Djibouti

by Elmore Leonard

  He pulled a Walther P38 from a holster on the back of his jeans. He picked up this one in the same gun shop he had robbed in 2003. This time he took the Walther, a box of rounds and the holster. That big nigga with Dara was right, it hurt you shove it in your pants with nothing to pad it. Now he got down close to the pillow and lifted up the edge to see part of her face, her nose, her mouth. He said in Arabic, “Sweet girl, open your mouth for me.” She did, she opened her mouth. Jama shoved the barrel of the Walther into her throat, tilted it up a speck, pressed his left hand down on the pillow hard and shot Celeste through her brain.

  THE ONLY OTHER ONE Jama could think of knew his name was the movie girl Dara and the big-ass nigga who followed her around. He’d start calling hotels from here, beginning with the Kempinski. It seemed the movie girl’s style. He’d ask was she registered.

  The hotel voice said he would connect Jama with the room. Jama said, “No, I’ll call back,” and heard the voice tell him sorry, the line was busy.

  She was there, talking to somebody on the phone six in the morning. The movie girl making plans.

  Jama left the apartment, went out to the street and got in Hunter’s BMW convertible, silver with a black top that was never down since Jama started driving the car. Man, there was a lot had to be done. Four this morning he’d got rid of Hunter. Took him out to the pier used for yachts and dumped him in the bay, a twenty-inch TV set tied to Hunter’s legs, the TV the only thing in the apartment Jama could manage that was heavy enough to keep Hunter down.

  He told himself he wouldn’t be sitting around watching TV anyway, not with all the things had to be done. First, go back to Hunter’s place for his binoculars. Then drive up to the Kempinski to watch the entrance from a spot in the trees. Being a terrorist was a pain in the ass when you weren’t spreading terror.

  It was going on 10 A.M. before he saw them come out.

  CARS CAME AROUND TO take different streets off the Place Verdun, circling past the statue of Marshal Ferdinand Foch, 1851–1929, on a pedestal in the center of the plaza, the single word J’Attaque below his name.

  Xavier said, “Ferdinand was asked what he’d do if surrounded by Germans and he said he’d attack. I believe it was at Verdun he lost somethin like eighty thousand men j’attackin.” He said, “There’s your man there.”

  The onetime SEAL and professional soldier for hire looked like any other forty-year-old in pretty good shape; nothing that told he had special tricks for fighting a war. Getting out of the car Xavier watched Dara and Buck Bethards shake hands and sit down at a table on the sidewalk. It looked like he was drinking coffee. He was, black as it comes. Xavier met him and said, “You’re doing this job for Billy, huh?” so they’d get right to it. It wasn’t going to take Xavier long at the doctor’s.

  He shook hands with the spy again, got back in the car and turned into a street east of the Central Market, turned a few corners finding his way and pulled up in front of Dr. Chin’s medical practice and drugstore.

  The sign in Chinese characters didn’t mean a thing to Xavier, but there was Dr. Chin himself in the doorway, the little doctor of traditional medicine reaching up now to put his arms partway around Xavier saying, “What’s new?” With just a bit of an accent. “I hear you in the movie business.” Dr. Chin smiling in his wispy white beard and eyes that were slits. They chatted a few minutes until Xavier said, “You know what I want.”

  “Horny Goat Weed, of course. How you doing with it?”

  “I ran out a while ago.”

  “You had I believe three hundred capsules of my special blend?”

  “That’s right, five bottles.”

  “How long they last?”

  “I been out of ’em most of a year.”

  “But you stay active until a year?”

  “If ‘active’ means a lot of action, you have to remember I’m seventy-two.”

  “I’m eighty-four,” Dr. Chin said. “So…? What do numbers mean? I remain as active as I wish to be. Get ten bottles for a year, I make you a deal, hundred fifty dollar.”

  Xavier said, “I never tried the Rowdy Lamb Herb.”

  “It’s Horny Goat Weed with a different name.”

  “How about Fairy Wings?”

  “Same thing. It’s all epimedium, the same plant, maybe a different variety. It’s the name gives you ideas. Use for two thousand years, no complaints.”

