Djibouti (15 page)

O
NCE THE WOMAN AND
her servant were out of the room Qasim said, “You tell them you're going to escape?”

“Both of us,” Jama said. “What can she and her nigga do about it, tell Idris? He knows it's all we think about. It's what we do we're locked up. You been in the slam. You forget what it's like? How bad you want to get out?”

“I can't think of doing life,” Qasim said.

“We get out you can do what you want. You tired of this shit, make a run with a suicide bomb.”

What Jama was tired of was Qasim.

“Coming here from Eyl,” Qasim said, “I was thinking of a way to kill myself so I don't go to prison. Idris Mohammed would speak to me, I don't say a word to him. The other one, the sheikh they call Harry, he's with me in the car at night. He says he will allow me to escape if I tell him your Christian name. I ask him how I would escape. He says we think of a way and he watches me walk off.”

Jama said, “You told him my name?”

“I thought at first you and I are going to prison for life. What difference is it they know you are Jimmy Russell?”

“Rus
sell,
” Jama said, looking down at Qasim on the cot. “You remember it all these years? I said my name only once that time, seven years ago, and never said it again I'm over here.”

Jama paused to think for a moment and grinned. “I did mention it to a chick at the Café Las Vegas, right here in Djibouti, but she don't speak any English. I give her euros and cigarettes for the best two days of fucking I ever had in my life. A Ethiopian chick name Celeste Tamene. Twenty years old, man, she was a panther. So I commit her name to my memory.”

“I like an Ethiopian girl,” Qasim said, “now and then.”

“All those years you remember Jimmy Rus
sell,
uh? Only I was never Jimmy, I was James. Which name did you tell him?”

“Listen to me,” Qasim said, worming his body around on the cot to look up at Jama in the stout chair. “I did not tell Harry your name. As Allah hears me, I will take it to my grave.”

“I believe it,” Jama said. “You have never said my name to anyone, James or Jimmy. Is that right?”

“You tell me your secrets,” Qasim said, “I keep them here, in my head.”

“What secrets you talking about?”

“Things you have told me of your life, your time in prison. Things we do when we are together and can be ourselves.”

Jama said, “You never talk about any of that, do you?”

“Of course not, it's a private part of us.”

A private part of all these guys who don't treat their women like women, but hide them.

Jama thinking again of the girl at the Las Vegas:

How she liked to fool around with him while she was dancing. Get behind one of the cement pillars on the dance floor
and come out shaking her ass at him. Come over close to him and wink and flutter her tongue. Man. He'd get a good whiff of her perfume and want to jump her. It was a while ago, but he remembered her name, 'cause in the Toyota coming here, Idris Mohammed talking—Idris telling him things he'd never have again in prison for life—Idris said her name and he remembered it, Celeste, and his time with her, while Idris was telling him about this girl he saw every month.

“For how long?”

“A night or a few days. I relax with Celeste and tell her about hijacking ships. She loves to listen to me. I have a doctor inspect her before I arrive. I don't want any of that HIV/AIDS contaminating me. Celeste is always clean, twenty years old, a flower waiting for a good plucking. I pay her enough she doesn't have to sell her body. But she loves to dance at the club with her friends, the Las Vegas.”

In the Toyota on the way to Djibouti, Jama said to Idris, “She loves to fuck too. Celeste Tamene? Lives on rue de Bir Hakeim?” You bet it was the same one. In that moment Idris was stopped dead, he couldn't speak, and Jama said, “Yeah, I had her. I thought she wasn't bad.”

 

Q
ASIM WAS LOOKING AT
the light coming through the shutters.

“Time to put on my shoes. He'll be here soon. Datuk?”

Jama said, “What's the other one's name up here?” He waited and said, “Ibrahim. You remember it?”

“It's of no interest to me,” Qasim said, bent over now to tie his shoes. “You have yours on?”

“Always,” Jama said. “You never noticed?”

“You're telling me you never take off your shoes?”

“Only when I sleep. It's where I keep my passport.”

Qasim straightened, sitting up.

“They don't look in your shoes?”

“You don't see anything. The passport's between the inside of the shoe and the sole, always there all the time. You know why?” Jama said, “Give me scissors and a straight razor,” touching his beard. “I can clear off the foliage and be the cool-looking kid in the passport again.”

“They have your fingerprints?”

“Where? You mean in America? Who knows I was ever in prison? Over here I got a Djibouti passport, I'm Jama the khat-seller. I have my real self put away for when it's time to leave.”

“You tell me more about who you are,” Qasim said, “than I ever knew before, in years together.”

“You know my name,” Jama said, “you know everything about me.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Qasim said, “but it's time.”

“For what?”

“To give you a phone number. You will remember it?”

“Is Allah God?”

