“When do we go home, to Minneapolis?”
“That we don’t know,” replies Ahl. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
Ahl is certain that Taxliil’s name will be among the names the FBI have on file. The U.S. embassy will insist on debriefing Taxliil, and may even fly out an agent to talk to him in Djibouti. He is unsure if Taxliil is the first of the twenty or so Somalis to return. After debriefing, he will most likely be flown to Stuttgart, in handcuffs, on a special military flight. But he spares Taxliil the details for now. It is one thing to prepare him for what to expect, another to frighten him unnecessarily.
“Do you think I’ll be treated as a security risk?”
“Why do you ask?”
Taxliil says, “Because Saifullah said that he preferred dying in dignity to being arrested and handcuffed by the Americans and treated with suspicion for the rest of his days.”
“There is the possibility you may be considered a security risk,” Ahl says. “But because you are still underage, they may go easy on you.”
Taxliil says, “Are you trying to frighten me, Dad?”
“No, my son,” Ahl says.
“I am starting to regret I didn’t go on with it.”
“I am glad you didn’t go on with it,” Ahl says.
He thinks there is no despair as profound as that of a teenager whose innocence has led him to place his trust unwisely.
Xalan returns home with the air tickets and the passport of a boy of similar age to Taxliil. Although it was issued months earlier, no one has picked it up, and her friend in the passports division is prepared to take the risk of lending it to her. He’ll deny knowing anything about it if the theft is discovered. At best, if the deceit is not discovered, the passport is good only into Djibouti, which a Somali doesn’t need a visa to enter. To enter the United States, Taxliil needs to apply for a U.S. visa, which is difficult to obtain at the best of times.
There is a more immediate problem: Taxliil is refusing to come down from his room; he wants to be alone, and won’t entertain the thought of trying on the clothes Xalan has bought for him. She and Ahl try to cajole him out of his downbeat mood.
“How did your meeting go before he went up?” Xalan asks Ahl.
Ahl tells her everything.
“Maybe you scared him,” says Xalan.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“Maybe he thinks he’ll be flown to Guantánamo.”
“I said nothing of the sort. I was just preparing him for what might happen.”
They are silent for a long time.
Ahl telephones Malik to tell him that he and Taxliil are leaving for Djibouti the next day. He asks Malik how much longer he intends to stay on, and Malik, not for the first time, decides against telling him how deeply worried he is at present about his safety. He says only that he intends to do a few more interviews and then leave. When Ahl shares with him his good news about the tickets and the passport, Malik expresses delight and says, “Maybe I’ll see you sooner than you think.”
Ahl then rings Jeebleh and fills him in on the progress they have made so far. Just before they disconnect, he mentions how he inveigled Malik into agreeing to interview Fidno and one of Fidno’s associates.
Jeebleh is furious with both brothers and says so. “Why do you endanger his life, cajoling him to interview two criminals at once in the same room in a hotel? This is far too risky. Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“I am indebted to Fidno,” Ahl says.
“One is never indebted to a criminal,” Jeebleh says.
“Well, I am,” Ahl retorts. “His intervention has, after all, brought Taxliil home.”
“What’s got into you?”
Ahl says, “I love my son.”
“How can you behave as carelessly as you’ve done towards Malik?” Jeebleh says.
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to think of what you’ve done, the danger caused to your brother.”
“The matter is out of our hands,” Ahl says.
Jeebleh disconnects the line in fury.
27
MALIK IS IN THE KITCHEN OF THE MAIN HOUSE, PREPARING BREAKFAST. He has been up almost all night — he couldn’t bring himself to sleep after his exchange with Jeebleh. He won’t consider calling off the interview with Fidno and Isha. It would be a cowardly thing to do, especially as he wishes to live up to the memory of those killed while performing their jobs — journalists, the Dajaals, and the large number of innocent civilians terrorized into submission by the barbarism of Ethiopians, Shabaab, and half a dozen other fifth columnists. He will do as he has agreed: conduct this one interview and then leave on the flight to Nairobi on the morrow.
The breakfast comprises greens, cheese, toast, peeled and sliced oranges, and leftovers from the night before, including lentils. Cambara is partial to caffelatte in a mug; Bile loves his with half a spoon of sugar; she likes her liver cooked rare; Bile likes his well done.
Cambara comes to the table in a tropical cotton dress and no bra, as if playing at Shabaab’s recent edict that Somali woman should not wear such American-inspired, un-Islamic breast contraptions. Does she know she makes Malik pine for the company of women, especially when, as they kiss each other on the cheek, she presses her full chest against him, too?
What a pleasant surprise that Bile joins them, his complexion healthier and his appetite robust. Malik observes how Bile and Cambara take pleasure in touching, whenever a pretext permits it. Bile asks Malik how he is doing, and insists on feeling the bump on his forehead, which has gone down enough to satisfy him.
Bile says, “Have you heard about the predator attack on a human target in the town of Dhuusa Marreeb at dawn?” He tells Malik about a report on the BBC Somali service, that a Tomahawk cruise missile launched from a U.S. submarine off the coast of Somalia has killed several innocent civilians in addition to their target, a killer and one of the desecrators of the Italian burial sites in Mogadiscio. “Now my fear is that the U.S. action may lead to further protraction of the war, with more foreign jihadis volunteering to join Shabaab.”
“Same old thing, dressed differently,” Malik says. “Attacks by America, which are meant to tame terrorists, embolden them.”
Cambara says, “You don’t sound bothered by it.”
He replies, “Not so much bothered as disturbed. As I said before, one must know what to expect from poorly thought-out attacks — by Ethiopians doing it at the behest of America or by America herself.”
Bile picks up a cherry tomato and eats it.
Cambara says, “I’d probably be stretching it if I say that by their very nature, suicide bombers are remote-controlled. For me, however, there is no difference between the imam remote-controlling the suicide bomber and the guy orchestrating the Tomahawk launch from the safety of his Colorado base. One could be having his coffee and joking with his pals, the other could be crouched on his rug, allegedly praying.”
Bile says, “It’s the mindless killing of noncombatant civilians that annoys me about distance killing of any sort.” Then he turns to Malik and asks, “Will you write about it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Malik pretends not to hear the question, because he doesn’t see any point in answering, and Bile doesn’t press him.
Cambara asks what his plans are today.
“I have an appointment with two subjects whom I’ll be interviewing in a suite I’ve booked in a hotel for the day.”
“Who are you interviewing?” Bile asks.
And before he has answered the question, Cambara urges him to use the annex, reasoning that it is easier to monitor the movements of who is entering the compound and who is exiting. “With a hotel, it is always impossible to keep track of people’s goings and comings.”