Crossbones (31 page)

Anyway, according to Dajaal, only the men who are the known public face of the Courts have quit the city. The rest have stayed behind, supposedly to organize the resistance from within. Malik supposes that they have not yet released any statement because they must feel secure somewhere before doing so.

Dajaal goes on, fuming. “Shabaab, meanwhile, have assassinated three former military officers who came to Mogadiscio in advance of the interim president’s entourage, to prepare the way for the Transitional Federal Forces, such as they are.” One of the men killed was a former colleague of his. “But why provoke the Ethiopians, then flee the city? Nothing makes sense.”

Malik says, “If you weren’t under the weather, I would ask you to come straightaway. I would very much like to talk to you in more depth.”

“You know what?” says Dajaal. “I can’t afford to be ill on a day such as this, a day in which the city braces for the arrival of our archenemy. I’ll ask Qasiir to fetch me. We will be at the apartment shortly.”

Dajaal has barely entered the apartment when Qasiir says, “The Kenyans have caught the first big fish in their net. That’s the news we’ve just heard on the car radio.”

Qasiir is in a T-shirt and jeans, and he has on an elegant pair of painted leather shoes. Maybe he was on his way somewhere when Dajaal rang and requested a lift, Malik thinks. As for Dajaal, despite his claim that he is feeling better, his lips are swollen, as if freshly stung by a bee, and his eyes look dull, too.

Malik asks, “Who is this the Kenyans have caught? Does the big fish have a name?”

The big fish is Saleh Ali Saleh Nabhan, Dajaal says. “He’s considered the third most wanted on a list of so-called international terrorists and is suspected of planting bombs in two U.S. embassies and of attacking an Israeli-owned hotel in Mombasa. The Americans have always insisted that he lives in Somalia and enjoys the protection of a highly placed Courts individual.” But he ascribes the supposed Kenyan “coup” to rumor.

Malik, too, doubts if such a big fish will have fallen easily into Kenyan hands on the very day the Ethiopian invasion has started. The only fish, big or small, that are likely to fall into Kenyan nets will be those who might be fleeing the fighting or who will present themselves at the closed border between Kenya and Somalia, either as bona fide travelers or as asylum seekers. Since Saleh Ali Saleh Nabhan fits neither description, he has more likely thrown in his lot with the top Shabaab men said to be in the forest in Ras Kamboni, and it will take a few days to flush them out.

Malik makes tea for them, and as he passes them milk and sugar, the discussion resumes.

Dajaal says, “What worries me is not what they will do with the big fish they catch—the so-called terrorists and high-ranking Courts officials—but all the small fry, hundreds of them. When you send big trawlers into waters where a war is raging, you can’t help overfishing. The Kenyans have been fishing in troubled Somali waters for years now. In addition to the pirates who have been handed over to them to bring before their corrupt courts, the Kenyans have benefited in many ways from the collapse of Somalia.”

Malik knows from his research that Kenya is raking in millions in hard currency from the foreign embassies and all the UN bodies working on Somalia-related projects,
all of which are currently based in Kenya, because of the chaos here. But he doesn’t understand all of what Dajaal has said. “What small fry are you talking about?” he asks.

Dajaal says, “Many Somalis who had left the country earlier and established citizenship elsewhere returned during the Courts’ reign, to lap up the milk and peace that was on offer. I worry what will happen to them now as they head back to their respective homes, bearing their foreign passports. The Kenyans will exploit the situation.”

There is a knock at the door. “Who is it?” Malik asks.

“It is I, Gumaad.”

Malik doesn’t ask if Gumaad has come alone or if he has again brought someone with him. He opens the door.

Gumaad is alone, but he is clearly not happy to find Qasiir and Dajaal with Malik. He looks as if he has been in a fight, and lost. His shoes have lost their buckles, and the back of his trousers are stained. His shirt is dirty and rumpled, and some of the buttons are missing. There is straw in his uncombed hair. In addition, he seems to be shedding dandruff at an incredible rate, as if he is suffering from some sort of skin disorder.

Qasiir asks, “Where have you been roughing it?”

Gumaad is noncommittal. “Here and there.”

Dajaal says, “You’ve been on the run, haven’t you, holed up with TheSheikh in a rat hole somewhere and preparing to sneak out of
the city, like thieves in the night.”

“It’s been tough,” Gumaad says to Malik.

“A towel for your shower,” Malik says, handing him one. “And then we’ll talk.”

Dajaal is a model of restraint and says nothing more until Gumaad vanishes into the bathroom. Then he repeats the rumor circulating in the city, that TheSheikh is on a plane heading for Asmara, where he will be a guest of the Eritrean government. TheOtherSheikh, who is considered to be a more moderate force within Shabaab, is believed to be headed for the Kenyan border to seek political asylum.

As soon as Gumaad emerges from the bathroom, Dajaal asks where TheSheikh is. Malik thinks that you might as well ask a Mafia minion to tell where his boss is.

Gumaad replies calmly, “Somewhere in the city.”

“You’re lying,” Dajaal says.

Malik wonders if Gumaad is the kind that lies as unconsciously as he sheds dead skin. He has known pathological liars in his day, not all of them men.

