Poe was already in retreat, heading for the back guestroom. Mustafa took off after him and clenched his teeth against the numbness in his legs. Not letting that freak get away again. Mustafa rounded the corner into the hallway and saw Poe duck into the guestroom, close the door. Took Mustafa another ten steps. He tried the handle. It was open, but something was in the way. The dresser. Just a corner of it, but enough. Fuck. Poe was raising one of the windows. Mustafa reared back and threw his shoulder against the door, moving the dresser a few feet, but not enough. He did it again, hit bone, felt the pain reverb up and down his arm. He took a look at Poe, already kicking the screen out.
No way, no how, no way, no how.
Mustafa shot back through the living room, where Ali had untied Teeth and had gotten him a bottle of beer from the fridge. Dawit was leaning against the kitchen doorframe, heaving breaths, not looking so good. Mustafa didn't have time. He jumped over Dawit and on through the kitchen, out into the garage. Out the back door where he ran right into Poe, ready with a scapel that he plunged into Mustafa's neck. Goddamn this guy, already on the run again. He almost yanked it out, but worried his windpipe had been punctured. The blood would flood his lungs, drown him. So he left it there and kept on, Poe scaling the tall wooden fence at the far end of the yard, about to jump over. Mustafa poured it on and got there in time to grab Poes's foot as he was going over. He was in sandals, trying to kick them off and get Mustafa off him, but Mustafa's hand got a better grip on Poe's ankle. It left him hanging upside-down in the neighbor's backyard, his eyes clear and creepy because his sunglasses had fallen to the ground. He kicked and struggled, cursed in Somali.
Mustafa wasn't letting go.
The neighbors were having some friends over, it sounded like. Some classic rock on the radio. Some shouts and "Oh my Lord" and "Call the police!" White folks back there, retired people. Mustafa had seen them before outside mowing the lawn, tending the vegetable garden. He held onto Poe because he was afraid of what he might do to those people. The freak was banging his fists against the boards, shouting louder and louder. Mustafa was already having to clear his throat, the scalpel jabbing and slicing deeper, and he knew he couldn't keep this up for long. His arms were getting cut up by the fence.
But then it was like thunder all around. Poe's whole body slammed against the fence and stopped moving. Mustafa's arms were on fire. He peeked between the slats. His neighbor, a white, walrus-mustached retiree with bifocals, khaki shorts and Nikes, was holding a still-smoking shotgun. He shicked out a shell and raised it again.
Mustafa let go of Poe's ankle and high-tailed it from the yard before Poe could hit the ground. They all had to go go go. Even Ali. They could figure out loyalty later. It was more important to keep all of them off the cops' radar and out of jail.
The second blast blew a hole through the fence but Mustafa was already out of range.
Back to the house, barely in the backdoor before shouting, "Cops! Let's go!" He nearly choked. This was going to hurt like a motherfucker, but he would live. And Teeth would live. And Dawit...he wasn't looking so good. Mustafa knelt beside him as he raked in a breath now and then. The two soldiers from earlier were nowhere in sight. The front door was wide open.
Ali, helping Teeth stand, nodded at Dawit and said, "Got to leave him."
"No..." Couldn't talk any more. Couldn't leave the man like this. His own cousin, giving his life for men playing gangstas?
"We got to go," Ali said, taking over the way Mustafa should have been. He finally got a look at Mustafa, the scalpel in his throat. "Shit, got to find Teeth's doctor, like, right now, before all of y'all die."
Dawit blinked, tried to squeeze Mustafa's hand. "It's alright. It's alright. You go on."
"I'll help you. We'll get to the car. We'll get out of here."
Dawit shook his head, but it lolled forward. He fought to lift it. "It's alright. It's alright."
Ali shouted from the doorway, "Now, or I leave your ass! Now, Bahdoon!"
Another rasping breath from Dawit. Mustafa let go of his cousin's hand and bolted for the door. He could already hear the sirens outside.
TWENTY-FOUR
An Al-Jazeera exclusive. The first live interview with Mr. Mohammed since his return. No holds barred.
