Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) (20 page)

"That agent was doing his job, and he knew he might die one day. Every day. You were never alone, except in that men's room."

No use arguing. "I wanted to say thank you. You really...thank you."

A shrug. "I had a job to do, too. Those were my orders."

Wow. She
really
didn't like him, did she?

"You said you are from St. Paul? I've...never been. My grandmother showed me pictures..." He was making it up as he went along now. Adem didn't think this woman was very gullible, but he was also pretty certain that blowing his cover story in order to look for a connection would be seen badly. Not a positive development.

She slammed her laptop lid and then sucked air through her teeth when she realized. Yes, he was getting to her. She wasn't supposed to show any emotion. "I don't think it's a good idea for us, you know, to talk like this. Understand?"

"I'm sorry."

"No sorry. No nothing. Get some rest and wait for Jacob."

She tucked her laptop under her arm and stepped out of the office, quickly disappeared down the hallway. Adem felt his guts tighten a little. He turned back to her desk. She had left a bottle of water, a pen with a chewed cap, and some scratch notes and doodles, probably from another meeting. Nothing of real substance, except that she had scribbled "Mr. Mohammed" in the margins, followed underneath with a string of curly penwork, the same word looping over and over: "LiarLiarLiarLiarLiar..."

He cleared his throat. And that was from someone who had saved his life.

It was time to find Faisal and ask for a ride to his new condo.

––––––––

D
eeqa cried herself to sleep on the floorboard, head in her arms on the backseat. Mustafa crept out and around to the passenger side so he and Dawit could whisper in the dark as they rolled north. Both trying hard to understand what had frightened the girl so badly.

"For fuck's sake, Dawit, you live a mile away from him! What's going on?"

"Don't! Do not blame me! Why am I here if not to help you?"

"Obviously to drag her back home so Chi can sell her twice."

Dawit nearly backhanded Mustafa. "How dare you. You think I'm like that? You think I would do such a thing?"

Mustafa shook his head. They were exhausted, scared, and trying to make it home without stopping at a hotel. But they were losing the fight. Best hope was to stay awake until St. Louis and find something dirt cheap in a neighborhood where no one paid much attention.

"You had no idea, you say."

Dawit held his lips tight, the steering wheel tighter. Then, "I don't see her for a while, I ask around. She's gone to see family. That's all I hear. I say, I'm family too. I get shrugs, I get people looking away. I go to Chi, I ask him. He makes a few calls. He gets worried. He makes more calls. And then he breaks down."

"Breaks down?"

"She ran away. She ran away with some other girls, other teenagers. That's what he tells me. I tell him I will do all I can. I go home, get ready to go find the girls. But within the hour, Chi brings a man to my house, a man who looks scared. Chi tells me the man knows what happened to Deeqa, to the other girls. And he says he had a part in it. We slap him around. He's young, he's stupid. And then, we call you. I get on a plane."

Mustafa remembered that call like it was forever ago, but it really had only been a handful of weeks. It was the call that caused him to turn his life upside down all for family members he barely knew. If he had seen Deeqa on his trip three years earlier, he didn't remember being introduced. She was just one of many children milling around, an entire village worth of kids all wanting a chance to see the American cousin.

"So it's possible she ran away, call it peer pressure. They got swept up in something bad. And now she's embarrassed to go home? Ashamed?"

Dawit peeked over his shoulder, then into the rearview. The girl was either sound asleep or faking. He kept his voice low. "That was not shame. That was fear. What could he have done to drive her off? No, I don't know if I believe her, but I can't believe Chi either."

Mustafa nodded but didn't say anything. He mulled over the possibilities. The girl had told them that her own father sold her to the flesh traders. She had pleaded for them not to take her little sister, and he conceded. But who knows if he had waited until Deeqa was gone to sell the younger one as well. None of it made sense. Chi was a man of honor, from what Mustafa knew. It could be Mustafa didn't know enough. Nor did he know enough about his other cousin, Dawit, other than that the man had thrown himself at death to help bring Deeqa home safe.

Dawit was shaking his head. "When I get back—"

"We. When we get back."

"This is on me, now. You've fulfilled your part. Let me deal with my brother."

"Pull over."

"What? Out here?"

Mustafa lifted his pistol and placed it against Dawit's temple. "Right now."