“The number is 44-208-748-1599.”

“Whose number is it?”

“The explosives aboard
Aphrodite.
”

 

D
ATUK CAME IN WITH
their supper, a tin bowl in each hand, and passed behind Jama's chair to place them on a card table. He brought two spoons and a saltshaker from under the shirt hanging to his knees.

“Nothing else?” Jama said.

Datuk said, “Wait,” and walked out of the room. In a few
minutes he was back with coffee in tin cups and placed them on the table. Now he brought a Walther from under his shirt, smoothed the shirt over his hips and placed the gun on the table.

“You pay me now?”

“As soon as we leave,” Jama said, “all right? I have the money in my shoe.”

Datuk unlocked him and went to Qasim as Jama picked up the Walther and said, “This is my gun,” surprised, “I can tell by the scratches on it.” He released the magazine, saw it was loaded and shoved it back in the grip. He couldn't believe it, the same gun he'd lifted from the shop in 2003. Man, his own gun given back to him.

“We should eat this before we leave,” Qasim said in English. “We don't know when we will have food again.”

Cold spaghetti in tomato juice; no camel this evening.

Jama said, “Are you fucking serious?” He paused, looking at Qasim's eyes, and saw a faint glimpse of hope in his stare. It wasn't food he wanted but time, some more of it.

How did he know it was coming to an end?

He said to Qasim, “Eat if you want,” and told Datuk to call Ibrahim.

 

T
HEY WENT DOWN THE
stairway, Datuk first, Jama with a hand on his shoulder, the other hand pressing the Walther into his back. Ibrahim had banged through the door to the room. Qasim has his AK now, the four of them going down the stairs.

The sitting room was empty, and the dining room with its formal table painted green. Jama motioned Datuk down the hall to the open doorway into the kitchen. Past Datuk's shoulder Jama saw the two downstairs guards at the kitchen table eating
what looked like lamb with peppers and beans. He caught the scent of their meal and swallowed. He pushed Datuk into the kitchen and saw the guard sitting at the end of the table look up. Now the other one was looking this way. They could see who had the guns.

Jama said to them, “Where is my friend Idris?”

The one at the end of the table said, “They left, both of them. But they coming back very soon. They should walk in at any moment.”

“It's time for tea,” Qasim said. “They will be gone two hours or more.”

Jama looked at him.

“It's who they are,” Qasim said, “being gentlemen.”

The man sounding like himself again, knowing what was going on: at Riyadh telling him about Americans running the Saudi companies, telling him to find them and shoot them. Qasim cool in those days.

The one at the end pushed up from the table and spread out his arms. He said in Arabic, “I am not armed, our weapons are over there. You want to escape? Please, go ahead.”

The kitchen table was no more than twenty feet from Jama. He moved to Datuk's side raising the Walther and shot the one standing at the end of the table. Jama put the Walther on the other one, still seated, staring at him, and told himself no, turned the Walther on Datuk raising his arm in defense and shot him through the heart. Now the one at the table—but Ibrahim was taking the AK from Qasim, twisting it from his hands, and Jama shot him in the face, turned to the guard who was finally up from the table and shot him as he started to run. He turned to Qasim now holding the AK. Qasim watching him. He said, “You don't have to do it.”

Jama said, “You know my name.”

“I have always known it.”

“But it's different now.” Jama wasn't sure what the difference was but could feel it looking at Qasim. He raised the Walther. Qasim turned his head and Jama shot him where you would shoot yourself if you saw it was that time, in the temple.

He still had three rounds. Two for Harry and Idris.

H
ARRY HAD FINISHED SEVERAL
gins by the time Idris caught up with him in an African market that stocked canned goods and olive oil and—what do you know—khat, left over from yesterday. Harry sipping and chewing in a pleasant frame of mind, said the khat had lost much of its potency, somewhat dry but it still wasn't bad.

“Have a chew.”

Idris said, “There is no sense in arguing with you, is there?”

“None,” Harry said. “What's bothering you?”

“You leave people worth millions of dollars in the care of boys.”

“No,” Harry said, “you did. They were securely handcuffed when I left. Were they still handcuffed when you left? Were they eating their spaghetti like good boys? Tell me,” Harry said, “what would you do if they tried to escape while you were in the house?”

“How could they?”

“But say they did.”

“If I had to, I'd shoot them,” Idris said. “You would too, you'd have no choice.”

“Very possibly,” Harry said, “and it would break my heart.”

Idris said, “Giving up all that money.”

He had a gin and in a while they became tired of talking, wondering, Harry feeling like himself again, somewhat buzzed—the first time since leaving Eyl. He was thinking he might be a bit stoned and high at the same time. No, the confident feeling would be the work of the gin. The khat made you think of pleasant moments you might experience, but never urged you to make them happen.