Adem did a damned good job, so Jacob told him after. Not that he needed to—Adem had felt it, word for word, throughout the hour. The reporter, a woman in a hijab with thick sports-car-red lipstick, was the perfect person for this, which was airing to the entire Muslim world that night and would of course be mined for quotes and clips that would saturate the news for the rest of the week.
The major news to come out of it all: Mr. Mohammed had been kidnapped and forced to do the deal with the Indonesians. He managed to escape, but his captors caught up, threw a dress on him so he wouldn't be recognized, and dragged him out of the city to a restaurant on the outskirts to kill him. But thanks to some French soldiers under U.N. command, he was rescued.
Effusive thanks to the "French," obviously.
"You see, I hope people will understand this." Adem adjusted his fake glasses, paused for emphasis. "I do what I do not to benefit these pirates. My goal is not to see them enriched so much as it is to save lives. Theirs, the crews of the ships, and the soldiers risking their lives. Money is like water. It flows from one to the other, in the hands of an Imam one day, a seller at market the next, a murderer the day after that. But those lives, those can't change hands so easily. And my heart is burdened that I have been used to take so many in this tragedy."
The reporter nodded, furrowed her brow. "Some call you a hero, others call you a con artist, and still others say you are as bad as the pirates for whom you negotiate."
He touched the side of his finger to his lips, thinking it over. He couldn't say what he was thinking—As long as I'm still alive at the end of the day, I don't care.
Instead: "We are all entitled to a defense. I offer the words. I help make connections. But other than that, I simply pray for Allah's guidance."
The blasphemy sat like a stone in his gut. It might have been true his first year back home, maybe even for most of his second, but he was lonely. He didn't hear The Voice the same as he had before. It had been so sure, so absolute, but then it faded at about the same time Adem's own confidence in his choices had waned—which was around the same time he began roaming the internet, looking for a trace of Sufia, hoping to redeem himself in her eyes. Now he sat across from the Al Jazeera reporter, her producer, a digital camera, and lights on a terrace at sunset overlooking the Gulf, dressed in a suit the pirates would never have imagined buying, even after making millions hijacking ships. Allah didn't have a single thing to do with any of it.
She asked, "What would you say right now to your captors? What message would you like them to hear?"
Adem looked directly into the camera for this one. "His name is Uzayr. He knows what he did to me. He knows the threats he made. To him, I say, maybe I could have forgiven you. Maybe. But I cannot forgive what you did to the people on that ship. I will do all that I can to make sure your name is mud in this world. Do you understand? Allah yela'an Uzayr. And may dogs piss into your dead mouth, you son of a whore."
The reporter, eyes wide, broke in. "Excuse me, excuse me, really, that's not called for."
"It was live, wasn't it?"
The producer, arms crossed, one hand rubbing his forehead, nodded.
Another look into the camera. "Yakhreb beytak, you piece of shit."
The producer waved his hands and said, "No, no, no," and tried to stop the camera while the reporter began to reel off a string of "Unprofessional! How dare he! He's not fit for polite society—"
The light went out and the producer said, "Clear." Immediately, the reporter calmed down, smiled, and held out her hand. "A pleasure, Mr. Mohammed. Quite an ending, too."
He took her hand. "Thank you."
"You really have a gift for this sort of thing. Maybe we should hire you."
; Adem shook his head, couldn't help but grin. "No need for that. It's less fun to be shocking for a salary."
The producer, too, was smiling. The higher-ups at the network were already calling to congratulate them. Adem and Jacob had already rehearsed the final bit, knowing it would spread on YouTube like a call to prayer across the world, a call that Uzayr could not ignore.
Out of the luxury hotel's front doors into the waiting SUV, a supercharged Range Rover Sport with bulletproof glass and an engine that could easily get them far away from most troubles. Jacob was driving until they found a full-time driver/bodyguard. He pulled away from the hotel entrance while Adem took several deep breaths, surprised someone hadn't already attacked them right then and there.
Jacob said, "That was good. You're like the pirate Pope."
"I don't get it. I'm not in jail and my head is still on my neck."
"That's the power of celebrity. You end up helping both sides. As long as they don't know you're helping us."
