Like a tennis match in his head—America, Somalia, America, Somalia. He buried his head in his hands. Felt Jibriil's hand on his back.
"Don't worry. It's going to be alright. We'll get you back to doing what you're good at. We'll get some food in you. You can have any girl you want. Marry her tonight, get rid of her tomorrow if you like. It's going to be okay. Your own room, your own bed, whatever you want."
Adem almost said I want to go home. But he didn't, not really. Not yet. He wanted to go…somewhere else. Anywhere nice.
He heard the cheering over the noise of the engine. Lifted his head, saw they were on the edge of the camp. Lots of dust kicked up. Lots of bullets fired into the air. Lots of smiling soldiers. Mobs in the streets.
The driver slid to a stop. Soldiers surrounded the truck. The Minneapolis brigade climbed out. Jibriil pushed the door open, stepped out and started shouting, "Calm down! What's going on? Somebody tell me."
Several of the teenage soldiers gathered around, all talking at once. Adem stepped out of the truck. Lots of eyes on him. None of them wanting to kill him this time. A relief.
Jibriil was smiling again, nodding at the stories he was being told. Adem picked up, "Killed him. Stabbed him! And, and, then, we found a white man, too."
A white man?
Adem leaned in. "What was that?"
Jibriil spoke close to his ear, spittle flying. "One of our brothers, in Belgium. He killed a writer, a novelist, a blasphemer."
"Really?"
"Stabbed him at a book signing! Cut his throat, too. He wrote terrible shit about the Prophet, lots of lies. One of ours did it! Killed him!"
"What did he say about capturing a white man?"
Jibriil raised his eyebrows. "Come on, let's go see for ourselves."
*
As they walked through camp, the chanting, singing, and gunfire grew louder. It reminded Adem of celebrations in the streets of Minneapolis when the Timberwolves or Vikings won a playoff, except for the guns.
Jibriil soaked it in, stopping to pat soldiers on the back or raise his arms like a beloved leader. To embrace other officers. Imams. Kids who didn't really know why they were celebrating. Many of them recognized Adem—"Mr. Mohammed"—and embraced him, too. Snapped pictures with their phones. Tried to ask him questions about what it was like on the pirate ships, but he was propelled forward, unable to answer, on to the next crowd, same questions. When he heard ululating, he thought of Sufia and turned every which way—was she following him? Pointing her finger at him? But it was some of the other women in camp. It didn't make Adem's stomach feel any less nervous.
Onward to the tents, the wind kicking up the hanging edges like flags. Cloth walls bulged inward. Sand blowing all over. It was getting worse.
They approached a tent of orange, mottled fabric, nobody guarding it. Adem looked around, shielded his eyes against the sand, and saw an animal hanging from a tree. Didn't register at first. A pig? A camel? Then the features made sudden horrible sense in his mind, and his eyes went wide. A man. Upside down, slit from crotch to neck, his intestines piled in front of his face.
He gagged. Grabbed the back of Jibriil's shirt. Pointed. Gagged again. He couldn't look, no, no he couldn't. What sort of day was this? To see the worst things he'd ever seen, one after the other, his trip through Hell led by Jibriil, of all people?
Jibriil glanced over. Solemn. Nodded. "I'm sure he deserved it. I hope."
Into the tent. Adem followed, along with two other soldiers. Before even getting a look, the smell overwhelmed him. He turned, ready to run outside. The two soldiers got in his way, wouldn't let him past.
Jibriil shouted, in English, "Fuck!"
Adem looked over his shoulder. A shocked soldier, his neck a jagged, sticky chasm, was lying in his own goo. Hundreds of flies, buzzing all at once, all over the wound and the ground. Thick in the air, a dark cloud. The side of the tent facing the sandstorm was filled, a hard bubble, the sound of sand hitting it like sleet against windows back in the Cities.
"Fuck!" Jibriil got in one of the soldier's faces. "Find someone who knows what happened here! Now!"
The solider ran from the tent. Jibriil didn't even bother with the flap. He lifted the nearest wall, tossed it over his shoulder as he ducked under. Adem was right behind. He took in a huge gulp of air. Sand in his mouth. He coughed and spit and hacked until Jibriil handed him a bottle of water. Adem drank it down, sand in his teeth, sand down his throat. Grating his esophagus.
