Hard to keep his mind on the job at hand with a view like that. Mustafa laid a hand on his shoulder, gave it a shake. Bleeker swallowed, took a deep breath, and said, "Okay, I'm ready. Okay."
On down the pier to a dirt road, the left leading to other piers, other boats, and the right leading over to the larger docks. Warfaa spoke with Mustafa, pointing, nodding, and they started off. Thicker crowds along the way, and Bleeker began to feel self-conscious-all covered-up, face hidden from view. Yeah, he got looks. More and more. He thought a Muslim woman's burka might be a better choice, no skin at all and a slit for the eyes.
Mustafa led. Bleeker caught up.
"Are we heading straight there?"
"Not yet. First, Warfaa wants to get a look at the place. It's a hotel. He can get a lay of the land and we can draw it up. I'm hoping we can do this without a fight. Find him when he's alone and just go."
"After we ask about Jibriil."
"Risky."
"That was the deal."
"No, it wasn't."
Bleeker stopped, grabbed Mustafa's arm, pulling him back. "Wait a minute, are you trying-"
"The deal was that Adem testifies. He answers all questions. We always said it was about Adem."
"If Jibriil is here, we go after him, too!"
Through gritted teeth. " That will take a fight. On foreign soil, far outnumbered."
"Sure, fine. I'm ready. I told you."
Mustafa shook his head. "I didn't come here to watch you commit suicide. Stupid! I knew I should've never…So stupid."
He left Bleeker behind, the cousins following. Bleeker caught his breath, sea-salty and wet. The deal had been Jibriil. Of course it had. Adem was Mustafa's problem. Bleeker wanted Jibriil's throat in his hands. A confession right before the life was choked out of him. Even if it meant neither one would make it out of Somalia alive.
A minute or two of standing there, then he realized people were staring back. Talking about him. Who is that? The man with the pale hands?
He sped up as the dock faded and a busy city street opened up a block away, but the cousins were splitting. Fast, left and right, leaving Mustafa alone as a couple of white men who had gotten out of a sedan with blacked-out windows came right for him. The fuck was this? Had his "family" sold them out? Bleeker hurried. Mustafa stopped when he realized, looked back, saw Bleeker reaching for his pistol. Mustafa sliced the air with his hand down low.
Good thing. The white guys, sunglasses, slacks, oversized golf shirts with the tails hanging out, had to be packing too. One was reaching same as Bleeker, but his partner barked, got him to back down. They slowed next to Mustafa, asked him a question. Mustafa shook his head. Bleeker was still a good twenty feet away. The partner started towards him, his hand out. "Settle down, everything's good, Detective. No problem."
They were both tough guys-biceps, big trunks, thick necks. The one with Mustafa was a bit on the older side, Ex-Marine, maybe. The young one, shit, Bleeker couldn't make heads or tails of it. He'd covered his tracks pretty well, he thought. If someone was going to find him, he expected it to be later, not five minutes after they docked.
Bleeker didn't raise his hands, didn't say a word. The young tough guy inched closer, finally reaching out and taking off Bleeker's shades. The light off the white buildings pretty much blinded him. He squinted, tried to get a clear picture.
"If you could ride with us, we'll explain everything. Come along."
The young guy let Bleeker lead, put a hand on the back of his shoulder once he'd taken a few steps. What, the kid was going to catch him if he tried to run? The Marine was doing the same with Mustafa, but all it took was one roll of his shoulder for the tough guy's hand to let go like it had been bitten by electricity.
Opened the sedan's back door. Mustafa went in. A few moments later, Bleeker dropped in beside him. Door closed. Cool and quiet in the car. Bleeker was about to say something-about the cousins, about someone ratting them out-when the two toughs climbed in front, shutting him up.
The younger one drove. The Marine turned in his seat, elbow on the back. "I appreciate you cooperating. You are not in any danger, I promise."
"Are we getting sent back?"
"I don't know anything. You'll have to talk with Mr. Iles."
"What, CIA? FBI? We need their help."
Mustafa nudged Bleeker. Felt like Shut up already.
The Marine had this barely-there grin, like he was a bit too proud of how easy it was to grab his marks. "Hot out there, Detective Bleeker. Maybe you'd like to roll up your sleeves."
Bleeker looked at Mustafa. "Sold out."
"I ain't saying anything."
The air conditioner ran full on. Goosebumps on Bleeker's skin. He hadn't minded the way Bosaso looked with his shades on, but he hated the way it looked through these tinted windows, all the bright white buildings muddled, all the people shadows.
NINETEEN
They would take a step forward, then two back. Almost as if the Canadian negotiators forgot each day's progress and came back exactly where they'd been before. It was ridiculous. Even when Mahmood dangled a handful of crew off the side of the boat by their wrists, all Adem got was lip service. Farah held off his pirate's growing bloodlust-he'd wanted to gut a crewman and use him to catch a shark-by telling them that would pull in the American Navy, and those guys never paid. Never will.
Adem fought to hold his tongue when the exec across the table said, "We don't understand why all of our good faith is being stepped on. The offer of three hundred and sixty-eight thousand makes perfect sense."
It was a number they'd spit out a few days back. It was a joke. Farah had explained that, calmly, as if he was talking to a class of kindergartners. It was funny, the way he'd actually started to explain extortion as a simple economic transaction. Adem was beginning to believe it. In the same conversation, Farah said that they would begin with a number of six million American dollars, and that they would work it down until everyone was satisfied.
And here was Three Six Eight again. The main negotiator was too embarrassed to say it, Adem guessed. That's why he uncaged the barking puppy to fight for a while.
He looked at Sufia, taking her coded notes. She didn't look up. He needed her to. He was at a loss, except to say it was a stalling tactic. Maybe she was reading something more. But she kept to herself today, steady hand. Invisible. Adem poured more water. He could barely hold onto his glass already, thick with condensation. He had asked that the air conditioner in the room be turned low. After all, these were Canadian businessmen, not used to the heat. But neither was Adem, born and raised in Minnesota. He hoped his time in the desert would win out.
"Gentlemen," Adem said, speaking loudly as if to an auditorium. "We seem to have a problem with our communications. I have already expressed that particular offer to the Captain, and we have seen his response. The blade's edge is at the neck of these men, understand? I say that in all modesty as an intermediary working for the best interest of both parties."
He heard the older exec sigh and mumble My ass you are. The younger kept on, "He's crazy. This Captain can't expect to act like a two-year-old and get handed a bank for it. It has to stop."
"It will, with the death of your crew. That is not a threat. It is simply the truth if we cannot find a way to appease the Captain, all of us, working together. I implore you, reconsider."
The younger one shook his head. "Three sixty-eight. He's making a mistake."