The Tears of Dark Water (49 page)

The Lab next determined that Cluster Three (the seven-shot burst that killed Daniel Parker in the navigation station), Cluster Four (a four-shot burst into the coachroof), and Cluster Five (the three-shot burst that wounded Quentin Parker in the dining booth) happened around the same time. The Lab concluded, however, that Clusters Three and Four came from a
different weapon
from Cluster Five and that
none of these clusters
came from the weapon that fired Clusters One and Two.

Based on this, the Lab concluded that the person who killed Daniel and then proceeded to fire four bullets into the roof either changed weapons before shooting Quentin,
or that there were two shooters
!!!

Ismail

Chesapeake, Virginia

Late March, 2012

Life in the maximum-security block was like a tunnel without end. The only way to endure it, Ismail found, was to set aside all thought of the outside world—the world of sunshine and color, wind and rain, land and water and air and freedom—and abide in the interior of the soul. Time, as Adan used to say, quoting the Sufi poet Shabistari, is an imaginary point that is ever passing away. The real truth is inward:
Being is the sea; speech is the shore; the shells are letters; the pearls knowledge of the heart.

As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, Ismail adopted the rhythm of jail life as his own. He focused on living in the present, on strengthening his body through exercise, centering his mind through prayer, and waiting patiently for the right moment to take the only action left to him, an action that would either redeem or destroy him. If he failed, everything he had done would be meaningless. If he succeeded, neither prison nor death could hold him.

The time was coming, and soon. The stars had begun to align. He had seen the story in the newspaper, a mere footnote amid the headlines about the Arab Spring in Yemen and sanctions in Iran, but to him an immeasurable gift. His leverage had doubled, perhaps tripled, on account of it. But he wasn’t quite ready to exercise it. The hook Mas had given him required longer to set. He needed to let its barb sink so far into the minds of his government masters that their certainty about his guilt and associations would seal the legitimacy of his offer. This was especially true now that he knew his mother was alive. It wasn’t just Yasmin whose life he held in his hands. It was Khadija’s, too.

Ismail heard a knock at the door of his cell. “Lunch is over,” Longfellow said, opening the slot and waiting for Ismail’s tray. “Your lawyer is coming for a visit.”

“When?” Ismail asked, relinquishing the tray.

“Fifteen minutes,” the jailer replied.

She met with Mahamoud
, Ismail guessed.
She wants the truth. But I can’t give it to her. Not yet.

When the time came, Longfellow reappeared and put Ismail in shackles. With the jailer’s hand on his arm, Ismail shuffled down the stairs and across the block, his chains jingling. Richie buzzed the door and let them into the hallway. Megan was already in the conference room, waiting for him.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” Longfellow said. “Cuffs or no cuffs?”

“No cuffs, please,” Megan replied, and the jailer complied, ushering Ismail to the table.

“I’ll be outside,” Longfellow said and closed the door behind him.

“How was Mombasa?” Ismail asked as Megan took out her notepad.

“I met him in Mogadishu,” she replied, giving him a bemused look.

He stared at her in astonishment. “You went to Somalia?”

She nodded. “I also went to Hawa Abdi Village. I know who you are, Ismail. I know why you went with the pirates. You didn’t go because you wanted to get rich. You went because of Yasmin.”

Ismail stiffened in shock, her words reverberating in his head. He tried to think of a way out, but all paths led to the same dead end. She had turned the tables on him. By her grit and determination, she had taken away the reins.

“I know something else,” Megan went on. “I know that Daniel and Quentin were shot with different weapons. The evidence from the sailboat proves it. I don’t think you were the only shooter. I think something happened out there, something very different from what you and your confederates told the government. I’m your attorney, but I’m not a mercenary. I need you to tell me the truth.”

He searched her eyes and knew that he was trapped. The feeling enraged him. “You don’t understand!” He slammed his fist on the table. “This isn’t the time!”

Longfellow opened the door to check on them. “Everything all right?”

“We’re just talking,” Megan said evenly.

The jailer frowned. “Keep it down then.”

When they were alone again, Megan regarded Ismail coolly. “What don’t I understand?”

Ismail closed his eyes and opened them again, instinct vying with emotion for control of his will. He couldn’t afford to lose her goodwill. He had to do something. She had forced his hand. “What did Mahamoud tell you about Yasmin?”

She leaned back in her chair. “He told me about Najiib.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“She’s alive,” Megan said quietly.

His heart skipped a beat. How many nights had he dreamed of her in the pirate camps and on the ocean? How many times had he imagined the day he would bring Mahamoud the money and ask him for help? He folded his hands to steady them. “How do you know?”

Megan smiled. “Mahamoud has your mother’s phone. She sent text messages.”

Ismail put his head in his hands as his heart tumbled end over end in the euphoric current. After a time, he made his decision. His sister had survived three years in the clutches of the Shabaab. There was no promise of tomorrow. The time to act was now.

“I want to talk to the government,” he said. “I want to make a deal.”

Megan looked confused. “You mean Barrington? I doubt he’ll be interested in a plea.”

“Not the U.S. Attorney. The United States.”

He sketched out his plan, and Megan’s eyes widened in astonishment. “This is unbelievable. Is this what you’ve been holding out for?”

He allowed his silence to speak for him.

She shook her head. “The Justice Department isn’t going to like it.”

“The right people will listen,” Ismail insisted. “I need you to find them.”

Megan pondered this quietly, then her lips spread into a conspiratorial grin. “If I do this for you, I want the truth about what happened on the sailboat. No more games.”

Ismail nodded. “As soon as they do it, I will tell you.”

