He thanked the guard and walked inside.
*
The third floor. His home for months, at first a prison before becoming his sanctuary. Some patients were scattered around in beds, quiet in the heat of the day. The guards continued to watch him with goofy grins on their faces, calling their friends, "Yes, yes, he's here! He's right here!" Nurses. They looked at him but wouldn't acknowledge him.
Where was she? Was she tending a patient? On a different floor? Or had he been wrong? The whole thing some misguided leap of faith to believe they'd let her live, let alone come back here. Mosquito nets. Buzzing. The smell of unwashed patients.
Adem saw a nurse he remembered from before, an older woman. He'd never spoken to her, but every day there she had been. Still here, still doing her duty.
"Ma'am, is she here? I've come a long way for her."
The woman closed her eyes, shook her head. "You shouldn't have come. They said you would, but you should not have."
"I don't understand." Was it a trap? He looked around at the guards. They weren't making a move. Goofy grins. Mobiles pressed to ears.
The woman took his hand. "Please leave. Please, go with God."
"I won't go until I know where she is. Can you help me?"
She continued to protest, but he caught her eyes flicking to the left. Back among the beds. One covered with more than just netting. A thick sheet, red and faded, splotchy, draped around a bed like a tent.
The woman said, "They said you would come. They said you'd tell me what happened. You'd explain why. But I don't even want to know why anymore. I don't care."
He squeezed the woman's hands, let them go, and headed for the tent. Behind him, the woman began wailing. Adem heard a guard say to her, "Not now, you hag." She kept wailing. No one said another word.
Adem wanted to throw up. He began coughing. Shaking. What was waiting there for him? All of it, the whole walk, it had all been set up for him. Maybe instead of being celebrated, all of the people were glad to see him so they could finally see the prank through to the end. Snapshots in his mind, what might possibly be behind the sheet. He shut them down as soon as they developed. Sufia dead-no. Jibriil dead-no. Dad-no no no, how could that be? They couldn't have found him already.
Trembling. He needed to pee. Badly. A catch in his throat. Almost there. Someone was sitting on the bed. A shadow appearing through the sheet. Living, breathing. Whoever it was moved, subtly. Adem swallowed, relieved. Let out a hard breath. He pulled back the sheet to find a woman sitting there, her back to him. But he recognized the hijab, one of her favorites. She loved purple.
"Sufia?"
Nothing.
"It's me. I'm sorry. I'm here for you."
"Go away."
It was her voice, yes, but it was defanged and scratchy.
"Please, I can't do that." He was so happy to see her. He wasn't going to let her talk her way out of it this time. "We need to talk. Whatever happened back in Bosaso, we need to get past it. I have an idea."
"Adem, no-"
"I'm serious. It's a good plan." He stepped closer, put his hand on her shoulder. "Look at me."
She turned around.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The only reason to take Bleeker as a hostage was because he was white and they could make demands, get attention, before doing unspeakable things to him. Some while alive. Most after he was dead.
He didn't know if Warfaa was alive or dead, limp like a scarecrow between two soldiers. They'd been walking a half hour, it felt like. But the sun was too bright for him to place it in the sky and follow it. All he could do was look down and try to create enough saliva to keep from drying out. He was determined not to ask these bastards for water. Sand in his boots, his socks. Grinding against his skin, creating blisters, then grinding into the blisters.
It didn't matter what shape he was in when he got to his destination. All he wanted was a chance at Jibriil. He'd hidden the blade. A stiletto. He'd taken off the handle, wrapped the bottom in electrical tape. Enough so he could grip it without slicing all his fingers at once. Flat. Taped to his shin.
Fuck Mustafa. Fuck Adem. Fuck justice. This was exactly what he'd wanted.
The streets were thicker with soldiers now, much closer to home, Bleeker guessed. Some of the boys were ignoring him, on their cell phones. Excited. Others stared at him as if he was a zoo exhibit. Chants. More of that inane laughter that made his skin crawl like he was cold in spite of the broiling heat. He could feel the sweat on his skin boil away.
The army had taken over the neighborhood. Buildings were teeming with soldiers, looking more like some kind of orphanage than an HQ, all the kids running around. A few women, the only ones who seemed to being doing any work, carrying supplies for dinner. Guns everywhere. A group of children on his left, looking up at him, all dragging rifles in the dirt.
Then there were the tents past the buildings, all made of rough tarp, held up on tall poles with heavy rope. Heading for one of those. The man in front swept open the flap and held it for the two men carrying Warfaa. Then it fell in Bleeker's face. He pushed through in time to see Warfaa being dropped to the floor. Warfaa screamed. Alive, good, alive. How much pain? How much life left?
Bleeker went to him, turned him onto his back. He'd been shot twice. Both on his left side. His shirt was gummy with blood, his breathing like a train on bad tracks. Bleeker looked back. What was Somali for "Doctor"? His Somalis all said "Doc-tar" but that was English, right? He tried it: "Doc-tar. He needs a doc-tar."
The first man came over, looked over Bleeker's shoulder at the blood. "Doctor, yes. No. No doctor."
Bleeker pointed at the blood. "Yes, Doctor! Come on." Bleeker found where the bullet had made a hole in the fabric, stuck his finger in. Warfaa gritted his teeth and whined. Bleeker ripped the shirt open wide. Rifle bullets. Full jackets. In and out, no massive exit wounds. The shirt had helped soak up the blood, hold it close to the wound. Now there was more blood flowing. Bleeker freaked, pulled the scarf from around his neck and shoved it against the wounds. More screaming. More shouting, "Doctor! Doctor! Goddamn it, get a doctor!"
One of the men mocked him, trying on a Minnesota accent: "Dok-tor! Dok-tor!" His buddies laughed.
Bleeker stood, ready to grab the man closest to him. "Listen, you-"
Rifle stock to the gut. Put him to the floor. The soldier lifted his boot, pressed it against Bleeker's face. Pushed his nose to the side, pushed until Bleeker's face was touching dirt. Then a last, dismissive shove that tore the skin under Bleeker's eye.
The soldier knelt beside Bleeker, said, "You lose head, American. You will beg for mecry."
"Fuck that right now. What about him?"
The soldier spit onto the ground by Warfaa's feet. "Hang him in tree, let him bleed."
Two other soldiers got up, each grabbing one of Warfaa's feet, and dragged him out of the tent. Bleeker scrambled to get up, to latch onto Warfaa's arm. More screams. More soldiers using their rifles as clubs to beat Bleeker back. He had Warfaa's wrist. Bleeker's hand covered in blood. Slipping. Slipping. A couple of whacks to the back of Bleeker's head. Slipped.
Warfaa was gone. Out of the tent flap, his screams loud then less so then faint.
The soldier kneeling by Bleeker smiled. "You're next."
He left the tent. Bleeker heard him shout a couple of names. Moments later, a handful of gun-wielding teenagers swarmed inside, took up posts all around the tent. One of them held up a knife. Nasty looking thing. Pointed it at Bleeker.
"Your neck. Mine. It's mine."
Bleeker sat up and pulled his knees to his face, wrapped his arms around. They weren't going to cut his fucking head off, not these kids. If he was going to go, he'd be fighting. A bullet. Not by fucking knife in front of a camera.