He lifted the kit, opened it. Razor, travel-sized shaving gel, soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash. Everything to get him back to normal. Also, a case for eyeglasses. He opened the case. Wire-rimmed John Lennon frames. Adem took them out, held a lens to his eye. Just as he expected—fake. It was a bit of Superman magic—no one would expect Adem and Mr. Mohammed to be the same person. It didn't make sense.
A knock on the door. Adem stepped over, opened it a crack. A brown agent, chiseled. Adem asked, "Faisal?"
"Yes, sir. Are you ready for the debriefing?"
Sir? "I need more time. Sorry."
"Not a problem. I'll be here when you're ready."
Adem closed the door. Sir? They called him sir here?
He took his dear sweet time washing, shaving, dressing. If they expected him to act like the legend, the one that had grown so much that Adem barely recognized the character of Mr. Mohammed in the stories anymore, then he would live up to it. Fussy, arrogant, and very, very important. He checked out the new suit in the mirror. Perfect fit. Slipped the glasses on, ran his hands over his freshly shaved scalp, and winked at his reflection before heading to the door.
*
A small office, a small desk, and four US officials crammed inside. They gave Adem the nice chair, highbacked, leather, one that obviously did not belong on Adem's side of the desk. Faisal was on the edge of a small folding chair, nearly touching Adem's knees, while one guy perched on the edge of the desk and the other sat behind it. He leaned back strangely for a second before righting himself. The man had forgotten Adem had his chair. The woman surprised him. She stood behind him, over his left shoulder, and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. He had seen her before, at the mall. In the ladies' room. Without her hijab, her amber hair was a wild, coily Afro. If he had to guess, he would say half-Somali, half-white. A long nose, dark eyes. Gorgeous. But she wore a hard expression and wouldn't look him in the eye. She had also changed into a severe black suit and red blouse.
The desk pilot introduced the room. Faisal, of course. White old guy named Kilkelly sitting up top. And the office belonged to Paul Guidry, originally from New Orleans, but you wouldn't know it. In his late forties, not quite fat, but soft enough, and with a suit as expensive as his, no one was thinking "fat". The woman was Fatima, and she said, "Hello" in the flat Midwestern American accent he knew so well. She was from the Cities. Had to be.
Guidry said, "Mr. Mohammed, I'm terribly sorry we—"
"Adem."
"What?"
"You can call me Adem. It's okay."
Guidry glanced at the other two. Both shook their heads, shrugged. Guidry said, "Your name is Adem Mohammed?"
How much did these guys actually know? Adem cleared his throat to give himself just enough time to figure it out—maybe Jacob never told them who Mr. Mohammed really was. Maybe not even the woman knew. Then, "No, it's been a long day. Mr. Mohammed is fine, thank you."
"Anyway, we're sorry about all this trouble. We didn't have a lot of time to pull it together. What do you know so far?"
Adem crossed his legs, arms on the armrests. All part of the game. He had been through worse. He had to remember what it was like to bounce back quickly, take command. He made sure his English carried enough of a Somali accent to fool them some more. "I know that I've had enough of being the plaything of this, this, benefactor. And you people. Don't worry about what I know. Tell me what you know."
A few more looks around the room. No one sure who should start talking, where in the storyline. Kilkelly finally said, "He calls himself Uzayr. You heard the name?"
"Maybe."
"But you didn't know it was him?"
Stupid, Adem. Stupid. Of course he had heard the name. He had kept up. Of course, Uzayr was as shadowy as a Bin Laden or Al Zawahiri. It didn't occur to him that this Benefactor would be Uzayr. Put on this big public act as a rich old man, then work hard to obscure the life of this grand terrorist icon. Brilliant. A lot smarter than Adem's blundering.
He wondered, though: why hadn't Uzayr blown Adem's real identity to the rest of the Muslim world? Did he really not know it himself? Even the pirate Gunfighter called his bluff on that.
Adem shook his head. "That is not how he presented himself to me. Very little is known about Uzayr. How did you know it was him?"
