Adem blinked. More. Then said, "What about Jibriil?"
"He made his choice. We should go."
Adem stepped back, rolled his shoulders and fixed his suit, slipped his tie flush to his collar. "I'm going to find Sufia. You can go home without me."
Bleeker heard Mustafa's breathing, growing louder. His back muscles tightened through the shirt, relaxed. "Ungrateful. What was about to happen back there at the hotel? Who was that shadowing you, the one Ray beat up? Should I take you back, drop you off with Derrick Iles?"
"I'm grateful, don't you see? I am. I am so happy to see you. But it's not that easy. I can't leave her. And, and, Jibriil, you can't leave him. It's not-"
Mustafa didn't even let him finish before unleashing, full volume: "I can and I will!" Waited for Adem to shut up. "We're driving out of here tonight and flying home tomorrow. We'll find an American Embassy and sort out your passport. That's the way it is. I will not tell your mother that I had you, saved you, and then let you go, like some fish or something."
"I'm not leaving!"
"You fucking well are!"
Bleeker said, "Adem?"
He turned. Maybe a lot of bluster in the kid, but he was scared.
Bleeker said, "I'll go with you. Back to Mogadishu."
"Just you?"
Shrug. "I want to talk to your friend. So I'll go with you."
Mustafa stepped between Bleeker and Adem, leaning in close, whispering to the cop, "What are you doing? You can't."
"I told you when I signed up. I've got to. Same as he's got to find this woman."
"You want me to fly home empty handed?"
Bleeker tried to grin. Not much to it. "I don't want you to go home at all. Not yet."
Mustafa turned his head, looked at Adem over his shoulder. Then back to Bleeker. "You're white. Very white."
"I thought we were done with that."
"I didn't mean your skin."
Mustafa walked off, began speaking Somali to his cousin Warfaa. It got loud. It got animated, hands waving, stabbing the air. Mustafa angrier and angrier, but in the end it seemed he won out over Warfaa, who stalked off, talked to the cousins. Solemn nods. Time to pack up.
But Bleeker heard Adem sigh. He turned to the kid. "What?"
Adem laughed. "Dad told him we're going to Mogadishu."
TWENTY-FIVE
"Bring him out." The guard waved his hand as he said it. He looked young, maybe nineteen, but ancient compared to the boys around him. Some hadn't even reached puberty. They all handled their guns as if they'd been trained from birth.
It had taken them four days to get here, finally, to the outskirts of Mogadishu. Plenty of trouble along the way-flat tire, questions about the white man (told some he was a holy man from Turkey, others he was a reporter, still others he was a prisoner being escorted to his beheading), sickness, lack of water. They had guns, at least one apiece. Had to hide them carefully in order to avoid the soldiers taking them. They had money, had to have money, in order to pay off so many men along the way. They had gas. Lost some of it to bandits, others who stopped the Rover, searched it, never telling them exactly what it was the men found worth seeking. Humiliated, tired, dirty, irate with each other, but here they were.
The guard said it again. Then in English, as if they hadn't heard him. Bleeker sat in the back between Mustafa and Warfaa. Mustafa opened his door, slid out, and took Bleeker by the arm. Pulled him. Bleeker fought back, but Warfaa yelled at him, pushed his head. Kept saying, "Out! Out! Out!"
One more push and Bleeker fell to the ground. The boys with guns laughed. Warfaa kicked him. "Up! Up!"
Mustafa helped Bleeker to his feet. The guards looked at him the same way they looked at camels. They recognized Adem, sitting in-between the cousins up front. They clamored around, calling out for "Mr. Mohammed", like he was a TV star. Some of the young men climbed onto the hood of the Rover. "It's him! Look, it really is."
They hadn't expected that. But once it happened, they played it up, Adem smiling for the soldiers, talking to them. Had to have seen him on TV, or online. The negotiator who stood up to the Americans! Well, the Canadians, anyway. And he was hauled off in handcuffs, only to escape in a firefight with American mercenaries! Yes! A folk hero in the making.
Soldiers put their hands on the windows, and Adem pressed his palms against the opposite side. Three, four, five, six times.
The guard examining Bleeker didn't have a reason to do it. He just wanted to. Bleeker knew by the way this guy circled him, sniffed him. Bullshit stuff.
Mustafa finally said, "He's from the Canadian ship. Mr. Mohammed has brought back a prize for the men."
The teenage leader smiled. "Okay. You leave him here?"
"We take him. He goes to Jibriil."
"No, is okay. We take him to Jibriil. You leave him here."
Mustafa had a blade at the kid's throat before he had a chance to make a threat. All the others, starstruck by Adem, slowly took notice, turned to watch. The guard and Mustafa, eye to eye, tip of the knife at the guard's throat.
"You want credit, get your own prisoner, jackass." Mustafa, unwavering.
The guard's eyes were wide, unblinking. A few moments passed, Mustafa smiled, laughed. Let his arm droop. The guard knocked the blade down with a weak elbow, embarrassed but defiant. "Go on, go on."
Warfaa manhandled Bleeker into the backseat again. They got in on both sides of him. The young soldiers clambered off the truck but stood close around it, mesmerized, making it difficult for the driver to navigate. But he steered through, back onto the road. Desert finally gave way to modern buildings, pavement, greenery, and smoke that carried both the smell of death and spices.
They drove slowly, not wanting any more attention than they'd already attracted. Nearly there. Only a vague idea what to do once they arrived.
"We'd better hurry," Bleeker said. "Those guys are going to blow our cover. I know it."
Chuckles around the rover. Mustafa was the one who said, "They've known almost since we started. All the bribe money? Soon as we had driven away, they were on their mobiles, telling Jibriil where we were."
"So we never had a chance?"
"I don't think he knows I'm here, and he sure as hell doesn't know what to make of you. So all these boys could tell him is that Adem is returning with a carload of protection and a white guy."
"Will they be waiting for us?"
"They think we're coming from the previous checkpoint. But we're going to circle the city, try sneaking in. That won't buy much time, but enough."
"Enough for what?"
Mustafa put his finger to his lips. That was that.
The driver took a sudden left and sped up on a vacant road leading back into the wild.
*
When they stopped again, hours later, it was behind a building miles from the soldiers' camp. Adem wasn't sure he would be able to navigate from here, a part of the city he'd never seen before. It took a pair of binoculars and twenty minutes to find some landmarks and build a map in his head. He should've been scared out of his mind, he knew, but was instead excited. Thoughts of Sufia, waiting for him to come and take her away. They could hit Cairo later. First, Minneapolis. She would enjoy the lakes, the woods, the art. It sure as hell wasn't Somalia, but the expatriates somehow made it work, Little Mogadishu in much better shape than the real thing.
They were all out of the Rover, sunset coming fast, beginning to pick up eyes watching from alleys and windows. Adem buttoned his suit coat, straightened the knot on his tie, and cleared his throat. The men turned to him. He didn't exactly know what to say, but this was all about him. Him and Bleeker. And they would all die for what these two wanted if they had to.