A sigh. "Oh, Adem, Adem, Adem. You're down to begging now? I'll have to think about this. It's not an easy decision."
"I swear, you fucking, you…I will find you. Touch her and I'll come after you."
Nothing for a moment. Then, "I hope you do."
Then a click.
"Jibriil? Jibriil?"
Nothing.
Adem's hand dropped to his side. Garaad stepped over, took the phone away and slid it closed. He said, "So are you ready for the next meeting?"
Maybe he nodded. He wasn't really paying attention, staring out the window and wondering what awful things were happening to Sufia somewhere out there. And how long it would be before they came after him, too.
TWENTY-TWO
If they hadn't been prisoners guarded by guys in golf shirts with Glocks, then Bleeker would've thought he was in the lap of luxury. He took a steaming shower to get rid of the thick layer of sweat dried on him like a molting snakeskin, and it was as fine an experience as he'd had in any American hotel. He stood there until the hot water ran out. Fuck Mustafa. If he wanted a shower, he could chatter his teeth under the ice-cold spray.
Closed his eyes. Saw Cindy. Saw her in her uniform. Saw her out of it, hand on her stomach, beginning to show. He wondered what sort of father he would be. If he'd been any good at all, maybe Trish would've wanted to have kids with him. But she'd let it go on so long. It never felt the right time to talk about it. He just always assumed this was the life they chose, and that was enough. Until it wasn't. Getting Cindy pregnant was an accident. And maybe that was all it took. You don't plan. You just either become a father or you don't. And when fate ripped away a kid the way it had with his unborn child, odds were that his first instinct had been correct and the universe had ways of fixing mistakes. God, Bleeker as someone's dad? God.
He had promised himself to be a better father than his own dad had been to him. Not that it was a bad childhood or anything. But his dad was the typical too-quiet, too-interested-in-the-game stereotype that rural men slipped into as easy as a warm bath. If Cindy hadn't been killed, if the little guy or girl-pretty sure it would've been a girl, going to call her Linda, like his mom-had been born with ten fingers and toes and her face on right, then Bleeker was going to be different, spend more time with her. Be someone worth loving.
His last chance to do that was to get out of this hotel, rescue Mustafa's dumbass kid, and go strangle the life out of Ja-brill or Gerbil or however you said it. He tried it a few times, mumbling as the water thundered onto his shoulders.
"Ja-brill. Jibree-ell. Jibriil. Jibriil."
Mustafa had called Warfaa earlier, found out the cousins had all split, knew they had some eyes on them, but were able to lose themselves in the sidestreets and meet back up later once the pursuers gave up. One of them had discovered which hotel housed the meetings between Adem and the shipping company. Now they were waiting for someone to show up.
"So, we…what? Go wait with them?"
Mustafa said, "If we do that, they'll know where to look. When Warfaa wants us, he'll call."
"Is that when we ask Carl to please let us go sightseeing?"
A smile. "Relax, man. We got this."
More soccer on TV.
After ten minutes of that, Bleeker had headed to the shower.
The water turned cold. Bleeker let it cool him, braced himself for it to get even colder. Wanted to remind himself of what it was like in New Pheasant Run right then while the sun baked the city outside. He wondered if anyone was looking for him anymore. And once he was back, provided no one threw him in jail, what would he do next? Time to face the fact that he was done as a cop. As soon as he'd heard Cindy had been killed, the law never crossed his mind. None of that "seeing justice served" crap. Every day, hoping he would find the asshole before the authorities or an enemy bullet did so he could make sure the man died badly.
After living with that for this long, and now so close to realizing it, there was no way he could do what was expected of him anymore. He was even tempted by Iles's offer. Jesus, how low did that make him feel?
He climbed out of the shower, toweled off, and wiped the steam off the mirror. Leaned in for a close look. Bags under his eyes. The beard, so much gray in it, shaved down to look more like a Muslim's. Gray in his hair, too. Cracked lips. Wrinkles around the eyes cut deep. All this time he'd thought the Minnesota winters had been preserving him, but he'd been fooling himself.
He put his damp clothes back on, clammy now. Took a deep breath and stepped out into the room, where Mustafa was pulling the leg off the wicker chair.
"What the hell? Where am I going to sit?"
Mustafa shrugged. "Floor. Doesn't matter, we won't be here long. Warfaa called. Looks like some of the players are arriving at the hotel. Soon as Adem shows up, we can get out of here."
Bleeker shrugged. He checked the clock. They'd been in the room seven hours. One of the guards had delivered room service. Decent stuff, club sandwiches, would make you think you weren't in Africa. It was like they'd done everything they could to make it look African while stripping it of the real tastes, textures, and air. Another guard had checked on them from time to time, asked if they needed anything. Lucky the phone didn't buzz. Lucky they hadn't come in when Mustafa was tearing up the furniture. That would get him another round of electricity.
Bleeker said, "Sounds like you didn't need me for this at all."
"Sure we did. Couldn't have made it without you." He pulled the leg free, hefted it and gave it a few swings. It was a front leg, so when he righted the chair and set it back under the desk, Bleeker couldn't tell it had been amputated.
"Can I have one?"
Mustafa tossed it under the side of the bed against the far wall, then reclined on the mattress, one hand behind his head and the other taking the remote control.
This time, no soccer on TV. Looked like a news report, mostly noise except for a handful of Somali sounds he recognized, and some English sprinkled in every now and then. Mustafa turned the sound up until it was nearly unbearable.
Bleeker understood, came around the bed and knelt, turned his ear to Mustafa's mouth.
"They'll come check this out. Make out like you're hard of hearing. We'll turn it down some. Soon as we get the call, we'll turn it up again."
Bleeker stood. Mustafa handed him the remote, but kept a hand on it. Sure enough, a guard came in the room, no knocking. Mustafa yanked the remote and started turning the sound down.
"You crazy? That's too loud!"
The guard said, "What's going on?"
"Tell 'em. I ain't putting up with it."
The guard looked at Bleeker. Waited.
"Iraq. I need the TV loud."
"You're not here on vacation."
Bleeker shrugged. "But I can't hear it, man."
The guard looked about to yell. Cheeks went red. He calmed down, took a deep breath, and said, "Do I have to take you to another room? One not as nice as this? With a blindfold?"
Bleeker held up surrender palms and shook his head. "Sorry."
The guard pointed his index finger. First at Bleeker, then Mustafa. "No bullshit, we clear?"
They mumbled stuff and the guard retreated, slammed the door. Bleeker started laughing. Couldn't help it. Mustafa shushing him, but he was about to crack up, too. They shushed each other, tears streaming. It was…funny. The whole thing. People had died, and there were Americans holding them hostage, and somewhere out there was a bunch of pirates. Just funny. What could he do but laugh? Laugh until he cried. Laugh until he fell to his knees, holding it in but laughing still and then the big, bellowing, breathless sobs. He looked up at Mustafa, mouth wide open, and shook his head. Goddamn, he was going to make some noise and he couldn't hold it in any more and the guards could come running because he hadn't cried yet. He'd talked himself out of it so many times, drunk himself out of it.