"We got lucky a few months ago. Word traveled that you were coming back onto the scene. He started asking around about how to reach you. But someone else reached you first. Still, he had you in his sights."
"Trying to destroy me."
Guidry said, "At least your reputation. Almost did, too. We've been working hard to fix this. Show him, Faisal."
The Arab agent reached under his chair and picked up a newspaper, handed it to Adem. There were pictures of the kitchen he had been held in, blurry photos of his kidnappers on the floor. The aftermath. A smudgy close-up of Adem's face, hiding the fact he was in a dress, inset in the massacre photo's corner.
The headline: Mr. Mohammed Cleared After Hostage Attempt Foiled.
He read on, about how he had been kidnapped and forced to do the deal with the Indonesians. One of the translators in the boardroom, so it said, told the reporter that Mr. Mohammed had signaled to her that he was not there of his own accord. Mall security confirmed that three men dressed as guards had found Mr. Mohammed after an escape attempt and dragged him from the building. Someone had enough presence of mind to tail them and call for help. Somehow, the French were called in. The French denied any involvement, but not forcefully. Adem wondered about that—a deal between the US and the French? Not that those were French soldiers, but as cover, someone was really working some wild angles to pull this off.
Guidry said, "It's a great story. You'll get your say after the debrief, and they'll tell you how to spin it. Full-on press conference. Not here, God no. We'll sneak you out."
"And...where do I go? What am I supposed to do?"
More glances, more raised eyebrows.
From behind him, Fatima said, "You don't know?"
"Know what?"
She sighed. She really didn't like him much, did she? "Jacob has been assigned to work with you on capturing Uzayr. We need more evidence. It might take several months. But we think he will come after you after the interview tomorrow. You've come as close to anyone ever has to outing his real identity."
Which I still don't know, Adem thought. "How is that possible?"
Faisal said, "You've seen him. None of us ever have."
"Not even Jacob?"
Head shakes all around.
"People either work for Uzayr and know who he is, work for him and don't know who he is, or so on and so forth. We've gotten close, but people who've seen him have gotten killed. You got lucky."
Kilkelly said, "So we've got you a condo, fully secure, the sort of place a man of your reputation would deserve, of course. We'll sneak you out, set you up there, and start putting together the organization everyone thinks you already have. He'll send someone after you."
"Again."
A shrug. "You're a celebrity. If that's what it takes to make this work for all of us, we're more than happy. We weren't convinced at first, but Jacob was adamant. Said your grandmother moved to Minneapolis in the Nineties. Said you like American music. Said you were tired of working for teenage thugs."
Adem grinned. "More than you know."
Kilkelly pointed towards the woman. Adem turned in his chair. "Jacob asked Fatima to be on your back-up team. She's from Minneapolis, too."
"St. Paul," she said.
"What's the difference?"
Adem grinned. "Just because they're twin cities doesn't mean they're exactly the same."
"Whatever. But you have her to thank for escaping today. She's a great goddamned shot, I tell you."
She finally gave him her full attention as he absorbed it. Fatima, the sniper who took out the assholes outside that restroom. She raised her eyebrows, then looked away again.
After some more debriefin
g and planning, they all stood and shook hands, except Fatima, who left halfway through. Faisal was about to escort him out when Adem turned, held up his finger. "I did what I did to help. I did not want the hostages to die. I did not want the boys to die. I wanted peace. I would never agree to what they said I did for this man, I hope you understand."
All of them, Yes indeed. We understand. Thank you for your help.
"Good day." He turned to the door, buttoned his coat, and walked out in to the hall and didn't stop. Thought to himself, if he was going to lie about why he was doing this, might as well go all in.
*
Adem snooped around and found Fatima in the hallway talking to Kilkelly later. He stood in an open doorway and tried not to stare, several steps away. He tried not to listen in, which was easy enough to do because they were experts at the art of whispered conversation. After Kilkelly had looked up, gave him a funny expression, and then walked away, Fatima went back into the nearest office. Adem followed.