  “What about rhino horn?”

  “Stop it. You know it’s a myth.”

  “But maybe it works,” Xavier said, “you set your mind on it givin you a donkey can be rode.”

  “Maybe sometime only. They killing all the rhinos for the horns, shave it to a powder you take. It will cost you a fortune, as much as fifteen thousand for a small one, but gives no life to your waning desire.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Xavier said. “Let me have ten bottles of your Horny Goat Weed.”

  “Now you talking,” Dr. Chin said. “Six hundred capsules. Write to me you need more.”

  DARA WAS TELLING BUCK, “I remember how confident he was. Jama said he’d take care of Idris and Harry once he walked out. We believed his tone of voice, but not what he was saying. If that makes sense. Idris said, ‘Of course he thinks of getting away. For Jama, what else is there of importance?’” Dara giving her thoughts on Jama Raisuli. She said, “Did you know Raisuli was Sean Connery’s name in The Wind and the Lion?”

  Buck said, “You see that as significant?”

  “It means he has a sense of humor. Don’t you think it’s funny?”

  “Yeah, but does Jama think it is?”

  “You’re right. He’s American, but according to Idris speaks street Arabic.”

  “And you think his first name is James.”

  “I’m pretty sure, from his reaction when I said it.”

  “The name Jama,” Buck said, “looks like James. What does Raisuli look like? You come up with an Italian name, don’t you. Like James Ravioli.”

  Dara said, “You know what I thought it might be? James Russell.”

  Buck looked up from the photos of Jama on the table. He said, “James Russell, that’s good. Russell, Raisuli. Is that how he’s thinking, wanting the same sound?” He picked up a photo. “Let me run his name, see how many James Russells are in the system. Say in the past ten years.”

  “In ten years,” Dara said, “there could be a thousand James Russells.”

  “Not that many with his profile. What surprises me,” Buck said, “he doesn’t seem to have told anybody his real name. I know a few al Qaedas who can be bought, but that doesn’t mean they’d know his name. Yet this boy likes to talk and brag on himself. I would think if he told you he told anybody.”

  “Why?”

  “Wasn’t he attracted to you?”

  “You mean, did he try anything?”

  “Come on, the guy go for you or not?”

  “I think he did,” Dara said, “but ran out of time.”

  “Tried to impress you, didn’t he? Worth a million dollars to the United States government?”

  “Idris and Harry,” Dara said, “were going for twenty-five million.”

  “They might get it for bin Laden, but not some kid learned Arabic in prison.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It’s where black kids become Muslims.”

  He looked out toward Marshal Foch in the middle of the plaza.

  “Who do you know,” Buck said, “drives a silver BMW drophead, has a black top?”

  Now Dara was looking for a BMW in the light traffic, a few cars coming around to slip off into connecting streets.

  “Directly across from us,” Buck said. “It crept past once. Now it’s coming around again. Tell me if you know the car.”

  There it was, silver shining hot in the sun. She said, “I’ve never seen it before.”

  She watched it drive past them, the windows dark, she couldn’t see the driver. She watched it make a wide turn toward Marshal Foch, taking its time. She gl
anced at Buck drawing a nickel-plated Mag revolver from under his jacket.

  Buck said, “I tell you to hit the deck, hit it.”

  The BMW got almost to Marshal Foch before it began to come around in a slow right turn, back this way but closer to the curb, approaching the Café Verdun and the sidewalk tables and she heard Buck yell at her and saw him pull the table over on its side, Dara going down behind it seconds before gunfire came from the car. She didn’t see Buck. She looked past the table and saw Jama in the car, the window down, Jama holding his Walther and firing point-blank at the table, the rounds splintering wood and she went down to press herself against the pavement, thinking, Where’s Buck? Thinking, Jesus Christ, please shoot him. And it stopped. The ringing in her ears faded. She looked over the table and saw Jama still in the car window, still pointing his gun at her. She could say she didn’t know what his name was, he’d never told her. But thought, Take a chance, and said, “I bet your name’s James Russell, isn’t it?”