Jibriil was shouting over the wind. "We've got an escaped prisoner! Don't let him out of camp! He's a white man! An American!"
He wrapped his scarf over his mouth and nose. Adem tried to keep the sand out with his shirttail lifted to his nose, but then the sand slapped his exposed torso.
Jibriil turned back to him, shouted for a soldier to get Adem a scarf, then said, "Come on, let's go hunting."
Off into the wild. Soldiers who were celebrating before were now chanting "Death to the American!" Rifles. Bigger rifles. Even bigger machine guns.
Adem hoped he got to Bleeker before any of the others did. And where the hell was his dad?
THIRTY-ONE
The sandstorm at full strength, they ducked under an empty tent, half reeds and sticks, half a torn sheet, enough holes in it to keep it from filling like a sail. Huddled together, trying to hide Bleeker from the others. They'd already made a sling from the dead guard's scarf in order to hide one of his hands. He'd shoved the other in his pocket, slung the rifle over his shoulder.
The celebration gave them good cover, Mustafa asking what it was all about, translating for Bleeker. A dead novelist. Criticize Islam in public too much, and you're a target. Say something about the Prophet, draw a picture of him, and that's reason enough to die. It pissed Bleeker off. Some fucking wannabe Bin Laden gunned down Cindy and that was justifiable, but should Bleeker ever say something un-PC about lunatic Muslims on TV, then mobs of thousands all over the world believed he was the worst of the worst. Fuck culture, fuck tolerance. When he got back to Minnesota, he was going to retire and retreat up north, the woods, and hope never to see another Muslim for as long as he lived.
"What now?"
Mustafa glanced around, a pained expression. "If you want to find Jibriil, we need to ask around, find out if anyone's seen him. If that's what you still want."
Mustafa looked at him. Blank. Whatever it took. But Bleeker knew. Whatever it took now that he'd found Adem. As long as he was safe. Bleeker thought about Warfaa, shot and gutted for helping them. About the others who had lost their lives up in Bosaso. What was more important in the long run?
Maybe one day he would journey back to this shithole on his time. Plenty of time once he retired. He'd find the son of a bitch then, take the time to plan a proper assassination. Cold blooded instead of warm. A long-range hunting rifle instead of up-close, the way Jibriil shot a pregnant woman in the face. Jibriil would never see it coming. Bleeker would live to enjoy it instead of being cut down by the fanatics.
Cold. Just the way he liked it.
"Let's get out of here," he told Mustafa. "We've got Adem. This was a mistake. I'm done."
"You sure?"
Bleeker let out a deep breath. Next year. Take time to prepare. Cold. He nodded.
He could tell that Mustafa was relieved. Like he shrunk three inches, all the tension held in his muscles flowing out, carried away by the wind. Mustafa pulled out his cell phone, called Chi. He covered his mouth with his hand, pressed the phone tight against his ear. He still had to shout. Bleeker watched. All he had to do was give the guy a landmark, maybe half a mile away, tell him to come pick them up. But Mustafa's voice was growing even louder. Louder still. Bleeker couldn't make it out against the gunfire and shouting and the sand. Outside, he heard the celebrations turn into one uniform Arabic chant: "Death to the American!"
Had to be him.
Mustafa was yelling now. He stood, hunched over in the tent. Cursing in Somali. Bleeker knew those words well. Hear
d them every weekend in New Pheasant Run from the kids.
Mustafa took the phone from his ear, cut the call. Stared at the ground. "Adem's gone. He left."
"Where'd he—"
"Looking for her. Off looking for her. Chi couldn't shoot him. Shit. It's my fault."
Nothing to say. The chanting outside began to thunder. Mustafa caught onto what they were saying. "No."
"We knew they'd figure it out."
"Not now. How do we know they mean you?"
"You saw how they treated Adem. Guy's a star."
Dawit shook his head. "But a star who makes a mistake…" A finger sliced across the neck.
Mustafa flexed his fingers on both hands. "Shit! Goddamnit!"
Death to the American!
Death to the American!
Bleeker stood. "Let's go march with them."
"What?"
