Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem)

by Anthony Neil Smith

  Mustafa pulled the towel away and looked up. Jacob was all pulsing blues and greens. "The police?"

  "At least in Dubai. So far. You have no idea, do you?"

  He was up and in Jacob's face. "Tell me. Right now."

  "He took on being Mr. Mohammed again on his own, thinking he could get the info on the woman that way. Instead, he got played. Big player over there, throws a lot of money at pirates. He keeps his name quiet, most people just call him ‘Our Benefactor', but he calls himself Uzayr. I have no idea how these guys can get so rich and still be invisible most of the time. Anyway, he roped in your son and got a decent payout, but it wasn't for the money. It was a diversion. Instead of the pirates giving up the boat, they killed the crew, flew a chopper on, and now it's a floating army. Mr. Mohammed is in deep shit."

  "And you let him do it? You could've pulled him out of that, but you let him do it?"

  Jacob looked down. "It was out of our hands, unless we wanted to blow the entire cover on dozens of agents. It's complicated."

  "It will be very simple if Adem gets hurt because you didn't help him."

  "Oh, fuck that."

  Mustafa's arm shot out and he clawed Jacob's throat. The agent was fast, saw it coming and was about to do some serious kung-fu damage. Both of them, thinking ahead, Jacob aiming for Mustafa's balls, landing a kick at the same moment Mustafa let go of the man's throat, pushing him backwards into the pool.

  The radiating pain from the kick sent Mustafa to the ground. Cramps pulsing. He curled up and gritted his teeth and tasted blood. The wounds had opened again. Blood and spit pooled under his cheek. He heard someone knock on the window that looked out into the hall. He lifted his head. The other agent, Benny, grinned and waved at him.

  Jacob surfaced, coughing like a walrus. It echoed all over and he gasped for breath. He stood and waded to the side of the pool closest to Mustafa. Collapsed on his forearms and took deep, rattling breaths, coughing after each one.

  Mustafa wasn't much better. The dull ache still pulsed, and all he could do was lie there in the fetal position, rolling back and forth.

  After a while, the agent stopped coughing and said, "You talk to Adem. We get him on the phone with you, and you tell him to work for me. I'll protect him. He's right at our fingertips.. Do that, and I'll tell you where Deeqa ended up. You do with that whatever you like."

  Mustafa stared at this arrogant little punk and decided that was exactly who Adem needed on his side. "You promise, right? He's not in trouble. He's not going to jail."

  Jacob lifted a Scout salute. "Yeah, yeah, all that shit."

  Mustafa sat up, rubbed his balls. "Okay. Get him on the phone."

  FOURTEEN

  Alone. Not a friend within, what, thousands of miles? It wasn't even a full day ago that he had an entire generation of young Somalis and Arabs willing to help him recover his reputation. Even bend—no, outright break—the laws for him so Mr. Mohammed could do his job. And now, in their eyes, Mr. Mohammed had betrayed them.

  So far he had been able to ditch the suitcoat and find a new keffiyeh with which to cover his trademark bald scalp. He tossed his glasses away. He didn't need them. No matter what he did, he still looked out of place for Dubai. At least it was big enough and modern enough that he was able to move from restaurant to bar to hotel lounge without being found or noticed, with only a few hours in the early morning with no options but to hide in alleys or at the public beaches. Sleep? Minutes of it here and there, completely accidental. Waking up with his face on the sand, in his mouth. Salty and dry.

  Dawn was an hour ago and Adem was feeling the heat. The shore was slowly filling with people—tourists, locals, police. There were no other moves to make. He didn't see a way to break the pattern. Hide. Move. Hide. Move. Until he was out of money, which wouldn't be long, or caught by one side or another. He glanced left, right, straight ahead. No one stared, but he had to look weird—expensive leather shoes and gray slacks, fully dressed on the hot part of the sand. Already sweating through while still shivering from the night's temperature drop.

  All he had wanted was Sufia. That was it. No more games, no more wars. Just Sufia, to bring her back to the US, fix her face, to show her he was much more than an opportunist or a spoiled American. It didn't have to be love, really, so much as making her see. She would find a life in Minneapolis. She could do anything she wanted. She would be sorry that she ever turned him away.

