He wrapped his scarf over his mouth and nose. Adem tried to keep the sand out with his shirttail lifted to his nose, but then the sand slapped his exposed torso.
Jibriil turned back to him, shouted for a soldier to get Adem a scarf, then said, "Come on, let's go hunting."
Off into the wild. Soldiers who were celebrating before were now chanting "Death to the American!" Rifles. Bigger rifles. Even bigger machine guns.
Adem hoped he got to Bleeker before any of the others did. And where the hell was his dad?
THIRTY-ONE
The sandstorm at full strength, they ducked under an empty tent, half reeds and sticks, half a torn sheet, enough holes in it to keep it from filling like a sail. Huddled together, trying to hide Bleeker from the others. They'd already made a sling from the dead guard's scarf in order to hide one of his hands. He'd shoved the other in his pocket, slung the rifle over his shoulder.
The celebration gave them good cover, Mustafa asking what it was all about, translating for Bleeker. A dead novelist. Criticize Islam in public too much, and you're a target. Say something about the Prophet, draw a picture of him, and that's reason enough to die. It pissed Bleeker off. Some fucking wannabe Bin Laden gunned down Cindy and that was justifiable, but should Bleeker ever say something un-PC about lunatic Muslims on TV, then mobs of thousands all over the world believed he was the worst of the worst. Fuck culture, fuck tolerance. When he got back to Minnesota, he was going to retire and retreat up north, the woods, and hope never to see another Muslim for as long as he lived.
"What now?"
Mustafa glanced around, a pained expression. "If you want to find Jibriil, we need to ask around, find out if anyone's seen him. If that's what you still want."
Mustafa looked at him. Blank. Whatever it took. But Bleeker knew. Whatever it took now that he'd found Adem. As long as he was safe. Bleeker thought about Warfaa, shot and gutted for helping them. About the others who had lost their lives up in Bosaso. What was more important in the long run?
Maybe one day he would journey back to this shithole on his time. Plenty of time once he retired. He'd find the son of a bitch then, take the time to plan a proper assassination. Cold blooded instead of warm. A long-range hunting rifle instead of up-close, the way Jibriil shot a pregnant woman in the face. Jibriil would never see it coming. Bleeker would live to enjoy it instead of being cut down by the fanatics.
Cold. Just the way he liked it.
"Let's get out of here," he told Mustafa. "We've got Adem. This was a mistake. I'm done."
"You sure?"
Bleeker let out a deep breath. Next year. Take time to prepare. Cold. He nodded.
He could tell that Mustafa was relieved. Like he shrunk three inches, all the tension held in his muscles flowing out, carried away by the wind. Mustafa pulled out his cell phone, called Chi. He covered his mouth with his hand, pressed the phone tight against his ear. He still had to shout. Bleeker watched. All he had to do was give the guy a landmark, maybe half a mile away, tell him to come pick them up. But Mustafa's voice was growing even louder. Louder still. Bleeker couldn't make it out against the gunfire and shouting and the sand. Outside, he heard the celebrations turn into one uniform Arabic chant: "Death to the American!"
Had to be him.
Mustafa was yelling now. He stood, hunched over in the tent. Cursing in Somali. Bleeker knew those words well. Heard them every weekend in New Pheasant Run from the kids.
Mustafa took the phone from his ear, cut the call. Stared at the ground. "Adem's gone. He left."
"Where'd he-"
"Looking for her. Off looking for her. Chi couldn't shoot him. Shit. It's my fault."
Nothing to say. The chanting outside began to thunder. Mustafa caught onto what they were saying. "No."
"We knew they'd figure it out."
"Not now. How do we know they mean you?"
"You saw how they treated Adem. Guy's a star."
Dawit shook his head. "But a star who makes a mistake…" A finger sliced across the neck.
Mustafa flexed his fingers on both hands. "Shit! Goddamnit!"
Death to the American!
Death to the American!
Bleeker stood. "Let's go march with them."
"What?"
"It looks better than hiding out here. We go out, march, chant, what are they going to do?"
"You stick out like a sore dick."
"There are a few white guys here, right? Like they'll know."
Outside, boots, all marching the same direction. A few faces looked their way. A few more would follow suit. They had to get out of there, the only way.
Bleeker unslung his rifle, held it up high, and shouted in Arabic, "Death to the American! Death to the American! Islam forever!"
He headed out into the crowd, the intensity of the sand surprising him. Carried along with the flow. "Death to the American!"
He turned his head as far as he could. Mustafa and Dawit finally emerged from the tent, struggled to catch up. Bleeker looked ahead again, no idea where he was going, but chanting for his own death the whole way as he blinked sand out of his eyes.
THIRTY-TWO
Jibriil, jubilant outside of the tent. As if he hadn't blown his cool two minutes before. Big smile, chanting-no, not that. Leading the chant. When he moved, the swarm moved, the way clouds of birds did in a split second. Adem was out of sync, bumping into soldiers, stepping on boots, having to grab Jibriil to keep up. The leader took deliberate steps, guiding an army on feel alone. Adem remembered the last mob he was at the center of, and he was desperate to keep Jibriil in view.
The sand, thick in the air. Hard to see beyond ten, twelve, fifteen soldiers on all sides, but Adem could hear them. They were out there, chanting and singing and shooting into the air. How did this help them find the cop? Would he surrender because the odds were against him? Would they pin him under a bush and stomp the infidel out of him?
This was what it had come to. Adem wasn't leaving Somalia. He was going to be Jibriil's puppet, the celebrity face of this ragtag army after all, but without Sufia by his side. She'd always be there, somewhere in the camp, ready to be put on display for Adem whenever he steered off the path set out for him. The sharpest reminder of all, besides the raised scar on his neck.
"Death to the American!"
For a moment he forgot about the white cop. He was the American. So was Jibriil. And it could turn on them like that, couldn't it?
*
When Mustafa caught up to Bleeker, landing a heavy hand on the man's shoulder, the cop thought he'd been found out. A moment of panic, Bleeker seeing himself shooting his way out of the crowd, only to be filled with so much lead that he'd be a statue of himself.
But then Mustafa's voice at his ear: "Easy. Don't give yourself away."
How long until Chi got there with the Rover? They needed to find their way out of the crowd, a safe place on the edge where they could wait. But the sandstorm had gotten worse and the mob was swirling and they didn't know how far they had circled around the camp.
Mustafa pushed Bleeker to the left, the slightest force, to begin threading towards freedom. Dawit shouldered his way ahead of Bleeker. Couldn't be too obvious about what they were doing. It was a trigger-happy crowd. Didn't matter if it was an American they killed or not. Someone had to die now.
Like a dance, shuffling ahead, hop, shuffling ahead, hop. Death to the American! Death to the American!
Shuffle, shuffle. Hop. Shuffle, shuffle. Hop.
Bleeker tripped on his own boots. Going down. Crashed into Dawit and the soldiers ahead. They parted like the Red Sea, and Bleeker kept falling. Mustafa was right there, hands under his arms, lifting up, up, up, but getting nowhere. A shove from behind. Mustafa shouted for Dawit, who was fighting his way back against the tide of soldiers. More soldiers behind shoving, kicking, losing the rhythm of the chant, the shuffle, descending into chaos. Dawit, finally there, kneeling to help Bleeker. Other soldiers closing the part, trampling Bleeker's fingers, Dawit's legs, and some of the soldiers were now stopping to help, making it worse. Lifting Bleeker to his feet, pointing at his white hands, looking into his eyes, the white skin peeking through. They tugged at his scarf, Mustafa slapping hands away.