Jacob had explained earlier that according to the legend of Mr. Mohammed, he seemed able to appear anywhere with only a few hours' notice. To make that happen, the Agency had set up a few apartments for him so that he now had bases in Dubai, Bosaso, and Sana'a. When they needed him to negotiate in Europe, Egypt, or anywhere along the coast of the Indian Ocean, there were plenty of hotels or safe houses under Agency control. If they were careful, it could appear as if Mr. Mohammed lived in the air, materializing only when called. At least to the pirates. For the corporations, it was preferable to deal with an obviously well-connected civilized negotiator than teenage thugs.
"Where to now?"
"Where you will be most vulnerable."
"Gee, thanks."
Jacob steered them out from the shadows of the skyscrapers towards open desert, the highway lights blinking on above them. "We're putting you on a chopper to Bosaso. You're going to speak with a group of pirates. See if you can get them to renounce Uzayr and Gunslinger. And we'll make sure some cameras pick it up and get it on the internet."
"What makes you think they'll listen to me? They don't care who lives or dies, as long as it's not themselves."
A shrug. "Up to you. You're the salesman. We only set the stage."
Adem stared outside. Palm trees, glowing in the lights. A purple sky going dark moment by moment. He saw the helicopter waiting up ahead, maybe a couple of miles. "He's coming after me."
"Yeah," Jacob said. "I sure hope so."
*
The first attempt came three days later. After the gathering of young pirates on the shore filling half the beach, after the frantic jostling to get photos with Mr. Mohammed on their cell phones, and after the days of fielding requests for interviews, which he had turned down, it was a man with a gun. He shouted his intentions across the café before firing, striking a server and a businessman before several men in the crowd took him down. All Adem could do was duck and pray—yes, pray—at that point. It was expected that the first try would be a test to see what sort of security he kept around him. For this one, Jacob had wanted it to appear as if Adem was all alone. Only the goodwill of the people around him kept the madman from succeeding. So many people helped him to his feet, and his apology to the owner was waved off. "An honor, sir. An honor. I apologize to you."
He waited for the ambulance, the police, and knelt beside the dying businessman as a nurse attempted to keep his wound from bleeding. The assassin was screaming the entire time, shouting that Mr. Mohammed was the infidel, not Uzayr. That it was Mohammed who had offended his namesake.
Adem left the café shell-shocked. One dead because of him. The server would live, but the pain and surgery and lost wages and and...Anger. Worse, the guilt. He had been wearing a bulletproof vest. As soon as he got back to his apartment, he ripped it off and flung it across the room, knocked over a lamp. He yanked the plug from the wall and left the shards on the floor. It didn't matter anyway.
Because the next attempt blew up his apartment later that night.
Jacob had known about the bomb, too. Uzayr's people did not realize they were being watched. So he told Adem when to leave, and how they would play it afterwards.
"My neighbors?"
"You have no neighbors. Those are our people."
"Above and below?"
Silence on the line. Jacob was in town, but didn't want to be seen with Adem. Then, "There is a couple on the floor above you."
"You're going to get them out, right?"
More silence.
"Jacob?"
"Look, there's the greater good to think about here."
Adem closed the phone and left immediately. He still had ten minutes to get the couple out.
He was down to his T-shirt and suit slacks. He was barefoot. But he had to get them out. The phone buzzed in his pocket and he ignored it. He hurried down the hallway to the stairwell. Doors opened behind him. He looked over his shoulder. Faisal and Fatima ran after him. He hadn't even known they were there.
Damn Jacob! Goddamn him!
They grabbed Adem before he could get up even one flight. Turned him around, headed back down. At the bottom of the stairwell, the three of them crouched under the concrete stairs and waited. Adem had stopped struggling. He felt something inside his chest tear open with every quiet minute that passed. They were going to let those people die instead of him. Uzayr's people would know something was up if there were no casualties.
Faisel turned to Adem and whispered, "You do know I have to hit you with a rock, right? You'll have to look beaten and cut."
Adem nodded. He was numb by then. Let them do what they wanted to do to him. Let them dress him up in vests and cut his face and pretend it was God Above who was guarding him. It didn't matter. He'd sold out. Nothing he could do about it.