  It was a nice daydream. It made him smile. He saw her, the skin now mostly healed, only a few scars showing, mouthing "Thank you" to him. He mouthed it back to her. Except he realized it wasn't her. It was a child on the beach staring at him as her mother held her hand and helped her across the sand.

  He had to face facts. It was over. He wasn't going to find her. It had been a lie from the start. No one knew where she was. Not Hasan, not the Benefactor, and not the CIA.

  Time to move. He pushed up from the sand, brushed himself off, and took a three-sixty degree look around before heading down the boulevard. Got some forward momentum, but he thought he'd seen someone back there. Someone looking directly at him. Another look over his shoulder. There he was. A lean man in khaki pants and a white dress shirt. A smooth face, slicked hair. His chin came to a severe point. He was a lot closer than he had been only a minute before.

  Adem launched out into the traffic, nearly hit by a Merc as he scrambled across lanes to the median. Bolted past people walking hand in hand, hand on phone, hands in pockets. Glanced back. Closer still. A scar divided his eyebrow in half. He had hazel eyes. How could he walk so fast?

  The other side of the boulevard was wide-open. No advantage there. But Adem didn't have a choice. This guy was prepared to take him in broad daylight. He had to be some sort of police, then. The back-up was on its way. Adem needed to get more lost. If he didn't have distance, maybe he could head into one of the skyscrapers, find a crowd.

  He turned suddenly and ran across the empty lanes, right for the front doors of a medium-height tower, blinding glass reflecting orange sunlight all over the road. He slipped in by a revolving door, peeked behind him. The lean man was still coming. Right outside the glass.

  Ahead, it was sleek, white minimalism. Curved, smooth, modern. Wide open all the way to the desk, scattered plush sofas and chairs, sculptures, small groups of businesspeople milling around. The blue-shirted security guards, all young men, had noticed him and were already headed his way, machine pistols at the ready, one of the three speaking into the handset clipped to his front pocket. Exactly what he didn't need. Stupid, Adem. So stupid.

  Where to from here?

  Outside, the lean man held up a cell phone. He jiggled it, pointed to it.

  Adem chose. Back out the revolving door, shielding his eyes with his hand. The lean man grabbed him by the arm and started down the sidewalk. "I have a call for you. Come with me."

  "There's been a mistake," Adem said in English. "I'm an American, I'm just visiting."

  The man gripped tighter, held the phone in Adem's face. "Take it. Take it."

  The scenery was a blur. They took a corner. Then another. Lost, but there were shadows on the ground and Adem could see again. The phone was still in his face. The man at his side was walking too fast.

  Adem took the phone. "Hello?"

  "Finally. Like talking to a brick wall sometimes with you." He recognized Jacob's voice and relaxed somewhat. "Listen, what happened on the boat, we know there was nothing you could do about it."

  "I need help. I need to come home. Can I go to the embassy?"

  "I've got someone here who'd like to talk to you."

  Adem listened to rustling. The man beside him still had a grip on his arm. They had nearly made the entire block.

  Then another voice. One that stabbed him in the gut.

  "Son? Are you okay?"

  "I'm sorry, Dad. I'm so sorry." On the verge of tears.

  "You're okay, right? Not hurt."

  "I'm so sorry, please, believe me—"

&
nbsp; "Listen to me." It was the tone of voice. The tone. Adem stopped babbling. Mustafa said, "Jacob has told me what's going on. I want you to do what he says. We both know what he wants, and he's not going to stop until he gets it."

  "Yeah, I understand, okay, okay." He couldn't believe his dad was telling him this. After the escape from Somalia, when the Feds came down hard on both of them, Mustafa had stood his ground. His son had been brainwashed, Mustafa told them, and what else could a father do in a situation like that? Adem picked up on the story, began having amnesia, began talking about how Jibriil had denied him access to his family, and how he had held back food and water to get Adem to do what he ordered. Kind of true, maybe a little. But both father and son knew it was the only way they were getting out of that mess with their freedom.

  Now, Mustafa told Adem to give in to blackmail.

