“Can you name names, give addresses?”
“Of course.”
Malik asks Fidno about the cash they’ve just shared out, despite the fact that he realizes he risks being told off.
“As men of all seasons, we have our fingers in different pies to survive,” Fidno says. “The money we are sharing out is from a speedboat-building venture we’ve set up in Seychelles. I’ve agreed to lend half of my share to Isha, who promises to pay it back when he receives what is owed to him — eventually. And as you can see, it is not millions of dollars I am doling out; only ten thousand dollars in small denominations of ten and twenty.”
Malik has no reason to disbelieve him, especially because Fidno sounds convincing, but then that is not saying much. As a journalist, he seldom trusts the truth of the version he hears until he has dug deeper and deeper and gotten to the bottom of the matter. Alas, it is not possible to do so now, as time is against him. Not to overlook the fact that his fear is making a worrying comeback, and he feels a little feverish.
Still, he won’t let go. He asks, “But surely the pirates receive bagfuls of cash. We’ve seen pictures of these — bags delivered to the hijacked ships on TV, with the correspondent reporting a couple million dollars within.”
“How can you tell from the clips you saw on your TV at home that the bags you were shown contained cash?” Fidno asks.
“So what did the bags in the pictures contain?”
“I suggest you go and ask the person who took the picture of the bags of alleged cash being delivered to the alleged hijacked ship and the correspondent who reported it. Maybe they would know. The problem with many people who are otherwise intelligent, well read, and well intentioned is that they believe what they see from the comfort of their couches, not what we here in Puntland are saying.”
“The bags dangling down from a rope held by a man in a helicopter are supposed to have contained two million dollars,” Malik repeats.
“Someone is lying.”
“Tell me who is lying and why.”
“I am not,” Fidno says. “We’re not.”
“So who is?”
“Maybe it is all an insurance scam.”
“They claimed to have paid when they didn’t?”
Fidno goes on, “I bet you were also taken in by reports in the international media of the blatant lie that someone found the body of a pirate, drowned after receiving his share, that washed ashore with one hundred and fifty-three thousand dollars in cash in his pocket. Ask yourself this: what happened to the money? The author does not tell us that, does he? In the same article, there is the incredible story of five pirates drowning, reportedly carrying three million dollars: ransom from the Saudi oil tanker? Again, what has become of the money? In Somalia, there would be war between the residents of a town over a hundred dollars. Why not over one hundred and fifty-three thousand dollars or, better still, three million? Did you hear of any wars taking place because of money found on the body of a drowned pirate washed ashore?”
Malik asks, “What about the sweet life in the pirate towns of Eyl and Xarardheere I’ve read about in the Guardian in London?”
“Eyl is a run-down village, the poorest in Puntland,” Fidno says. “I doubt the journalist who’s written the article has been there. I have. There is nothing, nothing in Eyl.”
“The BBC has aired similar pieces,” Malik says.
Fidno says, “Who am I to challenge the BBC?”
Fidno’s cheeks are almost empty of qaat now, the slim wad left no bigger than a weal raised over his cheekbone. Isha’s eyes are like the eyes of a man drunk on some cheap brew, his tongue soaked in the stewed greenness of his addiction.
Malik switches the tape recorder off and says, “We’re done. Thank you both.”
Then they chat off the record about other matters, and Fidno inquires if Malik has been in touch with Ahl and if he can tell him how he is doing. Malik replies in general terms, without going into any specifics. In fact, he makes an effort not to mention Taxliil’s name, even once. Polite to the last minute, they part in good humor, Malik promising that he will base a piece on their conversation and will send it to them if one of them provides him with an address. Fidno gives him an e-mail address.
Malik phones Qasiir to pick him up, and leaves Fidno and Isha where they are, in the suite, chewing. At the reception, he settles the bill, making sure that he is not responsible for further incidentals. Then he finds Qasiir in the car, parked where he left him.
Malik says, “Please take a different route from the one we took when we came earlier. I suggest you pretend we are going to the apartment.”
Qasiir looks often in the rearview mirror, to make sure no one is following them.
Malik says, “Also I want you to book my flight.”
“Your flight to where?”
“Nairobi. First thing in the morning.”
28
AHL, READY TO DEPART FOR THE AIRPORT, TELEPHONES MALIK TO tell him how things are. Even now, Ahl does not wish to confide in Malik about Taxliil’s erratic moods and behavior — let alone what is going on just now, with him having barricaded himself in the room and refusing to open the door or to communicate with anyone.
Cambara answers instead of Malik anyway. Surprised at first and wondering if he has rung the wrong number, Ahl is about to disconnect the line when she hurriedly gives her name and then says, “You have the right number, but I am afraid Malik won’t be able to answer it.”
Ahl offers to ring again later, and leaves her with his name and the news that he and Taxliil will be off to the airport in a short while. Or so he hopes.
Even so, she doesn’t volunteer much. He wonders if Bile is in a bad way. Then he thinks about Malik’s interview, at just the moment when she says, “I’m sorry to bring you bad news.”
Then he knows it right away. The names Fidno and Isha join forces with his sense of guilt to choke him, rendering him speechless. His tongue feels disabled, his eyes bulge out of his face like those of one having a sudden fit.
“I am sorry, very sorry,” she says.
Between sobs, she confirms almost his worst fears. Malik is in the hospital, in critical condition.
Shocked and mute as he is, he revisits his recent arguments with Malik and Jeebleh. He thinks, At least Malik’s not dead. Malik is the kind not meant to die. He prays one of Malik’s many lives will reclaim him from a hospital bed.
She says, “The car he was in, driving back from his interview, hit another remote-controlled roadside device. Qasiir, who was at the wheel, is dead. Malik is in the intensive-care unit. I am spending the night here by his bedside. We’ve organized a special plane to fly him out to Nairobi in an hour or so. I’ll go with him myself.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“You have your hands full,” she says.
“I meant in terms of footing the bills?”
“That’s taken care of,” she says. “All paid.”
He can’t think of what to say; not even thanks.
She goes on, “I’ve telephoned Jeebleh. He’ll meet our flight.”
“If he is in danger, Cambara, please tell me.”
“He needs a hospital with better facilities than the one here,” she says. “Also Jeebleh will be in Nairobi when we get there.”
“What do the doctors in Mogadiscio say?”
“They are confident he won’t be in danger if he is taken in good time to a Nairobi hospital with more sophisticated facilities,” she assures him. And then she hangs up.
In the silence, Ahl is still for a moment. And then he breaks. He throws his mobile phone against the wall; he screams at the top of his lungs, cursing. Xalan rushes up the staircase and finds him still and silently staring at the phone, as though he has no idea what he has done and why. She follows his gaze and picks up the parts of the phone, scattered by the impact, then puts them back together, pressing the casing until the phone begins to function again. She gives it to him, and he acknowledges her with a nod of his head. She waits, ready to talk, ready to help, as his cheeks grow wet with his tears.