"Hope. It's hope is a thing with feathers."
Dawit chuckled. "Bullshit. Trust is as bare as a bone."
They climbed in, started up, and kept on driving.
TWENTY-TWO
The condo was sweet. Not "oil-money" sweet—it was small, yes, and it wasn't brand new, but it was clean with high-end appliances and an updated bathroom. If he stood to one side of the bank of windows and peered out at a certain angle, Adem had a nice view of the desert. Otherwise, it was more buildings, more abandoned construction.
It was quiet.
And it was his.
Round-the-clock security, they had told him. They'd wired the place nice and tight. He wasn't quite sure he believed them, but he was so bone-tired that he slept in his luxurious queen bed over eighteen hours without realizing it until Jacob shook him awake, telling him so.
Instead of being frightened or wondering how the agent had gotten in, Adem just accepted that's the way it would go from now on. Might as well get used to it.
The agent was dressed casually—cream khakis and a short-sleeved Guayabera shirt, mint green. Sandals. He sat in an office chair beside the glass-and-chrome desk by the window, nothing on its surface yet. Jacob smiled, crossed his legs, and stretched his back before saying, "Your dad says hi."
Adem sat up. It was the first time he'd really gotten a look at the room in good lighting and while not half-asleep. Mostly white, glass, and chrome, except for a goldenrod accent to keep things warm. Recessed lighting, soft. A large screen TV mounted on the wall. A Bose radio on the bedside table. A peek into the main room, and there was the kitchen, gleaming.
"Nice place."
"Just remember. Cameras. Except in the bathroom. I mean, come on, right?"
"So, you told on me. That's not cool, calling someone's dad."
"Neither was ditching us and running off to help a bad, bad man. Didn't you wonder why the job came so easily to you? They had your number."
Adem didn't want to admit Jacob was right. Shit. "All I wanted was—"
"Dude, you want to see her? You really want to see her? Get up. I'll get some coffee going. You like coffee? Well, I already know you do. Get up."
He walked into the kitchen while Adem slipped out of bed, wearing only the pair of boxers they'd given him at the Consulate. He took a chance, stepped over to the dresser, and pulled open a drawer. It was filled to the brim with new boxers. The next drawer, new socks. Beneath that, new T-shirts. He grabbed a shirt, tugged it on, then found some sweatpants further down. Sounded like Jacob was grinding fresh beans in the kitchen. The smell wafted in. He closed his eyes, imagined being in a Caribou Coffee shop in Minneapolis on a summer's day. Talking to some friends about movies. Watching women pretend to ignore them. He could've found plenty of girls to date there. Plenty. Talking to college girls in the Cities wasn't hard. They were smart, they were funny, they were flirty. But he still felt wrong about it. Not until he had closure with Sufia, not until she had forgiven him.
From the kitchen, Jacob shouted, "I heard you met Fatima yesterday."
"Yeah." Adem remembered how cold the room felt as he tried talking to her. "I'm not so sure she's, um, right for this. You know."
"Right for what?"
"This...thing. Our team, or whatever it is."
Jacob appeared in the doorway, looking amused. "What, she make you mad?"
Adem sat on the bed and pulled the sweats on. "I mean, she really isn't happy. She doesn't like me, and I don't even know her. That kind of worries me. She hates Mr. Mohammed."
Jacob shook his head, sighed. "She came to me before I'd even started recruiting. As soon as I told the bosses Mr. Mohammed was back in play, she wanted to sign up. She's been on top of you since the plane landed in Yemen. It doesn't matter if she believes you're a giant asshole. She's on board. Not even a doubt."
It didn't make Adem feel much better, picturing the woman he met yesterday with a rifle in her hand, keeping Mr. Mohammed in her sights. But he didn't have a whole lot of choice. If Jacob gave her a pass, that was good enough. For now, anyway.
Jacob stepped back. "Come on. Let's move."