Gumaad challenges, “Why would I be lying?”

“The city is small. Where in the city is he?”

“I can’t trust you enough to tell you.”

“If he is in the city,” Dajaal says, “I’ll bet he is secreting himself somewhere like a dog gnawing on a stripped bone. Imagine TheSheikh, on whom the hope of the nation has rested, hiding his face but showing his fear. Is that what you are telling us?”

Dajaal no longer seems ill; he is full of energy born out of rage—rage at the assassination of his friend, rage at what he sees as the Courts’ senseless provocation of the invasion.

“Please, Grandpa,” says Qasiir. “Why are you torturing Gumaad?”

“His lies upset me.”

Gumaad says, “I’ve told no lies so far.”

Dajaal says, “The foreign news agencies all place TheSheikh on a plane headed for Asmara.”

Qasiir says, “Why believe them and not Gumaad?”

“That’s right. Why not believe me and not them?”

“They have a point,” Malik intervenes.

Up close, Gumaad’s appearance bespeaks his true mental state.
Tears well in the corners of his eyes. He does not seem to be lying, and perhaps he isn’t. After all, StrongmanSouth, when he was warlord, hid out in Mogadiscio for several months without the foreign “invaders” apprehending him. In fact, he used to throw parties within a mile of where the U.S. Marines were garrisoned, and they never found him. Will TheSheikh do the same with the Ethiopians if it turns out that he has stayed put to lead the resistance?

“Why is he here?” Dajaal asks, speaking not to Gumaad but to Malik.

But it is Gumaad who answers. “I’ve come to arrange an interview.”

Silence, in which they all exchange looks.

“TheSheikh wants to do an interview with Malik.”

“How very grand!” Dajaal says. “One minute he bides his time in concealment, like a bank robber keeping his loot company, the next instant he acts the role of royalty, granting an interview to a foreign journalist.”

“It’s Malik’s prerogative to accept or not accept the offer,” Gumaad says. “It is not my place or yours to decide.” He turns to Malik. “You make up your mind, if you will or won’t.”

“An interview by phone or face-to-face?”

“Depends on what we can arrange,” Gumaad says.

“I’d like to do the interview face-to-face.”

“As matters stand, he wants a phone interview.”

Dajaal says, “If I were you, I wouldn’t do it face-to-face, as there is always the risk of him being blown up. The drones are more active than before. They might pick up his movement and go for him.”

There is a spell of jumpiness, Gumaad shifting in his seat. Then he cries, “Malik has no reason to fear being blown up. What nonsense!”

“
They
blew a former colleague of mine sky high with remote-controlled roadside bombs,” Dajaal says. “
They
have perfected their art of killing. If I were you, Malik, I wouldn’t do a phone interview, either; a drone might mistake your number for his, and strike you dead.”

Gumaad has gone nervy and sweaty again, and a new layer of scurf coats the back of his neck and shoulders.

“Please, Grandpa,” Qasiir begs. “Stop this.”

“Why? His men have killed my colleagues.”

“Someone may hear you.”

“It isn’t long before they kill
me
, I know.”

Gumaad mumbles something inaudible, his words colliding discordantly. He mixes his tenses, trips on his adverbs, stops making sense. Malik’s stomach goes through the complete life cycle of the butterfly. He is remembering a fragment from a dream he had a few nights ago, in which Gumaad betrayed him, handing him over to a group of freelance militiamen, who took him hostage. In the dream, Malik pleaded with Gumaad not to break faith with him. But all he says is, “Enough now, Dajaal.”

For the first time, Malik thinks that maybe Dajaal’s days are indeed numbered. He also wonders if an interview with TheSheikh would be a scoop worth the risk. Then he picks up a foul scent. It is Gumaad’s breath—not so much ordinary bad breath as the scent of his fear, which Malik thinks he can smell in the same way that he believes he can smell Dajaal’s rage.

“Please, all of you,” he says abruptly.

Everyone looks at him, mildly shocked.

“I want to be alone.”

After they have gone, Malik telephones Jeebleh and asks his opinion about whether the interview with TheSheikh is worth the risk. In truth, what he really wants is for Jeebleh to be aware of what he is up to, in the event that something happens. In his head, Malik can hear Amran harping on about his taking needless risks.

Jeebleh acknowledges the professional benefits of doing the interview,
but believes that it is not worth it, given the imminent Ethiopian occupation. “You may become an easy target for both the Transitional Government and the occupying force.”

“What if I use a pseudonym?”

“Don’t do it,” Jeebleh says. “Please.”

Next, Malik calls Ahl. Ahl, too, advises against it. He says, “TheSheikh is a man on the run, for crying out loud. Think of this: The FBI will be on your tail once it becomes known that you’ve talked to a wanted man.”

“But it would be a big scoop for me,” Malik argues. “And earlier you were all for my interviewing a funder of piracy who is by all accounts a crook. How is that?”

“That was different,” Ahl says.

“Different? What do you mean ‘different’?”

“We all want to get Taxliil to come home safe,” Ahl says. “What you are proposing poses danger to us all. Look at it from that angle. Please think again and do not do anything that might jeopardize our chance of recovering Taxliil.”