Dawit took in a deep breath and pulled over to the shoulder. Mustafa knew this was a risk. Dawit could probably have disarmed him and kept on driving with barely a swerve, but he didn't even try. He put the car into park, turned to face Mustafa so that the gun barrel rested against the side of his nose.

"Have I ever given you a reason to doubt me?"

"You just did."

"All right. I see what you mean."

"I committed social suicide to get her back. I was scot-free, but now I'm a wanted man again. I have put my wife in danger, my son, perhaps even my daughter. I gave up a job with benefits. So when you tell me I've done my part—"

"Over here, yes, you are in charge. Back there, what can you do? What could you possibly do that I cannot?"

"I need to look him in the eyes."

A laugh. "Please. I'll let you look in his eyes over Skype after I cut off his head."

Mustafa heard enough of a gasp in the backseat to know Deeqa had been faking sleep after all. "Get out."

Dawit had steel in his blood. "Here? This is where you would do this to me?"

"Just get out."

He waited until Dawit had opened the door and stepped outside, gently closing the door again, before he got out himself. He didn't lift the gun this time, just kept it ready at his side as he looked across the hood at his cousin.

Dawit spread his hands. "So? How would you like me? On my knees? Can we do it behind the car so Deeqa can't see?"

"I swear, if you're working for Chi on this..."

"But I am. I was. I am his brother, come to help find his missing child."

"Why didn't he come himself?"

Dawit looked down. "I keep asking that myself. But he asked me to come, and I came."

It was frustrating. Mustafa had asked for their help before and both of them risked their lives for him. He had returned the favor, and what happened next should have been none of Mustafa's business. But that didn't feel right anymore.

"She's not going back with you. She will stay with Idil and myself."

A shrug. "Okay. And I will show you my brother's dead eyes, as promised. But then, you and I, we're done."

"Let me come with you."

"Because you don't trust me? Because you can't take my word?"

Mustafa thought about it a long moment. He hefted the pistol, turned it over in his hand. He held the barrel. He reached across the hood, handle towards Dawit. "I trust you."

"Silly. You are a silly man. You are like an actor. Where are all the cameras?"

"Take the gun. Let me come with you. Deeqa will stay with Idil while we figure this out."

Dawit smiled. "Silly man." The cars passing on the highway behind him were few and far between. He had turned out all the lights on their car, hiding them from the world. If Dawit wanted Mustafa out of the way, this was as good a place as any.

Dawit reached for the gun. As Mustafa expected, the soldier was so fast that even if he'd wanted to pull it back, he wouldn't have had a chance. The first thing Dawit did with it was release the clip and eject the round in the chamber. He shoved the clip in his pocket, then the gun at his back waistband, and he flicked the loose round at Mustafa, who missed it. It fell into the roadside ditch.

"You want to come along, it's at your own risk," Dawit said.

"I understand."

"When we're there, I call the shots. You do exactly as I say."

"I said I understand." Mustafa held up his palms. "I told you, I trust you."

Dawit stepped back to the driver's door, opened it. They could both see Deeqa's eyes peering over the back of their seats. "What is that they say? Trust is a thing with feathers?"

"Hope. It's hope is a thing with feathers."

Dawit chuckled. "Bullshit. Trust is as bare as a bone."

They climbed in, started up, and kept on driving.

––––––––

T
he condo was sweet. Not "oil-money" sweet—it was small, yes, and it wasn't brand new, but it was clean with high-end appliances and an updated bathroom. If he stood to one side of the bank of windows and peered out at a certain angle, Adem had a nice view of the desert. Otherwise, it was more buildings, more abandoned construction.

It was quiet.

And it was his.

Round-the-clock security, they had told him. They'd wired the place nice and tight. He wasn't quite sure he believed them, but he was so bone-tired that he slept in his luxurious queen bed over eighteen hours without realizing it until Jacob shook him awake, telling him so.

Instead of being frightened or wondering how the agent had gotten in, Adem just accepted that's the way it would go from now on. Might as well get used to it.

The agent was dressed casually—cream khakis and a short-sleeved Guayabera shirt, mint green. Sandals. He sat in an office chair beside the glass-and-chrome desk by the window, nothing on its surface yet. Jacob smiled, crossed his legs, and stretched his back before saying, "Your dad says hi."

