But Malik is in no mood at the moment. He’s just learned about the death of yet another journalist, thanks to yet another roadside bomb. “Why don’t we speak later in the evening,” he says, “and we’ll figure it out then? Looks like he’ll have to come to Mogadiscio, as I won’t be able to come to Puntland.”
“Good.”
“I’m delighted things are working out.”
“But tell me about yourself, Malik,” Ahl says anxiously. “Are you hurt or anything?”
“Just shocked, traumatized — out of sync.”
They agree to talk more in the evening, and say good-bye.
After he hangs up, there is silence for long enough that Ahl assumes Fidno isn’t going to speak. But just then Fidno says, “It’ll give me joy to go to Mogadiscio. Because I am so eager, maybe I’ll take the first available flight. But I won’t book it until I hear from you. And there is a small possibility I’ll want to bring along a friend to the interview.”
“That’s the first I’ve heard of a friend going with you.”
“We’ll talk, you and I,” Fidno promises. “There is time yet.”
Ahl stares at Fidno in anger and mistrust. Of course, Malik will be upset at this development. But Malik is family, and he will do what is best for Taxliil in the end. Or, at least, Ahl hopes he will.
At the hotel, Ahl alights, bones aching, eyes smarting from the day’s heat and exhaustion. He is about to bid Fidno farewell when a young woman, demurely dressed, head covered, face veiled, but only cursorily, comes out of the reception. She makes a beeline for Fidno, whispers to him, and stands to the side, waiting.
Fidno says, “If you have a moment, let me introduce you to Wiila.” I believe you met her on your flight. And then you’ll remember we saw her together at the qaat stall, with Warsame.”
Tired, but thinking it too impolite to walk away, Ahl takes the hand Wiila is holding out for him to shake. But even decked out in traditional garb, her bearing takes him back to the nightclub in Djibouti, when the prostitute tried to chat him up. Wiila has the same knowingness. And, given that she is a friend to Fidno, Ahl decides to be wary.
Ahl says, “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. As Fidno said the other day, some of us make the world smaller than it is in reality.”
But when he makes as if to leave, Fidno grips his hand. “Come and buy us some coffee, some tea. We’re your guests. Where are your manners?”
Aware that it won’t do the business of locating Taxliil any good to decline, yet conscious, too, that he will be courting unnecessary danger by putting too much trust in them, Ahl opts for a middle way: cooperation and vigilance.
They sit in the gazebo. Fidno and Ahl order coffee, Wiila a soft drink. While they are waiting for their order, Wiila explains why she was tearful on the day she and Ahl met. “My younger brother had been killed by Shabaab earlier that day. I am still mourning him.”
Ahl recalls that brief encounter and wonders why Fidno has the look of someone who has unearthed a gem to present to him.
He asks, “What do I have to do with any of this?”
“You don’t.”
Fidno nods his head in Wiila’s direction, dismissing her. Ahl catches the slightest trace of a smile that makes her lips twitch and her eyes brighten slightly, like someone who has fulfilled her part of a contract and is now free. She gets to her feet, bows her head a little to both men, and with her soft drink untouched, she walks away.
“What game are you playing?” Ahl asks Fidno when she is gone.
Fidno says, “This is simple as home cooking, labor intensive but worth it, worth every pound in the mortar, every grain of salt.”
Ahl presumes he is being duped the moment Fidno resorts to fancy words. But still, the man has him in a corner. So he lets himself sound only mildly annoyed when he asks, “Where are you going with all this?”
Fidno says, “My intention isn’t to involve you. But I want to bring in Malik. Dangerous, yes, but worth the effort.”
Ahl’s voice strains under the weight of his worry. He says, “Do you want him to talk to Wiila?”
Fidno can’t help putting on airs, like a student straining to be more clever than his mentor. “There is her older brother, Muusa Ibraahim, a former pirate, who worked with me. I’d like Malik to interview him. Muusa comes as part of a package. Malik will have spoken to a funder of piracy, and he has agreed to speak to me — I, being all things to pirates and piracy, Muusa is the real article, and he has a lot to say about Shabaab.”
This has been a day of emotional chaos, in which Ahl’s hope of locating Taxliil has been raised, then jeopardized unless he caters to Fidno’s extortionate greed. When will it all end?
“I’ll talk to Malik later today,” he says.
Then Fidno brings out his mobile phone, turns it on, and searches for a number, which Ahl presumes to be Muusa Ibraahim’s. Ahl takes down the number as Fidno dictates it.
The day’s business done, as if he and Ahl are jolly companions deep in their cups, Fidno says, with a mischievous grin spreading down to his chin, “Wiila has told me that she won’t be averse to be of service to you, if you are in the mood to be entertained in this dreadful hotel. Say the word and I’ll send her over.”
Ahl is at a loss for the appropriate response, but then it comes to him. He says, “I had no idea you were into pimping, too.”
Fidno doesn’t take offense. He says, “Just checking. Just offering. These are tempting times, and I know family men who won’t say no to Wiila.”
And then Ahl is up and off, and Fidno, for once, settles their bill.
22
AS BEFORE, THE DOOR TO AHL’S ROOM IS LOCKED FROM THE INSIDE. After he knocks on it repeatedly, the TV programmer lets him in. Ahl can’t help but feel amused at this point, especially once he has reflexively checked that he still has his money belt, and felt the weight of the laptop he is carrying. Then, as if to prove a point, he pretends to check on the state of his suitcase, which has had its lock torn off. Without waiting for the TV programmer to leave, he telephones his wife’s cousin, Xalan, to ask her to please come for him as soon as she can. He doesn’t explain why, he just wants to leave. Basta!
He moves about the room, picking up a towel, running the tap, and with the luxury of a man who has a lot of time to kill, washing his hands and his face. Seemingly unperturbed and unflustered, the TV programmer stays in the room, fiddling with the knobs and taking no notice of Ahl’s presence or his need for some privacy. Maybe the never-ending conflict in this country won’t tail off until its burglars master their art, Ahl thinks. Maybe the foolishness displayed by the nation’s politicians, its so-called intellectuals, its clan elders and imams, and its rudderless youths is contagious; everyone in the land seems somehow lacking in horse sense.
His mobile rings: Xalan is downstairs, waiting. Ahl awkwardly picks up his suitcase with the broken lock, not bothering to check if any of his shirts, pairs of trousers, underwear, or sandals are missing. He leaves the door to the room open, the TV man still tinkering with the set, the volume high, then low.