He got up and followed Jacob into the main room, the coffee already dripping. The furniture in the living area matched the accent. Goldenrod. Yellow was his favorite color, so of course they knew that. Very nice glass and chrome tables, but all bare, waiting for someone to leave papers and books and spill coffee on them. He sat in the arm chair at the end of the couch as Jacob brought over two mugs. Adem sipped. It was perfect. Rich, deep, the perfect temperature. Only then did he look up at the even larger-screen TV taking up most of the wall. Frozen on the screen, a group of Somali children, blurry smiles, mostly unfocused, unable to tell more than one or two apart in the mass. Behind them, a teacher, perhaps, guiding them into a school. She was in better focus than the kids. Her hijab covered her head and the bottom part of her face. But the eyes behind those glasses, he would know them anywhere.
"Where, um...?" His voice stuck.
"She's no longer in Mogadishu. I'll tell you that much. As you can see, working as a teacher."
"How's her, you know?" Adem waved his hand in front of his face.
Jacob hit play. The image on screen wobbled a bit but then closed in. Adem could even hear her voice, calling for the children to hurry into the classroom. Jacob said, "Now it's going to cut."
The next scene was far different, the camera peering into a window, barely above the sill. Voices all around in the street outside, but Sufia was behind the glass. She had taken off her dress already, standing in her underwear and hijab. A strange way to disrobe, Adem thought. He also felt angry, her privacy invaded like this. But this was the most he'd ever seen of her. He drank her in.
Jacob paused the video. "Need a longer look?"
Adem blinked. "Goddamn you." He looked away from the screen. Bare walls. They didn't even hang art for him. He would need to find some he liked.
"You wanted to see. This is the only time you would get to. She's very...secretive. Watch."
"I've changed my mind."
"No, you're going to watch like any red-blooded adult male and you're going to get the answer to your question and that'll be it."
Again, he hated Jacob for being right. For saving his life at a price. For getting the answers he thought he could get all by himself. He let out a long sigh and turned back to the screen.
Sufia, white bra and panties. She had gained some weight. Her thighs were dimpled. Adem couldn't help but gaze at the private places, starting low, letting his eyes drift upwards. Jacob started the tape again. Adem looked at her breasts, but then became aware of the rough, discolored scar tissue between them, a thin line of it, broken as it grew in size closer to her neck, still covered by the hijab. But she was unfurling it now.
Jacob said, "By the way, that class of hers? All boys. And she's teaching them English. She's doing that so they can all grow up to pass in the Western world as students, businessmen, cultural representatives, even day-to-day wage workers. Good cover stories for when they are given the go-ahead to carry out terror attacks. She's a very good teacher, I hear."
The hijab came off. The cameraman tried to zoom in on her face. Lost the focus, found it again, and it was a startling image, one that chilled Adem, gave him goosebumps. He heard the cameraman on the tape seethe, "Shit!"
She was looking straight ahead, as if she knew there was a camera there all along. Jacob paused it. Her eyes, forehead, cheeks, all exactly as Adem remembered. But beneath, the bottom of her nose was gone. One hole where two nostrils had once been. Her lips, melted away when he last saw her, were now swollen, misshapen. Had to be plastic surgery. The skin around her mouth and chin was like a crust, spots of white and red on black, as if it was attacking her true caramel complexion, advancing more every day. But then her neck, stretched unbelievably tight, a patchwork of surgery and bad healing.
"My God."
"They tried. I mean, it wasn't as if they wanted her to be a grea
t beauty again, since she was being punished, but they sure as hell tried. And now she can teach. She can eat and pray. She can sleep in comfort at night."
Adem said, "She'll come with me if I ask. She'll come to the States and we can fix her."
Jacob shrugged. "That's not true. I'm telling you."
"Give me a chance."
Jacob cut the video and the screen went blue. He stood. "Do you know what they call her? Seriously, like, to her face? She's ‘The Good Witch'. The kids know she's scarred but they've never seen it. They draw pictures sometimes about what they think is under there. Sharp teeth, cloven tongues, worms, boils. So they are very nice to her. No one wants to be kept afterschool alone."
"She's a prisoner."
"No, she chose this. Her family could have taken her home, let her live out her days peacefully, but she insisted on helping the cause. She said once, I swear, God smites. The Devil seduces. People can do both. One fucked-up chick, that's all I'm saying."