  “Russell,” Jama said. “The idea was a tease, see if law people could figure it out. You know how many knew it? Two. No, three down, four to go.”

  Past him she saw the white Toyota enter the plaza. Dara gave the white Toyota time to get over here, saying to Jama, “Who cares what your name is. You’ll either be shot down or go to prison—” She stopped, was going to say “for life” but never got to say any of it. Jama was aiming at her and Xavier was ramming the white Toyota straight into the right side of the BMW, banging in the door and some of the fender.

  Xavier said after, “Jama didn’t know what hit him. Fired three out his right side window, nothin to shoot at, and ran. Fired three times through the table. That leaves him two shots in the gun.”

  “One,” Buck said.

  He was standing a few yards from them brushing at his knees.

  “He hit me with his first shot.” Buck opened his coat to show his white shirt bloody beneath his arm. “He got me right here in my love handle, through and through.”

  Dara said, “We’ll take you to a hospital.”

  “I can manage,” Buck said. “I know where I can have it fixed up.”

  Dara said, “Did you hear him say his name?”

  “I did, but you’re the one got him to tell it. I’d say it’s your score.”

  Dara said, “I wouldn’t feel right about it.”

  “It’s worth five grand easy,” Buck said. “More, you hunt down where he did time and get a positive ID.”

  Dara said, “Oh…?” She said, “But it would look like I’m doing it for the money.”

  Buck said, “Yeah…?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  HE WASN’T SURE HE hit the movie girl. Talking too much, not tending to business. He hit the suit was with her but not in a good spot. Saw him grab his side twisting around and go down. Not a cop, a white man with a bright-metal piece. But the one rammed into him could be cops, the reason Jama gunned it out of there, tires screaming on the pavement, and thanked Allah for saving his ass. Jama didn’t look back till he was out past Marshal Foch and saw in his rearview it was a white Toyota had plowed into him. Saw the tall nigga outside the car. Saw him standing, hands on his hips, watching him drive away. Saw Dara the movie girl and the suit on his feet now raising his piece, sun flashing on it. Then lowered it, cars passing in front of him. Jama remembered the suit scooting away from Dara and aiming the piece to fire when Jama shot him. Was he drawing gunfire away from her? It looked like it. What was he, the suit, a boyfriend? Jama asked himself what woman he knew, any of them, he’d stand up to draw fire away from. And saw Dara looking out from behind the table, her shirt wet from coffee spilled on her. He saw her at Idris’s party at Eyl and aboard Aphrodite the time she visited. She knew his name. He came to realizing it, he didn’t start with it. He saw her by the table and shot holes in it to scare her. He wanted to hit her he’d of done it. Then why didn’t he?

  He turned north on to rue d’Éthiopie and thought of Celeste and knew she’d lied to him. He didn’t know it in her room but did now, sure of it. She didn’t know his name, even after he told her. Saying she pretended not to know it. Lying was the girl’s business.

  He pictured Dara again on the tanker, while they were anchored off Eyl. On Aphrodite, full of liquefied natural gas. He thought of the phone number that would set off the C4 in the hold. Saw the numbers in his mind, 44-208-748-1599. He had another number Qasim had given him, an al Qaeda contact. Someone with the latest word. And saw Dara again in the room where he was handcuffed to the chair. She never put on different looks, she used the same one all the time. Show she was interested in him. He believed they could sit down and have a conversation and keep each other thinking. He wondered if she was fucking that tall nigga. If he wasn’t too old. He could be her grandfather. Mean. Told you he can break your neck and you believe him. Dara, he couldn’t see her going to him to fuck her. Dara could take her pick. No, there was nothing going on with Xavier. Maybe she’d let him see her naked once in a while, that’s all. The old fucker stares thinking of the old days. Jama knew he had to kill her. She knew his name. Except he’d like to get to know her better first.

  He could be running out of time, once she gave the FBI his name. If she did. Or if she was in no hurry, he believed Dara would like to sit down with him, too. She was cool, but not how she talked, told you things. She talked eye to eye with you and could put you on doing it. That was cool, asking did he want to be in the movie she’s making. Was she fucking with him or was she serious? Find that out if you want, then shoot her.

