All the Young Warriors

by Anthony Neil Smith

  So yeah, it was his turn.

  Then Warfaa came out with Adem, got him into the Rover. Then Iles figured it out and started a firefight. Then Warfaa and his cousins got the Rover away, but the van had remained. And Bleeker watched his chance at revenge fade behind them.

  Until Adem and Mustafa told him the boy he'd beaten so severely wasn't Jibriil anyway.

  Later, after dumping the Rover and making their way to a warehouse where the cousins had set up a temporary rest stop, Adem explained who Garaad was, why he was in the picture. Explained how Jibriil was now an officer with the ragtag army in Mogadishu.

  But it wasn't Bleeker's party. Mustafa and Adem, a big embrace as soon as they could all take a moment to breathe again, the kid asking about his mom, other family and friends, Mustafa making fun of the suit, the shaved head. Bleeker didn't think Adem seemed the murdering type. Definitely not the soldiering type. He waited at the door, looking out into the dark, listening to the small talk. He finally shook his head and let out the breath he was holding. He marched up to Adem.

  "You were in the car that night in New Pheasant Run. You swear you didn't fire a shot? Not a single shot?"

  Adem raised his palms. Eyes wide. "I didn't even touch a gun, I promise! I didn't know he had a gun! I pleaded with him to let it go, to leave the police alone. But I couldn't stop him. I wanted to, but he didn't listen. I'm sorry. The poor woman. I'm so sorry."

  Bleeker cut him off with a growl. "Why? Why did you come here? What's all this about?"

  A shrug. He'd seen the same shrug from many Somali teenagers. Hell, he'd seen it from plenty of Hispanic, Nepalese, and white teenagers, too. As if the only answer to any question anymore was I don't know.

  Adem said, "He was my friend. I…it was something new. I needed to know if it was real."

  Mustafa said, "So how about it?"

  Adem shook his head. "It's not like they're wrong about everything. But they're doing it the wrong way. That's the hardest thing to get your head around. Why would they do what they do to other people? Every little thing. Killers and sadists telling people how to live or something terrible will happen to them."

  Bleeker snorted. "Whole fucking religion."

  Adem turned to Bleeker, finding some energy. "No, it's not. Not at all. It's…like, Sufia. I met this girl, see? She was great. I thought she was, anyway. I don't know. She's brilliant. She went to school in London, and she knows English and Arabic and Somali like me, but also French and Portuguese. And she's strong, you know? Sort of like a feminist, something like that, but she's a believer. And she's loyal. And she wants them, those boys in the army, her whole family, she wants them to be better."

  "That's not going to happen."

  "Not in a week. Not in a year. Maybe not ten years. But, who knows, right?"

  Bleeker grinned. "Sounds to me like you want to get laid."

  Mustafa backhanded Bleeker's shoulder. Not hard, but enough. "Don't."

  Nothing else to say for a long moment. Dark in the warehouse except for a couple of small kerosene lamps floating around the vehicles as the remaining cousins checked for bullet holes. Warfaa was on the phone. Bleeker couldn't pick up the entire conversation, but the tone and the tears told him he was letting his family know that they had lost two men. Mustafa's cousins, but probably Warfaa's brother, uncle, or nephew. All to help Mustafa, a man Warfaa hadn't spoken to in decades. It left Bleeker feeling tired, like all his vengeance wasn't worth the price these others were paying.

  Mustafa said, "Adem, is the girl in town? Is she going to be alright?"

  "Gone." Cleared his throat. "I think Jibriil's men took her back. Or she left on her own. I don't know. That's the worst part."

  Bleeker said, "You'll meet a good one back home. Have some fun first, don't get so serious."

  "You think love is about fun? Is that why I feel like my stomach is full of bile? Because it's fun?" Adem, in Bleeker's face. Surprised him. He shoved his hands in his pockets and let the kid go on. "She's special. She's good. I have to know if we had a chance together."

  "You're talking about going back to Mogadishu?"

  "If she's there, you know. All I need to do is ask."

  Mustafa said, "No way. No, we're not going there. They already tried to cut your head off once."

  "You'll be with me this time"

  "Who said?"

  "That's why you're here, right? You want to help me?"