It clicked for Adem then. It clicked all at once. Why they didn't want him to find her. Why they didn't want him to bring her back. "She's on your kill list, isn't she?"
Jacob took a sip of coffee, pointed his mug at Adem's. "You need a warm up?"
Adem looked at the table. He'd barely touched the coffee. "You're going to kill her."
"After she teaches them English, she teaches them about America and Britain. She teaches them how terrible we all are. She teaches ways to make friends—teaches them about pop music and movies and TV and junk food. And then she teaches them how to use those friends to help with their plans. I'm just saying, she thinks meeting you was the worst thing that ever happened to her."
Adem's turn to stand. "You've got to give me a chance. One chance, I'm asking for. You can't kill her."
Jacob winced. "Stop saying that. If she gets in the way, we remove her. Otherwise, we're waiting for a chance to bring her in, question her. Maybe then I'll let you two catch up on old times."
"It's not funny! I know she'll listen to me! Why won't you? I know—"
Jacob raised his voice. "You don't know shit! Not a damned thing. You haven't seen her in three years. All you've got are the little fantasies in your head that you jerk off to every night. You've got this hero fetish thing. But me, I know her. I've seen her. I've followed up on all of this. Tell me, do you even remember meeting me while you were being debriefed back then, after you first came home?"
Adem shook his head. He remembered the men who questioned him, not individually so much, but as a group. Older, whiter, same-colored suits. Cold rooms. Soft voices. But none of them Jacob.
"Well you did, maybe for a minute or two. You didn't see me after that, but I watched them question you. I took notes. I watched the tapes, three, four, ten times. I was a junior agent looking for a way into the field, and this was it. I was assigned to follow up what you told us, especially about the pirate network, and also Sufia. And I've done a good job. I know her better than you ever did. I even know Mr. Mohammed better than you do."
Adem turned his head away. He reached for his mug, took a lukewarm sip and nearly gagged. He walked to the windows, seeing the reflection of his building reflected back on the next building, which reflected his building, and on and on. An infinity of reflections. It hadn't felt like three years. It hadn't felt like he had lost her. To him it was only last week. All his time in college, with new Muslim friends, learning the faith, the politics, and preparing himself for this trip, this return to save Sufia, that was the dream. That was the part that didn't feel real.
Jacob kept on. "Once you showed up online again, I knew what you were doing. Some of the others thought you might be a sleeper agent. They thought you'd pulled one over on us. But I knew. I spoke up for you, said you were a kid in love. Told them to give me a chance to recruit you. But, goddamn, you are stubborn."
"I don't like anyone thinking they can control me. I had enough of that already."
"Look at how that's turned out for you. You've got three hands up your puppet ass now."
"Shut up!" Adem turned to the blue screen. "Turn it back on. I want to see more."
Jacob hit play. The monstrous face. She blinked and turned away. The camera widened. Cut. The next scene, Sufia was speaking to an Imam. They weren't alone, bodyguards at the doors, but they both knelt on the floor as if about to pray, but facing each other. The Imam spoke. The camera picked it up, but it took Adem a moment to translate.
"—ready for the next stage of his education, would you agree?"
"Yes, yes, he's done very well. He speaks like a natural."
"Are you willing to take on this task? Or do you believe he would respond better to a man?"
"I am willing. He must...he must..."
"I know it is hard for you to let go."
"I serve God. I do what he asks."
"Very well. Then we will prepare him for what's to come. He will do great things."
"Yes, yes, he will."
"Peace be unto you."
"Peace be unto you."
Cut.
Another classroom, Sufia speaking English phrases, the children repeating them back to her.
Adem's eyes were watering. He blinked it away. "Enough."
Blue screen again.
A long moment of quiet. Adem knew what Jacob was doing. Could he believe him? Maybe the entire video had been doctored. Maybe that wasn't even Sufia. The CIA could have invented this entire story to sway him. But he didn't really want to work for anyone. He didn't want to wage Jihad. He didn't wish America any harm. He was an American, through and through. He just wanted to feel the way he had felt when Sufia had taken care of him back at the hospital after an angry mob nearly beheaded him, or when they had worked together in Bosaso as negotiators. He had handpicked her as his personal assistant, which she both reveled in and resented. She had been right to be wary.