"It looks better than hiding out here. We go out, march, chant, what are they going to do?"
"You stick out like a sore dick."
"There are a few white guys here, right? Like they'll know."
Outside, boots, all marching the same direction. A few faces looked their way. A few more would follow suit. They had to get out of there, the only way.
Bleeker unslung his rifle, held it up high, and shouted in Arabic, "Death to the American! Death to the American! Islam forever!"
He headed out into the crowd, the intensity of the sand surprising him. Carried along with the flow. "Death to the American!"
He turned his head as far as he could. Mustafa and Dawit finally emerged from the tent, struggled to catch up. Bleeker looked ahead again, no idea where he was going, but chanting for his own death the whole way as he blinked sand out of his eyes.
THIRTY-TWO
Jibriil, jubilant outside of the tent. As if he hadn't blown his cool two minutes before. Big smile, chanting—no, not that. Leading the chant. When he moved, the swarm moved, the way clouds of birds did in a split second. Adem was out of sync, bumping into soldiers, stepping on boots, having to grab Jibriil to keep up. The leader took deliberate steps, guiding an army on feel alone. Adem remembered the last mob he was at the center of, and he was desperate to keep Jibriil in view.
The sand, thick in the air. Hard to see beyond ten, twelve, fifteen soldiers on all sides, but Adem could hear them. They were out there, chanting and singing and shooting into the air. How did this help them find the cop? Would he surrender because the odds were against him? Would they pin him under a bush and stomp the infidel out of him?
This was what it had come to. Adem wasn't leaving Somalia. He was going to be Jibriil's puppet, the celebrity face of this ragtag army after all, but without Sufia by his side. She'd always be there, somewhere in the camp, ready to be put on display for Adem whenever he steered off the path set out for him. The sharpest reminder of all, besides the raised scar on his neck.
"Death to the American!"
For a moment he forgot about the white cop. He was the American. So was Jibriil. And it could turn on them like that, couldn't it?
*
When Mustafa caught up to Bleeker, landing a heavy hand on the man's shoulder, the cop thought he'd been found out. A moment of panic, Bleeker seeing himself shooting his way out of the crowd, only to be filled with so much lead that he'd be a statue of himself.
But then Mustafa's voice at his ear: "Easy. Don't give yourself away."
How long until Chi got there with the Rover? They needed to find their way out of the crowd, a safe place on the edge where they could wait. But the sandstorm had gotten worse and the mob was swirling and they didn't know how far they had circled around the camp.
Mustafa pushed Bleeker to the left, the slightest force, to begin threading towards freedom. Dawit shouldered his way ahead of Bleeker. Couldn't be too obvious about what they were doing. It was a trigger-happy crowd. Didn't matter if it was an American they killed or not. Someone had to die now.
Like a dance, shuffling ahead, hop, shuffling ahead, hop. Death to the American! Death to the American!
Shuffle, shuffle. Hop. Shuffle, shuffle. Hop.
Bleeker tripped on his own boots. Going down. Crashed into Dawit and the soldiers ahead. They parted like the Red Sea, and Bleeker kept falling. Mustafa was right there, hands under his arms, lifting up, up, up, but getting nowhere. A shove from behind. Mustafa shouted for Dawit, who was fighting his way back against the tide of soldiers. More soldiers behind shoving, kicking, losing the rhythm of the chant, the shuffle, descending into chaos. Dawit, finally there, kneeling to help Bleeker. Other soldiers closing the part, trampling Bleeker's fingers, Dawit's legs, and some of the soldiers were now stopping to help, making it worse. Lifting Bleeker to his feet, pointing at his white hands, looking into his eyes, the white skin peeking through. They tugged at his scarf, Mustafa slapping hands away.
The scarf revealed more and more skin. More shouting, more pointing, hands reaching, Mustafa slapping them away, putting his back against Bleeker's, waving his gun. Fifteen hands on Mustafa's rifle, stripped from his grip before he could get off one shot. He looked over his shoulder. Dawit, also defenseless. Looked to the ground. Bleeker's rifle, off in the dust, picked up by one of the teenagers.