  He’d put the car in the alley behind Hunter’s digs—what he liked to call his apartment—and make some plans for the next couple days or so. See if he could pull off something with Aphrodite he needed to do. That big fat LNG tanker waiting in the stream to blow up. When he wanted to see Dara again for some reason—he might feel a need to do that—he’d go to her hotel. Right now he had to phone his al Qaeda connection, find out if they were still fucked up, couldn’t make up their mind, and tell his guy what he was going to do. Take it out of their hands. Get it done.

  He called the number of his contact.

  THE VOICE ON THE cell repeated the numbers Jama called and said in Arabic, “Allah is God. He hears us and watches over us.”

  Jama said, “Why, I believe that’s Assam Amriki I’m speaking to. My old buddy, is that you?”

  The voice said, “Don’t use names.”

  “It’s been seven years, man, I still recognize your voice, your proper way with the Arabian, showing you cultured. Assam, my brother, where you at?”

  “Don’t ask that.”

  “You still the propaganda man, doing recruitment videos?”

  “I’m hanging up the phone you talk to me like that.”

  “How you want me to talk to you?”

  “Tell me why you called.”

  “I want to know about the tanker, where it’s at.”

  “The mission is no more.”

  “Delayed? Postponed?”

  “It’s off. We don’t touch the ship.”

  “It’s got explosives on it.”

  “The ship is explosive. It makes no difference, we don’t touch it.”

  “Once they took us off, Qasim thought you’d put two more Qaedas aboard and get it done.”

  “I’m telling you it’s been called off,” Assam’s voice rising as he said it. “We have other work to consider. We are losing people in Pakistan, this week in Somalia, our brothers being killed one after another by their planes with no pilots, their drones.”

  “Where you located these days? I want to see you.”

  “Impossible.”

  “I saw you on CNN one time,” Jama said. “Had like before and after shots of you. Back in ’02 when you still looking Jewish, they call you a computer geek then. Now with your turban and your beard grown out, you running the news for al Qaeda. They calling you their media director. Another time I saw you, I believe on a Shabaab Web site, you showing Palestinian childr
en all blown to hell on a bus, an Israeli bomb set off under it. It don’t bother you being a Jew most of your life? You know you the first American charged with treason in fifty-eight years? I haven’t seen they put any money on you yet. There was a picture of you with Khalid Sheikh Kiss-My-Ass Mohammed they calling a 9/11 mastermind. You hanging out with the big boys, huh?”

  Assam’s voice in the cell phone said, “I’m going to warn you, you have been marked for death.”

  “No shit,” Jama said. “Tell me about it.”

  “See? You show no respect. Listen to what I say, as a former American to another who has my sympathy. You tried perhaps, at least at first, but you failed. Now there is a fatwa on you, condemned to death for the murder of Qasim al Salah.”

  “You talking about?” Jama said. “Was a Somali they hired as a guard plugged Qasim and I plugged the Somali. Understand, Qasim was my boss, my teacher, my best friend in the al Qaeda world for seven years, the most dedicated motherfucker I ever knew, and I say that with respect for the man. I want to know who’s saying I shot him.”

  He heard Assam’s voice in the cell telling him, “There is no more I can say to you. I leave you with regret that knowing you I never felt like a brother to you.”

  “I can’t say I give a shit,” Jama said. “What I want to know is where the ship is now.”

  “It is of no concern to you. The ship will take on supplies and continue to the U.S.”

  Jama knew he was lying. He said, “Assam…?”

  He was gone.

  It didn’t matter. He could pick up a boat and cruise around till he found the tanker. There was no way he could miss it, the ship’s structure hanging on to its ass end, the rest of it five tanks of deadly frozen gas reaching to the bow. You couldn’t miss spotting a ship looked like Aphrodite. It would be off Djibouti, out in the Gulf of Tadjoura ten miles or so. No port wanting a ship sitting close by could blow up on them. He had to make sure of the phone’s range, how far it would reach to do the job.