  Mustafa got in Adem's face, reached up and loosened the fancy tie that complemented the fancy suit. He spoke softly, but hard. "I am here. To take. You. Home. Period."

  Adem blinked. More. Then said, "What about Jibriil?"

  "He made his choice. We should go."

  Adem stepped back, rolled his shoulders and fixed his suit, slipped his tie flush to his collar. "I'm going to find Sufia. You can go home without me."

  Bleeker heard Mustafa's breathing, growing louder. His back muscles tightened through the shirt, relaxed. "Ungrateful. What was about to happen back there at the hotel? Who was that shadowing you, the one Ray beat up? Should I take you back, drop you off with Derrick Iles?"

  "I'm grateful, don't you see? I am. I am so happy to see you. But it's not that easy. I can't leave her. And, and, Jibriil, you can't leave him. It's not—"

  Mustafa didn't even let him finish before unleashing, full volume: "I can and I will!" Waited for Adem to shut up. "We're driving out of here tonight and flying home tomorrow. We'll find an American Embassy and sort out your passport. That's the way it is. I will not tell your mother that I had you, saved you, and then let you go, like some fish or something."

  "I'm not leaving!"

  "You fucking well are!"

  Bleeker said, "Adem?"

  He turned. Maybe a lot of bluster in the kid, but he was scared.

  Bleeker said, "I'll go with you. Back to Mogadishu."

  "Just you?"

  Shrug. "I want to talk to your friend. So I'll go with you."

  Mustafa stepped between Bleeker and Adem, leaning in close, whispering to the cop, "What are you doing? You can't."

  "I told you when I signed up. I've got to. Same as he's got to find this woman."

  "You want me to fly home empty handed?"

  Bleeker tried to grin. Not much to it. "I don't want you to go home at all. Not yet."

  Mustafa turned his head, looked at Adem over his shoulder. Then back to Bleeker. "You're white. Very white."

  "I thought we were done with that."

  "I didn't mean your skin."

  Mustafa walked off, began speaking Somali to his cousin Warfaa. It got loud. It got animated, hands waving, stabbing the air. Mustafa angrier and angrier, but in the end it seemed he won out over Warfaa, who stalked off, talked to the cousins. Solemn nods. Time to pack up.

  But Bleeker heard Adem sigh. He turned to the kid. "What?"

  Adem laughed. "Dad told him we're going to Mogadishu."

  TWENTY-FIVE

  "Bring him out." The guard waved his hand as he said it. He looked young, maybe nineteen, but ancient compared to the boys around him. Some hadn't even reached puberty. They all handled their guns as if they'd been trained from birth.

  It had taken them four days to get here, finally, to the outskirts of Mogadishu. Plenty of trouble along the way—flat tire, questions about the white man (told some he was a holy man from Turkey, others he was a reporter, still others he was a prisoner being escorted to his beheading), sickness, lack of water. They had guns, at least one apiece. Had to hide them carefully in order to avoid the soldiers taking them. They had money, had to have money, in order to pay off so many men along the way. They had gas. Lost some of it to bandits, others who stopped the Rover, searched it, never telling them exactly what it was the men found worth seeking. Humiliated, tired, dirty, irate with each other, but here they were.

  The guard said it again. Then in English, as if they hadn't heard him. Bleeker sat in the back between Mustafa and Warfaa. Mustafa opened his door, slid out, and took Bleeker by the
arm. Pulled him. Bleeker fought back, but Warfaa yelled at him, pushed his head. Kept saying, "Out! Out! Out!"

  One more push and Bleeker fell to the ground. The boys with guns laughed. Warfaa kicked him. "Up! Up!"

  Mustafa helped Bleeker to his feet. The guards looked at him the same way they looked at camels. They recognized Adem, sitting in-between the cousins up front. They clamored around, calling out for "Mr. Mohammed", like he was a TV star. Some of the young men climbed onto the hood of the Rover. "It's him! Look, it really is."

  They hadn't expected that. But once it happened, they played it up, Adem smiling for the soldiers, talking to them. Had to have seen him on TV, or online. The negotiator who stood up to the Americans! Well, the Canadians, anyway. And he was hauled off in handcuffs, only to escape in a firefight with American mercenaries! Yes! A folk hero in the making.