Someone gouged Bleeker's eye. He jerked away before they did any real damage. Someone tried to pull his scalp off. Someone shouted something about his crotch. Bleeker guessed it was someone holding a machete. All three of them, he could feel in the air, in the sand in his eyes and nose and mouth, in the chants hurting his ears, yes, all three of them were going to be ripped apart limb from limb by all these hands.
The only thing he could do was wait for it.
*
Like watching the skies for tornados, something about the crowd changed. Louder, more intense, the rhythm set by Jibriil thrown off by something up ahead, the effect rippling through the mass. Adem lifted his head, tip-toed, trying to find it. A clogged artery, stopping the flow of soldiers. Hands in the air, fingers pointing towards the center of the jam.
"They found the American! They found him!"
Adem heard it coming from all around, louder as more soldiers picked it up, carried on until all of the men surrounding him and Jibriil were telling them "They found the American!"
The smile of Jibriil's face faded. Staring ahead. Lips parted. Adem had never seen his friend like this before. As if power could somehow create new expressions, new personalities overnight. "Let me see."
"Jibriil wants to see! Let him through!"
It rippled back across the crowd, and a path opened through the men, always about five steps worth, closing again as soon as Jibriil and Adem passed by. The message still traveling forward: "Jibriil wants to see! Let him through!"
Adem thought about where he'd seen men walk the way Jibriil was walking right now—deliberately, reaching for outstretched hands, waving as if blessing the surrounding pilgrims. Like Castro, like Saddam Hussein, like Mugabe. The Pope. Those sorts of men. Jibriil had it down. He was a natural.
The opening ahead swelled wide. A handful of soldiers surrounding three men, holding their arms and legs while they fought. Their scarves had been stripped. When he saw Jibriil, Adem's dad let out a primal yell and lunged forward, breaking the grip of his captors. Dropped like dead weight when cracked on the back of the head with a rifle butt. Not out cold, but writhing. Bleeding.
The guy with the rifle was leaning over to take another whack.
Adem hit Jibriil on the shoulder, about to shout Stop him!
But Jibriil beat him, already wailing above the sandstorm howl. The rifle butt jerked to a halt in mid-swing.
Jibriil took slow, important-man steps towards Adem's dad, kneeled beside him. Adem stood over his shoulder. His dad's wound was caked with sand. He pushed himself up, got his knees under him. A string of blood and spit rolled to the ground.
Jibriil grabbed his chin, forced his dad to look into his eyes.
Said, "You'll never be part of my gang, son."
He
dropped the chin, stood, and walked off, shouting orders in Somali. Guards grabbed Dawit, Bleeker, and Adem's dad, pushed them after Jibriil. Adem was left standing there, his fists balled up, no one to hit.
THIRTY-THREE
Jibriil led them to the tree where Warfaa's body swung in the wind. The longer he was dead, the more horrified the look on his face. Impossible, but Bleeker would've sworn to it. Jibrill had pointed and barked orders, and soldiers threw ropes over branches, one uncomfortably close to Warfaa. Three ropes. Who was getting the reprieve? Adem? Was he a traitor after all?
Adem had followed a few minutes after the rest of them were forced along behind Jibriil. He had stayed quiet while that thug beat up on Mustafa. He wasn't tied up. He seemed to fit cozily back into his old spot at Jibriil's side. Made Bleeker rethink all that talk about Cindy's murder being Jibriil's idea alone. Like it mattered anymore. He wouldn't get within five feet of Jibriil before they strung all of them from the tree, sliced balls to throat.
Soldiers forced Dawit, Mustafa, and Bleeker to their knees. Adem watched from over Jibriil's shoulder.
How was this going to happen? Shot then gutted? Or gutted first, then strung up, or strung up first, then gutted?
Jibriil raised his arms high. The chanting, babbling, and laughing from his army came to a gradual stop, only the wind and the sand left to speak over.
Some sort of speech. Bleeker would've preferred they go straight to the gutting.
Jibriil raised his voice, in English. Another of his soldiers translated for him. "Glorious day! We have reached across the desert to Europe, and struck a blow! And on the same day, America has come to us! Stumbled in, as it usually does, trying to be the hero. But look at them! They are fools! Pathetic, bleeding, and easy to slaughter! And our own Mr. Mohammed has brought them to us on a silver platter!"
All the Young Warriors Page 28