  "Adem," he said. "Whatever it takes."

  That was all he needed to hear. "I know, and I'm sorry. Okay, okay, I'll do it. I'll do it."

  "Going to let you talk to Jacob now, son."

  "Okay. I'm sorry, Dad."

  "I know."

  The agent at his side jerked them both to the left, crossing a street in the shadow of another skyscraper. Like a wind tunnel. Adem was getting shin splints. Hard to keep up.

  Jacob was on again. "Still there, buddy?"

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "First, let Hafeez get you off the street. You're going to a safe house, and I'll talk to you when you get there."

  "Tell me the truth first."

  "We don't have time—"

  "I need to know. It won't change my answer."

  "You've got to hang up, got to get rid of the phone. Then we've got to rebuild Mr. Mohammed's reputation. Do you understand? We can talk about your girl problems later."

  But Adem was distracted by the loud crack that echoed off the glass from both buildings, then another and another and the hand on his arm went slack and dropped off, and Adem felt fifty pounds lighter. Almost like a balloon. He looked behind him, and Hafeez was on the sidewalk, blood spattered around his head. A few of the blue-shirted security men with guns at the ready, running. Screams and shouts, shouting at Adem, women dropping to the ground, balling up. Men pointing, waving their hands in the air.

  Adem flat out ran. More gunshots. He flinched and flinched again. He zigged, zagged, kept low and took the first corner.

  The phone, you idiot! The phone!

  Out of breath, he wheezed into it. "Hafeez....dead. Hafeez...dead. Jacob? Jacob?"

  "Hello? What? The fuck did you say?"

  "Hafeez is dead! Security guards...where...where do I? Jacob, help me!"

  Another corner. Then another. Not daring to look back. If they knew where he was because of the phone...but if he lost the phone, Jacob couldn't tell him...

  "Jacob!"

  "Goddamn it, tell me a place. Any place. I'll get someone there in half-an-hour. Can you stay loose that long?"

  Adem wondered if the Benefactor would expect him back at the same building where he had prepared for the meeting. But think about it—all those empty floors, all those behind the scenes corridors. He shouted, "Lutfi Brothers."

  "One more time?"

  "Lutfi Brothers Tower. Give me an hour." Adem threw the phone into the street and checked the skyline. There was shouting at his back. Left, then right. Tall buildings. Couldn't he remember where it was? Just one peek of it?

  He had to turn himself nearly all the way around before he saw it, four o'clock, and took the next right. Nearly out of breath, but what was a little air between death and escape, right?

  Another left. No time to burn.

  FIFTEEN

  Mustafa asked, "Everything all right?"

  Jacob closed the phone. "Peachy. We'll go get him, keep him safe, and maybe later he can tell you all about his vacation. Show you the pics, that sort of thing."

  There had been a lot of yelling after Mustafa handed the phone back to Jacob. Some poolside pacing by the agent while Mustafa sat on the edge of the lounge chair and held the towel tightly around his neck. He tried to tongue the spot where Poe had stabbed through the bottom of his mouth, but it was out of reach.

  Jacob had already started pressing buttons on his phone before realizing Mustafa was still there. He grinned, reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a plain envelope, tri-folded. "Thanks for your help. Really, I hope you find what you're after."

  Mustafa took the envelope between two fingers. "If you couldn't find Sufia for Adem, how can I trust you found Deeqa for me?"

  "You'd be surprised what we know."

  "And what you don't know."

  The grin turned sad. "I've got to run."

  Jacob was already at it on the phone when Mustafa shouted, "What do I do now?"

  "I don't care."

  Out the door.

  *

  Mustafa waited for Teeth in a mostly empty underground parking garage where he knew the security cameras had been broken for months thanks to one of Heem's soldiers. Nice place to talk business or get some guys together so they could go fuck someone up together.

  Three levels down, wedged between two cars that hadn't moved in at least two years. Flat tires and thick dust on the windows. He heard the Escalade as soon as it bounced over the first speed bump and the brakes squeaked. Mustafa waited, patiently, as the noises grew louder, then there were running lights on the wall before the smooth white yacht-looking truck sailed right by him before slowing at the corner, stopping dead. Mustafa stood, but he didn't come out from between the cars. He had armed himself with an ice-scraper he found in the floorboard of the abandoned Corolla beside him. He kept it at his side.

