plucked him from the hospital.
That made him feel better. His wounds were not his whole world anymore.
Mahmood tuned his attention to Garaad, who had been very quiet. He lurked behind Farah. Adem wondered if the pirate captain intimidated the soldier. Mahmood looked him over.
Farah stepped forward, whispered, "Bodyguard."
Mahmood pursed his lips, nodded. He'd seen plenty of tough young punks, right? But Americans, not so much. He said something to Farah that Adem didn't catch. But they laughed together. Garaad seemed to shrink farther back into the wall.
Adem asked Mahmood in Arabic, "What do you want, and what have they told you?"
He shrugged. "Five million American dollars."
Adem looked around at the faces, all waiting for him. "Is that normal?"
Mahmood, either enraged or overjoyed gave him a wide-eyed look that Adem had only seen on circus clowns. His raked eye was cloudy, red. "It's not that bad, even to you, eh? Is it?"
Another roar. The laughter was frightening.
Adem took a wild guess. "They don't want to give you anything."
Mahmood shrugged. So did Jacob, who spoke up for the first time. "Maybe they never will. Please, whatever it takes. It's just money."
Mahmood was out of his seat, at the Dutchman's side. Slung an arm over his shoulder. Jacob didn't look at him. Down and away.
Another round of tortured English. "This man, this is a good man. An infidel, but a good man. He's no hero. There are times to be a different sort of hero. That's what he is being. I would love to have him as one of mine, except that I'd be afraid he'd surrender too fast!"
More laughter, echoing back at them. Farah looked annoyed with it. It was becoming more clear who was the real brain here, with Mahmood a Blackbeard-style figurehead. It was Farah who spoke to him on the way back to the chopper after Mahmood had more fun talking about American movies- Predator! Unforgiven! Star Wars! -and playing the role of Han Solo instead of answering Adem's questions. Garaad stepped up to Adem's side, said softly, "He's lost his mind. The most dangerous sort of man."
Mahmood swung Adem's way once more and grabbed his jaw, scaring Garaad back five paces. Looked at his teeth. Nodded.
"Good teeth. I'd like my mouth to have good teeth. And good clothes, not these. He's American, man! Make him look like one."
And that was that. It was Farah from then on. Back to the deck, chopper blades starting to whirl. Farah told him, "The idea will be to get three million. Fight hard for five. Make it seem like Mahmood is a crazy man."
"I can do that."
"Don't write things down that will leave a trail. Some notes if you need to, yes, but something that a stranger or policeman would not be able to interpret. Everything else is word of mouth. A handshake."
"And all of the details? The names of the company and the banks and the government officials?"
Farah pulled a thin manila folder from his coat. It had been folded longways, and he must have been carrying it for weeks, from the looks. "When you've memorized everything in this, burn it."
He lifted the cover, but Farah held a hand over it. Motioned for Adem and Garaad to get back on the helicopter. Farah wasn't coming along this time. "Wait until you're there. Don't let anyone else read it. You choose what to tell your partners. And, when we meet again, don't use your real name. Think of something…important."
Adem nodded at all this, then climbed aboard beside Sufia, still as he left her. Garaad sat across from them. The chopper lifted off the pad and everything large became small again.
Except for Adem, growing taller by the minute. He reach over, patted Sufia's hand, right in front of Garaad, too, and told her, "We're in business."
She looked at him, his retreating hand, then said, "With devils."
Devils or not, he'd do the job. Didn't mean he had become one of them, did it? He looked back at the shrinking ship. No skull and crossbones. Just business.
*
Lunch, at a fancy table, inside. Water and hot tea instead of camel's milk. Clean silverware. Adem had gained a few pounds back. He looked forward to meals more than anything. Most of them alone. Sufia would come along between meetings like this, but he had yet to get her alone for dinner. She always declined, took meals with her landlords. Fine, fine. She'd come around, he hoped. They had time. As much time as there were ships that dared sail through pirate-infested waters and companies that would rather pay a tiny fraction of their profits to get the ship and crew back than risk starting World War III.
Sufia didn't say much. Polite, but not like when they were talking business. That was when she came alive-she had the figures down cold, and she knew the players better than Adem did. She fed him and Farah the intel she picked up. Who reacted to what, who was getting notes passed to them from outside the room, who wasn't paying attention. Beautifully smooth. She was mostly ignored in the room except for the Western men wondering what she looked like without her hijab and modest dresses.
"I swear, it's like I'm back home." Adem lifted a forkful of chicken, cooked over a wood grill. Wonderful kebabs. He avoided the camel meat, but they always had chicken, beef, goat, a never-ending supply, it seemed. He didn't mind eating alone, because with each bite he could pretend he was home in Minneapolis, a restaurant in a strip mall with his parents and grandmother enjoying a night out. His cousins, his older sister, all there, warm on a frosty March evening.
Sufia had made herself small, ate barely a third of her lunch. She said, "Do you always order so much?"