  Soldiers put their hands on the windows, and Adem pressed his palms against the opposite side. Three, four, five, six times.

  The guard examining Bleeker didn't have a reason to do it. He just wanted to. Bleeker knew by the way this guy circled him, sniffed him. Bullshit stuff.

  Mustafa finally said, "He's from the Canadian ship. Mr. Mohammed has brought back a prize for the men."

  The teenage leader smiled. "Okay. You leave him here?"

  "We take him. He goes to Jibriil."

  "No, is okay. We take him to Jibriil. You leave him here."

  Mustafa had a blade at the kid's throat before he had a chance to make a threat. All the others, starstruck by Adem, slowly took notice, turned to watch. The guard and Mustafa, eye to eye, tip of the knife at the guard's throat.

  "You want credit, get your own prisoner, jackass." Mustafa, unwavering.

  The guard's eyes were wide, unblinking. A few moments passed, Mustafa smiled, laughed. Let his arm droop. The guard knocked the blade down with a weak elbow, embarrassed but defiant. "Go on, go on."

  Warfaa manhandled Bleeker into the backseat again. They got in on both sides of him. The young soldiers clambered off the truck but stood close around it, mesmerized, making it difficult for the driver to navigate. But he steered through, back onto the road. Desert finally gave way to modern buildings, pavement, greenery, and smoke that carried both the smell of death and spices.

  They drove slowly, not wanting any more attention than they'd already attracted. Nearly there. Only a vague idea what to do once they arrived.

  "We'd better hurry," Bleeker said. "Those guys are going to blow our cover. I know it."

  Chuckles around the rover. Mustafa was the one who said, "They've known almost since we started. All the bribe money? Soon as we had driven away, they were on their mobiles, telling Jibriil where we were."

  "So we never had a chance?"

  "I don't think he knows I'm here, and he sure as hell doesn't know what to make of you. So all these boys could tell him is that Adem is returning with a carload of protection and a white guy."

  "Will they be waiting for us?"

  "They think we're coming from the previous checkpoint. But we're going to circle the city, try sneaking in. That won't buy much time, but enough."

  "Enough for what?"

  Mustafa put his finger to his lips. That was that.

  The driver took a sudden left and sped up on a vacant road leading back into the wild.

  *

  When they stopped again, hours later, it was behind a building miles from the soldiers' camp. Adem wasn't sure he would be able to navigate from here, a part of the city he'd never seen before. It took a pair of binoculars and twenty minutes to find some landmarks and build a map in his head. He should've been scared out of his mind, he knew, but was instead excited. Thoughts of Sufia, waiting for him to come and take her away. They could hit Cairo later. First, Minneapolis. She would enjoy the lakes, the woods, the art. It sure as hell wasn't Somalia, but the expatriates somehow made it work, Little Mogadishu in much better shape than the real thing.

  They were all out of the Rover, sunset coming fast, beginning to pick up eyes watching from alleys and windows. Adem buttoned his suit coat, straightened the knot on his tie, and cleared his throat. The men turned to him. He didn't exactly know what to say, but this was all about him. Him and Bleeker. And they would all die for what these two wanted if they had to.

  "I'm going to find Sufia. I'll go alone. Jibriil is looking for me, so if he finds me, I don't want to hold you up."

  His dad shook his head. "I have to come with you. I can't let you out of my sight."

  "What good is this if you come? He catches you, he'll kill you. He'll know what's going on."

  "Then why are we even here? What's the point?"

  "Just…I didn't think about that. But you can't…I want Sufia out of this. That's all."

  "Then tell me what she looks like. I'll go find her."

  "I can't take that chance. You don't know her. I have to be the one to ask her. It's complicated."

  Dad looked at Warfaa. Both nodded one time. Warfaa stepped over to Adem and took him by the arm. "Back in the truck."

  Adem snatched his arm free. "What are you talking about?"

  "You have to stay here. You can't go in there alone, and we've got work to do."