Then the whole world shook. The stairs above them cracked. Dust and debris fell from the ceiling. Adem's ears felt as if he'd been slapped and shoved underwater into a deep, deep cave. Fatima shouted instructions into his ears, but he barely caught the words.
He shouted at her, "I have to tell you something."
"Are you listening to me?"
"I have to tell you the truth. I'm American, like you. I'm from Minneapolis—"
Fatima scrunched her face and shook her head. "Not the time. I can't hear you. Did you hear what I told you to do?"
Then Faisal smacked him upside the temple with a jagged block of concrete, again on his cheek, the pain overwhelming, the blood hot on his skin. But he was still alive.
Still fucking alive.
Come and get me, he thought. Do your worst.
TWENTY-FIVE
Back to one of the Black Ice "holes", so secret only Teeth and two other Boyz knew about them. Six in all, and this one was out in Stillwater. Quiet, nobody paying any attention to the place. It was an old service station that had closed when the oil prices drove them out of business. Teeth swooped in, dummied the sale back to a fake front from Winnipeg. A couple of dead cars out front blocked the pumps, boards over the windows, pop machine out front busted open long ago.
Inside, Teeth's customer-doctor tried to patch them up, turned Ali into a medic, and told them what happened to Dragoslav. The whole time, Mustafa was wondering how much steel was in this man's blood. He came in through the car wash, took a look at the cheese-grated, belt-sanded Teeth, and just sighed. Shit, what could the man have seen in his life that was worse than that?
The scalpel in the throat hadn't been quite as bad as it looked, and after a quick cleansing, some cotton, and a big-ass bandage, Mustafa waved the doctor over to Teeth, shivering on the floor, still not talking.
"He's in shock."
Mustafa nodded. Of course he was in shock. They all were. Ali had helped Mustafa inside first, set him against the cashier's side of the counter. He looked up to see scattered boxes of cigarettes on the wall. Teeth must've left them, a little something for the Boyz in time of need. Even from inside, Mustafa could hear Ali, right on the other side of the wall, peel Tee
th from the backseat where his wounds had scabbed, crusted to the fibers. When Ali brought him inside, his back was bleeding, flowing freely onto the floor.
The doctor was all business, telling Ali what he needed from the trunk of his car. Always prepared. But Mustafa could tell by looking at him, this man, mostly white with something exotic in the mix, was a functional addict. He hid the meth sores with ointments, the bad teeth with dentures, and kept up a jogging routine to explain why he was bone thin. He wondered what sort of doctor this was. How did his patients not see it or smell it on him when he was inches away from them?
"So, he's going to live."
Mustafa thought the Doctor was talking about Teeth, but then realized he meant Dragoslav. He croaked out, "Yeah?"
"He'll need physical therapy. I don't think his bones will ever heal correctly. I see a lot of Vicodin in his future."
"I'm sure he knows a guy."
The doctor shook his head. "It's not funny. If it wasn't for...I mean, why didn't you let him die? Jesus." He was getting his hackles up. He stopped working on Teeth's wounds, held his gloved hands up and turned to Mustafa. "What did he do to deserve that, that, that sort of...savagery? A bad drug deal? Some sort of initiation ritual? Kill a white man?"
Mustafa stared him down, cleared his throat so he could say what he wanted to as clear as possible. "He fucked little girls. He sold little girls to others so they could fuck them, too."
The doctor flared his nostrils, looked like he actually had a response at first. Then just shook his head and turned back to his patient. Mumbled under his breath, "You're not Batman."
Mustafa thought, No, he sure as hell wasn't, but he wasn't some self-righteous rich addict asshole like the doctor here, either. What sort of stuff had he done to fund his habit? Embezzled? Wasted his kids' college fund? Stole from nurses' purses?
He asked the doctor, "So what happened? After you saw him."
"I set what I could, I made sure he wasn't bleeding internally, and I left him a bag of painkillers. Could be he's still in that cabin." He turned back to Teeth. "Shit, hold on. GOAT, please, I need some paper towels."
Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) Page 18