At her desk, at least temporarily, Fatima went to work on her laptop and ignored him standing there. He knocked on the open door, lightly. She looked up with the same granite expression she had in the office.
She said, "You shouldn't have bought that dress."
"I'm sorry."
Eyes back to the screen. "You shouldn't have gone into the men's room. How was I supposed to cover you? What were you thinking?"
He remembered his logic and thought about how backwards it seemed now. Too clever for this world, his grandmother used to tell him. "I had just seen an agent killed. I was alone. I didn't know what to do."
"That agent was doing his job, and he knew he might die one day. Every day. You were never alone, except in that men's room."
No use arguing. "I wanted to say thank you. You really...thank you."
A shrug. "I had a job to do, too. Those were my orders."
Wow. She really didn't like him, did she?
"You said you are from St. Paul? I've...never been. My grandmother showed me pictures..." He was making it up as he went along now. Adem didn't think this woman was very gullible, but he was also pretty certain that blowing his cover story in order to look for a connection would be seen badly. Not a positive development.
She slammed her laptop lid and then sucked air through her teeth when she realized. Yes, he was getting to her. She wasn't supposed to show any emotion. "I don't think it's a good idea for us, you know, to talk like this. Understand?"
"I'm sorry."
"No sorry. No nothing. Get some rest and wait for Jacob."
She tucked her laptop under her arm and stepped out of the office, quickly disappeared down the hallway. Adem felt his guts tighten a little. He turned back to her desk. She had left a bottle of water, a pen with a chewed cap, and some scratch notes and doodles, probably from another meeting. Nothing of real substance, except that she had scribbled "Mr. Mohammed" in the margins, followed underneath with a string of curly penwork, the same word looping over and over: "LiarLiarLiarLiarLiar..."
He cleared his throat. And that was from someone who had saved his life.
It was time to find Faisal and ask for a ride to his new condo.
TWENTY-ONE
Deeqa cried herself to sleep on the floorboard, head in her arms on the backseat. Mustafa crept out and around to the passenger side so he and Dawit could whisper in the dark as they rolled north. Both trying hard to understand what had frightened the girl so badly.
"For fuck's sake, Dawit, you live a mile away from him! What's going on?"
"Don't! Do not blame me! Why am I here if not to help you?"
"Obviously to drag her back home so Chi can sell her twice."
Dawit nearly backhanded Mustafa. "How dare you. You think I'm like that? You think I would do such a thing?"
Mustafa shook his head. They were exhausted, scared, and trying to make it home without stopping at a hotel. But they were losing the fight. Best hope was to stay awake until St. Louis and find something dirt cheap in a neighborhood where no one paid much attention.
"You had no idea, you say."
Dawit held his lips tight, the steering wheel tighter. Then, "I don't see her for a while, I ask around. She's gone to see family. That's all I hear. I say, I'm family too. I get shrugs, I get people looking away. I go to Chi, I ask him. He makes a few calls. He gets worried. He makes more calls. And then he breaks down."
"Breaks down?"
"She ran away. She ran away with some other girls, other teenagers. That's what he tells me. I tell him I will do all I can. I go home, get ready to go find the girls. But within the hour, Chi brings a man to my house, a man who looks scared. Chi tells me the man knows what happened to Deeqa, to the other girls. And he says he had a part in it. We slap him around. He's young, he's stupid. And then, we call you. I get on a plane."
Mustafa remembered that call like it was forever ago, but it really had only been a handful of weeks. It was the call that caused him to turn his life upside down all for family members he barely knew. If he had seen Deeqa on his trip three years earlier, he didn't remember being introduced. She was just one of many children milling around, an entire village worth of kids all wanting a chance to see the American cousin.
"So it's possible she ran away, call it peer pressure. They got swept up in something bad. And now she's embarrassed to go home? Ashamed?"
Dawit peeked over his shoulder, then into the rearview. The girl was either sound asleep or faking. He kept his voice low. "That was not shame. That was fear. What could he have done to drive her off? No, I don't know if I believe her, but I can't believe Chi either."