  When he called Teeth for a ride, the man didn't seem too thrilled.

  "The fuck you been? The Prince tried telling us you were out the picture. Tried to take back his crib. Shit, man, I ain't in this to have to deal with no punk like that."

  "He almost had me."

  "The fuck you been?"

  "Just...come get me."

  "The fuck is this about you working with the police? Again, son?"

  Took another ten minutes of calming Teeth's ass down before he agreed on the pick-up.

  They'd been sworn enemies back in the day, and even a few years ago when Mustafa needed help that only Teeth could give, it ended up with the Black Ice Boyz nearly taking out Mustafa and the cop that was helping him. But somehow, once Teeth really understood that Bahdoon was out of the game, they were able to talk some. Teeth had been thinking about getting out, too. Thinking about starting a hip-hop label, play it straight. But he never seemed ready to push that stone downhill.

  Still, being rivals like that made them learn a lot about each other real quick, so when Mustafa needed some guys to help him pull off this coup and find Deeqa, he knew Teeth was going to be the first one he approached. Told him, "Let's be bad and do some good."

  Teeth had smiled at that, showed off his infamous teeth, once sharp, but since worn away by grinding all night every night. He shook Mustafa's hand.

  Now, Mustafa was thinking about how to hurt the man with a plastic ice-scraper.

  The Escaldade's door opened and Teeth got out. He was alone. Slammed the door. Wasn't no ice-scraper in his hand. It was a Glock. He stepped behind the SUV, stopped. "S'up, my man?"

  "How's it going to go?"

  "Like this. You're going to tell me what this working with the cops shit is all about."

  "Weren't no cops."

  How much was he really going to tell Teeth? Sounded worse to say it was the CIA. Not even going to say anything about Adem.

  Teeth spread his arms. "That's it?"

  "They were following Poe. Had to do with Poe. Heem was gonna..." Shrug. "Man was going to do me in. Cops couldn't get him. They patched me up, asked me some shit. I had to dance."

  "Dance for them? Dance around them?"

  "Motherfucker, don't even—"

  "You think I'm having fun? You think I like standing he
re wondering if I've got to shoot your ass or not?" Shouted. Bounced off the walls and slapped back three more times.

  Mustafa eased his hand into his pocket. Teeth took a step closer to the nearest concrete column.

  "Hold up. Got something to show you." Pulled out the hotel stationary Jacob had sealed in the envelope. He held it out to Teeth. "I'm being square with you on this. Take a look."

  Teeth shook his head. "I don't believe this."

  "Just...look, I ain't lying to you. I lie to my wife before I lie to you."

  "None of my business, son."

  Fuck it. Mustafa tossed the ice scraper to the ground and walked towards Teeth with the paper held out. "Shoot me or read it."

  He stopped when the paper was inches from Teeth's face. The old gangbanger looked tired up close. Cheeks chubby, neck fat. His trademark all-black clothing, even the leather jacket all summer, made him smell stale from sweating. Kind of like Run-DMC all run down. He took the paper in his free hand, squinted. Looked back up at Mustafa. "What is this?"

  "That's where she is. We can go get her."

  "What, she waiting for us?"

  "It's still going to be a fight, but the Prince don't know that we know. We move fast enough, this thing is over."

  Teeth turned back to the paper, the note: West Memphis, Arkansas. "Just a city, man. How do you know—"

  "You know it's true."

  "Shit, man." He pulled his lip over his bottom teeth, then handed the paper back to Mustafa. He pinched two fingers on the bridge of his nose, rubbed in little circles. "And some cops told you this, just gave it to you, didn't ask nothing in return. And how'd they know this when we can't get it from the our own? Something fishy. You smelling like three-day old fish to me right now. You told me this was personal."

  "It is."

  "Who did you have to give up for this?"

  Couldn't tell him. Sure as hell didn't want to. But he didn't have a choice. It was the only way he was getting out of this parking garage.