Jacob spoke, standing right behind him. Adem hadn't heard him move. "I promise I'll show you more. This is not a lie. I told them if we lied to you, we would lose your trust forever. I'd rather lose you with the truth than hook you with a lie."
"What do you want me to do?"
Jacob asked him to sit down again. He did, back in the armchair. Jacob sat on the couch. He said, "You'll simply be Mr. Mohammed. You will continue to negotiate for pirates if they ask, but we'll make sure there's no Benefactor pulling the strings. When we need you to look into something closer, you'll do that for us. We want to know where the money goes. We want to find all the mid-level players like yourself, which helps us climb the chains up to the top dogs. Nothing will be traced back to you. As far as anyone knows, you've been away on personal matters, and now you're ready to continue your work."
"I won't have to kill?"
"Fraid not, Mr. Bond."
"No, I don't want to—"
Jacob grinned. "A joke. Lighten up a little. Sometimes I forget, we live this shit every day, so we have a sense of humor about it. It's the only way to get by without...well, just without. You'll see."
"How's my dad?"
"I guess he's okay. Having a hard time, you know, losing his job. But I bet he'll find something else soon."
Adem nodded. There was more to the story, he knew. No matter how much Jacob claimed to be telling the truth, he could tell lying was second nature for the agent. Lies of omission. Lies of scale. Things like that.
Jacob said, "Look, if you don't want to work for us, I get it. But that also means you're on the next plane to Minneapolis, and that's where you'll stay. There will be eyes on you for the rest of your life. Every search on any computer you ever touch will be monitored. Your whole life will be recorded and filed away."
"And how is that any different from working for you?"
Jacob spread his arms, looked around. "You get this without having to get a job. You can travel. You can have the best coffee. You can have a rockin' car."
Adem let out a breath. It was his own goddamned fault. But it could have ended up a lot worse than a gilded
cage.
So he nodded, teepeed his fingers, and said, "Alright. Let's get to work."
Jacob pushed forward to the edge of the cushion and said, "First, you've got to make Uzayr really want to kill you. Like, a lot."
TWENTY-THREE
The argument with Mustafa had given Dawit a second wind. He was wired the rest of the night and into the morning, even as Deeqa drifted back to sleep and Mustafa found himself surprised to keep dozing off. Dawit told him how many days he'd gone without sleep when necessary, how he and his fellow soldiers had taken speed to do it. It had rewired his brain chemistry. "I'll go for nine, ten days, then crash for two or three. I'm always at war."
Mustafa had never tried the stuff himself. He'd seen too many fried-egg brains rot in front of his eyes, bangers who got addicted, their girlfriends, some hangers-on. Shit, didn't ever see weed turn someone into a literal monster. But they had to sell what the market wanted, too. Mustafa had kept himself insulated. Even gave a bigger cut to the dealers. If they got caught, there wasn't any way they could blame Bahdoon and get it to stick.
Before the inevitable drain, Mustafa had tried talking with Deeqa more. She wasn't very responsive, but at least she was calm and could answer "Mm hm" or "Uhn uh." He told her about his son, his daughter, about his wife. About what life was like for them before they left Africa. He asked her about some of the cousins and nieces and nephews he had met three years ago. Then he told her that she didn't have to worry about going home to her father, not yet.
"You can stay with us. Idil will help you. This will all feel like a bad dream in a few months."
It seemed to help. For both of them.
By the time they rolled into Minneapolis that afternoon Mustafa was aching, in need of a full-night's rest, and pretty sure he was hallucinating—the sky was wavy and everything smelled like burnt plastic. But he was able to hold it together as they pulled up to his apartment building. They took Deeqa upstairs. Idil was there, shocked because they hadn't called, hadn't told her about the road trip—the less she knew, the safer she would be—but she knew what to do with Deeqa. Welcomed her like one of her own younger sisters.
Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) Page 16