Mustafa nodded but didn't say anything. He mulled over the possibilities. The girl had told them that her own father sold her to the flesh traders. She had pleaded for them not to take her little sister, and he conceded. But who knows if he had waited until Deeqa was gone to sell the younger one as well. None of it made sense. Chi was a man of honor, from what Mustafa knew. It could be Mustafa didn't know enough. Nor did he know enough about his other cousin, Dawit, other than that the man had thrown himself at death to help bring Deeqa home safe.
Dawit was shaking his head. "When I get back—"
"We. When we get back."
"This is on me, now. You've fulfilled your part. Let me deal with my brother."
"Pull over."
"What? Out here?"
Mustafa lifted his pistol and placed it against Dawit's temple. "Right now."
Dawit took in a deep breath and pulled over to the shoulder. Mustafa knew this was a risk. Dawit could probably have disarmed him and kept on driving with barely a swerve, but he didn't even try. He put the car into park, turned to face Mustafa so that the gun barrel rested against the side of his nose.
"Have I ever given you a reason to doubt me?"
"You just did."
"All right. I see what you mean."
"I committed social suicide to get her back. I was scot-free, but now I'm a wanted man again. I have put my wife in danger, my son, perhaps even my daughter. I gave up a job with benefits. So when you tell me I've done my part—"
"Over here, yes, you are in charge. Back there, what can you do? What could you possibly do that I cannot?"
"I need to look him in the eyes."
A laugh. "Please. I'll let you look in his eyes over Skype after I cut off his head."
Mustafa heard enough of a gasp in the backseat to know Deeqa had been faking sleep after all. "Get out."
Dawit had steel in his blood. "Here? This is where you would do this to me?"
"Just get out."
He waited until Dawit had opened the door and stepped outside, gently closing the door again, before he got out himself. He didn't lift the gun this time, just kept it ready at his side as he looked across the hood at his cousin.
Dawit spread his hands. "So? How would you like me? On my knees? Can we do it behind the car so Deeqa can't see?"
"I swear, if you're working for Chi on this..."
; "But I am. I was. I am his brother, come to help find his missing child."
"Why didn't he come himself?"
Dawit looked down. "I keep asking that myself. But he asked me to come, and I came."
It was frustrating. Mustafa had asked for their help before and both of them risked their lives for him. He had returned the favor, and what happened next should have been none of Mustafa's business. But that didn't feel right anymore.
"She's not going back with you. She will stay with Idil and myself."
A shrug. "Okay. And I will show you my brother's dead eyes, as promised. But then, you and I, we're done."
"Let me come with you."
"Because you don't trust me? Because you can't take my word?"
Mustafa thought about it a long moment. He hefted the pistol, turned it over in his hand. He held the barrel. He reached across the hood, handle towards Dawit. "I trust you."
"Silly. You are a silly man. You are like an actor. Where are all the cameras?"
"Take the gun. Let me come with you. Deeqa will stay with Idil while we figure this out."
Dawit smiled. "Silly man." The cars passing on the highway behind him were few and far between. He had turned out all the lights on their car, hiding them from the world. If Dawit wanted Mustafa out of the way, this was as good a place as any.
Dawit reached for the gun. As Mustafa expected, the soldier was so fast that even if he'd wanted to pull it back, he wouldn't have had a chance. The first thing Dawit did with it was release the clip and eject the round in the chamber. He shoved the clip in his pocket, then the gun at his back waistband, and he flicked the loose round at Mustafa, who missed it. It fell into the roadside ditch.
"You want to come along, it's at your own risk," Dawit said.
"I understand."
"When we're there, I call the shots. You do exactly as I say."
"I said I understand." Mustafa held up his palms. "I told you, I trust you."
Dawit stepped back to the driver's door, opened it. They could both see Deeqa's eyes peering over the back of their seats. "What is that they say? Trust is a thing with feathers?"
Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) Page 15