The meeting took place four days later in a conference room at the Norfolk branch of the Naval Criminal Investigative Services, an obscure red-brick building on the expansive grounds of the Norfolk Naval Station. There were six people present—Ismail, Megan, Ezra Brown, the U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District of Virginia, Zach Carver, a senior official from the Justice Department, Sabrina Redford, the Under Secretary of State of something or other, and a gray-haired man with pasty skin who introduced himself only as “Bob from the intelligence community.”

Ismail was dressed in his suit, not his orange jumper, and his hands and legs were unbound. He looked at each face around the table, conscious of the gravity of the moment. He relished the feeling of being in the driver’s seat again, but he had no illusions. They could take everything away from him in an instant. They were bureaucrats, politicians, and spooks who operated in circles of influence he could only begin to imagine. He knew they distrusted him and suspected that they loathed him. He would never succeed by appealing to their compassion. He had to convince them that cooperating with him was in the interest of the United States.

When Megan nodded for him to go ahead, he spoke in a low tone. “Mohamed Abdullah al-Noor, also known as Abu Warsaame Abdi, Azrael, and Najiib—the Shabaab’s chief enforcer and one of the founders of the Amniyat. I can give him to you. But I want something in return.”

Bob put his arms on the table, focusing his clear blue eyes on Ismail. “Mr. Ibrahim, you’ll forgive me if I’m skeptical. The last known photograph of Najiib was taken in July of 2008. His trail has gone cold. We’ve heard rumors but none of them are confirmed. For all we know he’s dead.”

Ismail didn’t flinch. “That’s exactly what he wants you to believe.” Megan handed him a printout of a news story, and he put it on the table. “On February 9 of this year, Godane appeared in a video with Ayman al Zawahiri and pledged allegiance to al-Qaeda. The Shabaab is now the world’s problem. They have proven their ability to commit acts of terror outside Somalia. They will continue to disrupt the Somali government and destroy anyone who stands in their way. Najiib is behind their campaign of assassination. I know that from personal experience.”

Ismail took a breath and steadied himself. Then he told Adan’s story.

When he finished, Bob scratched his chin. “Even if you saw Najiib in May of 2009, that was three years ago. How do you know where he is now?”

Ismail gave him a thin smile. “Because Najiib took my sister.” He described the scene in detail, just as he remembered it, and watched as their eyes caught fire in the light. “I know Yasmin is alive. I’m confident she’s still with him.”

Bob looked dubious. “But you don’t know that for certain.”

Ismail shook his head. “Not yet. But I can confirm it.”

“How?”

Memories swirled in Ismail’s mind. “When they took us to Lanta Buro, I knew they would separate us. I told her to hide her mobile phone. That’s how I would find her. She still has the phone.”

Ismail saw something shift in Bob’s expression. This was the moment he had been waiting for, the pivot point in the negotiation. During his time with the Shabaab, he had heard whispers about the wizardry the Americans could perform with a mobile number—the way their satellites could geolocate a phone even when it was powered down, hijack it with spyware, and transform it into a homing device. To get what he wanted he had to give them the number. But first they had to agree to the exchange.

“She is expecting to hear from me,” he went on. “If I text her, she will tell me about Najiib. But the text must come from a Somali number. An international number will make her suspicious.”

Bob nodded. “We can make that happen.”

It was the reply Ismail expected. “Do you remember the story of the genie?” he asked. “Rub the lamp and make three wishes. Before you get the number, I want three guarantees.”

Bob tilted his head. “Let’s hear what you have to say.”

Ismail put the full weight of his heart behind his words. “I want you to right the wrongs Najiib has done to my family. You can’t bring back my father or my brother, but you can save my sister and mother. I want you to help Yasmin escape from Somalia. I want you to give her and my mother permanent resident status in the United States. And I want you to give them the reward posted on the Internet—three million dollars for Najiib’s location. You can do what you like with him.”

Zach Carver from the Justice Department was the first to speak. “Are you planning to ask for a reduced sentence? Because I can tell you that’s going to be very hard to do.”

Ismail shook his head. “Whatever the jury decides, I will accept.”

Carver traded a look with his colleagues. “I think we should talk about it.”

“Give us a few minutes,” Bob said, standing up and ushering the others out the door.

Ismail listened to the clock on the wall and thought about how strange it was that he was sitting in an office in Virginia negotiating with the American government about Yasmin and Khadija’s future. How many times had he nearly been killed by bullets and bombs? How many nights had he spent counting the distant stars and struggling not to despair?

He glanced at Megan seated beside him. “How did I do?”

She tilted her head. “Now I know what Paul meant. You’re a natural.”

It was ten minutes before the others returned. “Mr. Ibrahim,” Bob said, sitting down again, “the immigration hurdles are easy to overcome, and Ms. Redford assures me that the State Department will authorize the reward. Your sister is the challenge. Even if she is in duress, she is not a U.S. citizen. We won’t put our people at risk. We can help her as soon as she leaves Somalia. But we can’t get her out.”

Ismail feigned a look of frustration. He had anticipated this response, but he needed them to believe he was making a concession to cement the agreement. “If that is all you can offer me, then I need time to persuade her. And I need you to promise me that you will do nothing with the information I give you that would endanger her or any other innocent person.”

“That’s not a problem,” Bob said smoothly. “But there’s a condition to the deal: you can’t talk about it with anyone other than your lawyer. That includes your mother and sister. You can’t tell them why we’re helping them. If you talk, we walk. Understand?”

Ismail nodded his assent.

Bob took a smartphone out of his jacket. “I’ll take down the number when you’re ready.”

Ismail looked deep into his eyes. “The last time I made a deal with your government, they betrayed me. I want some assurance that you’re not going to do the same thing. I would like to know your real name. I’m certain it isn’t Bob.”