"If the Captain moves the ship now, we can stretch this out for days."
"No. Nice idea, but no. The boat moves, Daddy dies. Easy. Didn't I tell you this is the end? It's not another negotiation. This is, like, the whole enchilada. You like enchiladas?"
Adem breathed through his nose, barely got out. "How long?"
Iles grinned, sat on the couch reclined, his feet on the edge of the coffee table. "Four hours? No, three. Do it in three. I'll set up the press conference. Three hours, the pirates are off the boat and we win. You can even announce it, act like a hero. Let's plan on it."
How did this asshole get to decide the endgame? How did that happen? Adem found some dignity, put it into his stance. "I'll call you."
He headed for the door. Down the hall. Loosened his tie. Too hot. The guards. Which one of these rooms was his dad in, with, what, a cop? Working together? That didn't seem like something Bahdoon would've done. Maybe Mustafa, the kinder gentler man Adem was embarrassed to realize his own father had become for him. Every day a struggle, working for clowns, following orders, all because he wanted to be a role model for Adem. Admirable. Ridiculous.
The guards saw him coming, and one went back down the hall to another room. Knocked, said something Adem couldn't hear. A moment later, Garaad came out of the doorway. The guard followed him back to the elevator to meet up with Adem, pressed the down button.
Garaad, not a mark on him, as tough as always. To the main guard, "My guns, please?"
The guard shook his head. "What guns? Guess you lost them on the way up. Better find new ones."
Garaad glared. "Yeah, I will. I always do."
The door slid open. They stepped in. No guards following them this time. Adem pressed "L". The door slid closed and the guard said, "You gentlemen have a good evening."
One floor down, Adem pulled at his tie. Again and again until it was off. He turned to the back corner, hands against the wall, and gagged. Not enough in him to vomit, but he dry heaved, a trail of spit and acid from his mouth to the floor. Over and over. Garaad watching from the other end of the elevator. One more ding and they would be on the ground floor. Adem wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He sniffed. Stood.
The door slid open. Garrad didn't move. "Was it a bad meeting?"
Adem walked off, beeline for the front door and the waiting Mercedes. "It stunk in that room. That's all."
TWENTY
A European sedan, a fancy hotel, men with sunglasses and earpieces and guns escorting them, treating them like dignitaries or rock stars instead of prisoners, which neither was sure they were anymore. Bleeker had his suspicions. CIA.
Once in the hotel, they were escorted to a room on the second floor, right off the elevator bank, where more golf-shirted guards kept watch. No one manhandled them. Didn't even touch them. The guard-in-charge politely asked for their cell phones, and they didn't resist. That would have been rude. Another guard opened the room, held the door open, and let them in. It was a plain room, two double beds, almost American except for the African decor and lack of a truly cold a/c.
Mustafa went to the windows immediately, opened the curtains. He tested the glass, tried to open it. The guard didn't stop him. He looked at Bleeker. "It's been welded shut."
Bleeker picked up the phone, dialed the operator. The guard didn't stop him.
"Yes?"
"I need an outside line."
"I'm sorry sir, but it has been requested that you not be allowed to make calls while guests of the company."
"What company?"
"I'm sorry sir, but I can't tell you that either."
He hung up. He'd figure out a way around the phone, give him a few hours. He wondered if the guard would stop him then.
Not long after, the ex-Marine came in, relieved the guard. The older man closed the door, motioned for Bleeker and Mustafa to sit on one of the beds while he grabbed the other chair in the room, like something out of Pier One Imports, and straddled it, arms resting on top of the back.
"Thanks for cooperating. You need anything, open the door and ask for Carl. That's me."
Bleeker said, "Thanks Carl. I need to leave now."
Got a laugh. "Relax. I'm sure Mr. Iles will come and speak to you soon."
"Who's he?"
"My boss. I'm sure it's going to be fine." He pulled a small digital camera out of his pants pocket. "You mind? I'm supposed to take your picture."
As he lifted the camera, Mustafa reached out and grabbed his wrist. "That's what they do to hostages."
Held on tight.
Carl pulled his arm back, slowly applying pressure. The expression on his face didn't change. Mustafa's arm stretched. He held his breath, held on tighter. He was coming off the bed, dragged towards Carl. Mustafa blew out all his breath and let go, flopped back onto the bed.
Once he sat up again, Carl snapped the photo, then pushed himself off the chair. "Sit still. Watch TV. Don't try anything."
He left the room. Mustafa launched off the bed to the window. Pushing, shouldering, pulling the handle. Tracing his fingers along the edges. Turned to Bleeker. "You going to help?"
Bleeker got up and went over, took a look. "Nothing we can do."
"We can break it."
"With what? And how many whacks before the guards come in? Fifty? Sixty?" Bleeker thumped the window. "We're not going out that way."
Mustafa slapped it with the heel of his hand. He walked away, a tiger pacing the cage. "This isn't the plan. How'd they know us? We don't know them?"
Bleeker went back to the phone, picked it up. Nothing special. He looked on the bottom of it. Set it back down. Maybe it was as simple as pushing "9" for an outside line. Maybe he could keep hitting zero. He picked up the handset, waited for a dial tone. There was none. He clicked the button in the cradle over and over. Nothing.
"They cut off the phone now."
Mustafa stopped pacing and nodded. "Then we call Carl back, take him out quickly. Get a look at the hall, make a run for it. Anyone in our way gets dead."
"With what? Our incredible fists?"
"Adem is here. We know that now."
"Maybe he's the one who sent these guys after us."
Mustafa shook his head, but his eyes were closed tight like he was keeping that thought from getting inside. "No, no, that can't be. That's…it doesn't make sense."
"Your son making deals for pirates doesn't make much sense either. I mean, come on, man."
Mustafa got in his face. "They're making him! It's not his decision!"
"How are you so sure?"
"I know!"
Bleeker looked past Mustafa's face, out the window, now smudged with their sweat and oil. "I don't think you do. Not any more. What you know is what you wish Adem was. He could've shot Cindy and Poulson. He could've fought with these assholes. He might be working for pirates because he believes in their cause. Same way that mommy thinks her little angel couldn't possibly have done anything wrong."
Bleeker was off his feet, Mustafa grabbing his shirt in his fists and twisting and tossing Bleeker onto the bed like he was a sack of garbage. Bleeker went heels over head, bounced off onto the other side, crouching, ready to spring.
Mustafa stood, shoulders high, ready, huffing. "Say it again. Say it, motherfucker."
"That's a good Muslim mouth you've got there. Sounds more like Bahdoon to me."
Mustafa flexed his fingers. Pops loud like firecrackers. "Never said I was one or the other."
"Then what makes you think Adem is?"
"You can shut your fucking mouth, trying to judge him. You ain't nothing."
"Least I'm not all talk like you."
Bleeker saw the switch flick behind Mustafa's eyes. From Banner to Hulk, snap of the fingers. He was going to trap Bleeker in that corner between bed and wall and pummel him. Bleeker was looking forward to it. Show the Big Bad Bahdoon what an old Army Ranger could do. Fuck up his day.