  Warfaa took Adem's arm again, pulled him towards the Rover. Adem tried to snatch it back again but Warfaa had a better grip. Adem said, "No!" Then louder and louder. Then he planted his feet, tried to loosen the grip with his free hand. Went limp. Went spastic. Shouting, crying. On the ground. Warfaa leaned over and slapped him on the face. Again and again until Adem got it together. Warfaa helped him to his feet, then to the back of the Rover. Helped him inside. Closed the door.

  Dad opened the opposite door, leaned inside. "Listen, okay? Listen to me. I can't let you go. I came all this way because of this shit you pulled. I'm not going to let you die here. You're going home."

  Adem stared straight ahead, sniffing.

  "If I can find your girl, I will, I promise. But if not, we've got to leave. We have to get Jibriil and leave."

  No response.

  "For fuck's sake, boy, I'm willing to die for you! That white cop with me is willing to die for you! Jibriil killed his woman, and he's still here for you."

  Adem swallowed hard. Turned his head away.

  "I've got to go." Dad grabbed his shoulder, gave it a squeeze. Adem stared out the opposite window, sniffing.

  Dad closed the door. Blinked away tears. Swallowed anger. Warfaa told the driver to watch Adem, and to drive the hell out of there if anyone got too close, especially the soldiers. Drive for the border, clear across the desert, and get the kid on a plane. The other men huddled, talked it out.

  "You and Ray." Dad lifted his chin at Warfaa. "Go find Jibriil. He won't know you like he does me. And Ray, cover your face or something. You're target practice here. Dawit and I will go talk to some women, see if they know Sufia. As soon as you get Jibriil, call us and we're done. That's all there is to it. Back to the truck."

  Dawit spit on the ground, licked his teeth, and said, "Shouldn't we pray first?"

  Warfaa turned to Adem's dad. His decision.

  He said, "No."

  And started walking into town.

  *

  Warfaa let Bleeker use his headscarf to cover his face. Helped him fashion it the way the soldiers wore it. Eyes only. Then they split from Mustafa and Dawit and made their way through the streets like they belonged there. Burned out buildings, people in the streets covered in dust, as if they'd been digging in the ruins, trying to rescue their belongings. Some stalls were still open, some storefronts intact but worse for wear.

  Adem had given them a general direction to follow, but once in the streets they lost their sense of direction—the sights and smells and random pops of gunfire overwhelming, especially contrasted against the deep blue sky. Above, a painting. Below, a morgue.

  Warfaa led them through streets, then through alleys, trying to keep out of sight. They came across a news crew at one point, surprised they were in th
e city. BBC, it looked like. Doing hit and run spot pieces, avoiding the boys with guns. All Bleeker had heard led him to believe the capital was a wasteland, but hey, look, life all over. They either chose not to leave, couldn't leave, or showed up to see for themselves. But they were the exceptions. No reason to ask himself "Why Minneapolis?" anymore. After living through something that did this sort of damage to the city, of course they'd want someplace cold. Someplace serene. Frozen in place.

  Warfaa rounded the next corner, then whiplashed into Bleeker, stepping on his feet. Seethed, "Get back! Get back!" Bleeker retreated, flat against the wall. Warfaa too.

  "Soldiers. Ten or more. Backtrack."

  Down the alley again, not even getting to the end before hearing the unafraid, barking laughter of more teenage soldiers. Shit. Looking right at them. A handful. Two in full camo garb with their faces covered by the trademark red-and-white checkered scarf. Another shirtless. The others in everyday shirts you could pick up at Wal Mart back home. They stopped, stared.

  Warfaa spoke up. Something about Jibriil. And "prisoner". So much easier to understand the language in New Pheasant Run when he asked them to repeat it and they peppered sentences with English phrases.

  One of the covered faces waved his hand towards Bleeker. "But he's got a gun."

  Of course. He knew that phrase. The one time it would've been better not to…

  Warfaa said something else. Bleeker was guessing at this point. What would make the most sense? It's not loaded. He's Mr. Mohammed's prisoner. The gun is just a disguise.

  Or something.

  The soldiers weren't looking anymore convinced. The shirtless one lifted his rifle to his shoulder.

  Right before he fired, he said something in Somali that Bleeker thought sounded an awful lot like, "Bullshit."