Adem sat up. It was the first time he'd really gotten a look at the room in good lighting and while not half-asleep. Mostly white, glass, and chrome, except for a goldenrod accent to keep things warm. Recessed lighting, soft. A large screen TV mounted on the wall. A Bose radio on the bedside table. A peek into the main room, and there was the kitchen, gleaming.

"Nice place."

"Just remember. Cameras. Except in the bathroom. I mean, come on, right?"

"So, you told on me. That's not cool, calling someone's dad."

"Neither was ditching us and running off to help a bad, bad man. Didn't you wonder why the job came so easily to you? They had your number."

Adem didn't want to admit Jacob was right. Shit. "All I wanted was—"

"Dude, you want to see her? You really want to see her? Get up. I'll get some coffee going. You like coffee? Well, I already know you do. Get up."

He walked into the kitchen while Adem slipped out of bed, wearing only the pair of boxers they'd given him at the Consulate. He took a chance, stepped over to the dresser, and pulled open a drawer. It was filled to the brim with new boxers. The next drawer, new socks. Beneath that, new T-shirts. He grabbed a shirt, tugged it on, then found some sweatpants further down. Sounded like Jacob was grinding fresh beans in the kitchen. The smell wafted in. He closed his eyes, imagined being in a Caribou Coffee shop in Minneapolis on a summer's day. Talking to some friends about movies. Watching women pretend to ignore them. He could've found plenty of girls to date there. Plenty. Talking to college girls in the Cities wasn't hard. They were smart, they were funny, they were flirty. But he still felt wrong about it. Not until he had closure with Sufia, not until she had forgiven him.

From the kitchen, Jacob shouted, "I heard you met Fatima yesterday."

"Yeah." Adem remembered how cold the room felt as he tried talking to her. "I'm not so sure she's, um,
right
for this. You know."

"Right for what?"

"This...thing. Our team, or whatever it is."

Jacob appeared in the doorway, looking amused. "What, she make you mad?"

Adem sat on the bed and pulled the sweats on. "I mean, she really isn't happy. She doesn't like me, and I don't even know her. That kind of worries me. She
hates
Mr. Mohammed."

Jacob shook his head, sighed. "She came to me before I'd even started recruiting. As soon as I told the bosses Mr. Mohammed was back in play, she wanted to sign up. She's been on top of you since the plane landed in Yemen. It doesn't matter if she believes you're a giant asshole. She's on board. Not even a doubt."

It didn't make Adem feel much better, picturing the woman he met yesterday with a rifle in her hand, keeping Mr. Mohammed in her sights. But he didn't have a whole lot of choice. If Jacob gave her a pass, that was good enough. For now, anyway.

Jacob stepped back. "Come on. Let's move."

He got up and followed Jacob into the main room, the coffee already dripping. The furniture in the living area matched the accent. Goldenrod. Yellow was his favorite color, so of course they knew that. Very nice glass and chrome tables, but all bare, waiting for someone to leave papers and books and spill coffee on them. He sat in the arm chair at the end of the couch as Jacob brought over two mugs. Adem sipped. It was perfect. Rich, deep, the perfect temperature. Only then did he look up at the even larger-screen TV taking up most of the wall. Frozen on the screen, a group of Somali children, blurry smiles, mostly unfocused, unable to tell more than one or two apart in the mass. Behind them, a teacher, perhaps, guiding them into a school. She was in better focus than the kids. Her hijab covered her head and the bottom part of her face. But the eyes behind those glasses, he would know them anywhere.

"Where, um...?" His voice stuck.

"She's no longer in Mogadishu. I'll tell you that much. As you can see, working as a teacher."

"How's her, you know?" Adem waved his hand in front of his face.

Jacob hit play. The image on screen wobbled a bit but then closed in. Adem could even hear her voice, calling for the children to hurry into the classroom. Jacob said, "Now it's going to cut."

The next scene was far different, the camera peering into a window, barely above the sill. Voices all around in the street outside, but Sufia was behind the glass. She had taken off her dress already, standing in her underwear and hijab. A strange way to disrobe, Adem thought. He also felt angry, her privacy invaded like this. But this was the most he'd ever seen of her. He drank her in.