They walked back to the fading town house on the African street and stood a moment before Idris said, “Oh, I have a key. I forgot.” He looked at his ring of keys, reached in his pocket and brought out the door key.

Harry said, “Are you going to stare at the fucking key? You had only one drink.”

“Two,” Idris said. “But I haven't eaten today.” Idris slipped the key into the keyhole and said, “It's not locked,” and turned the knob and pushed the door open.

Harry brushed past him, the PPK in his hand, the one he had used on the first officer in Idris's garage, Idris remembering how surprised he was when Harry shot the young man, but not surprised now by his behavior. He followed Harry to the staircase expecting him to call out, see who was here.

“Datuk, where the devil are you?” Not loud. Harry still with some control. He looked up the staircase now to tell Datuk, “You left the fucking door open. Is everything,” Harry said, “as it should be?”

Idris motioned to him and Harry followed along the hall to the kitchen. Idris stopped in the doorway. Harry looked in past him to see Qasim—with absolute certainty their five-million-dollar reward—lying dead on the floor, the four Somalis lying
about, and their twenty-five-million-dollar chance of a lifetime nowhere, gone.

“I'm not going to scold you,” Harry said to Idris, “for leaving the house.”

“You left too,” Idris said.

“Yes, but the main thing is Jama's loose. It's no one's fault but the Somalis, the buggers were just not up to it.” Harry said, “I suppose I could call the embassy, see if they'll take Qasim as is. They could stuff him, glue his eyes open and photograph him.”

Idris said, “You want to carry him down the street?”

“We'll call the embassy, have him picked up. That fucking Qasim…At least, thank Allah, we still have Jama.”

“Where?” Idris said, “I don't see him.”

“You don't suppose,” Harry said, “he's still here. Let's take a look,” and started up the stairway with his pistol.

Idris called,
“Harry,”
loud enough to stop him. “What are you doing? The man killed five people. He's gone.”

Harry turned on the stairs. “Yes, you're right.”

Idris could see he was still buzzed, not sure of what he was doing. “There are al Qaeda around here,” Idris said, “who can help him.”

Harry came down one step at a time saying, “Have you ever looked at Qasim and wondered if he's homosexual?”

Yes, Harry was still buzzed.

“It's always a woman,” Idris said, “tells me some man is gay. But Qasim is al Qaeda.”

“They're fellows with fellows,” Harry said, “nearly all the time, aren't they? The only girls they see are whores.”

“Some quite lovely,” Idris said. “But why would you think this one is gay?”

“Certain mannerisms, the way he touches his hair. The way he looks at other men. Coming from Eyl,” Harry said, “talking to him in the car, I would feel his breath on me in the dark. This
was the time he consented to tell me Jama's real name. I could feel he wanted to.”

“But he didn't. Listen to me,” Idris said, “we should leave here, get off the street, people watching us, and go to my apartment. We can rest, decide what to do.”

“About what?” Harry said.

Idris told him not to think anymore.

 

T
HIS TIME—IT WAS THE
next afternoon—they turned the corner in the African section and found themselves behind a crowd of people watching police coming out of the house with body bags, two policemen to a sagging bag, one at each end. Police cars, a medical truck, the National Police on the scene. Five bags came out of the house.

Xavier counted four guards, two Qaedas and the Twins, eight in the house. If Harry still hadn't returned, that would be seven. Xavier didn't want Idris to be in one of the bags, so he believed Idris had left. Four guards and one Qaeda. Which one in the bag?

Qasim.

Because Xavier saw Jama thinking up this breakout. He wouldn't be shot escaping, he was the man in this deal, working it. Xavier imagined somebody much later on shooting him. It would be unexpected, Jama with a look of surprise on his face.

Dara was talking to a police officer, the two of them speaking French, both laughing now at something she said. Dara put her hand on his arm, thanking him, and came through the crowd to Xavier, the people in the street turning to look at her.

“Five bodies, but not the Twins. That leaves the four Somali guards and one other. Who is it?”

“Qasim.”

“I was pretty sure too,” Dara said. “The cops know who he is. Shot through the head, four of them, one through the heart. One shot each. The cops think with a pistol. At suppertime. The guard brings in the spaghetti and is overpowered.”

“He was paid off,” Xavier said. “Where's Jama get a gun? You notice his behavior, we talkin to him?”

“Cool,” Dara said. “Confident.”

“Made sure we understood he wouldn't be hangin around. Statin it as a fact. I wondered, why's he doin that, the man tippin us off.”

“Showing off,” Dara said.

“That's all right, he told us he's walkin out and he did. You notice anything else? I believe he's been livin as a homasexual at this time. Years of runnin with the Qaeda boys. Close to Qasim while they're blowin up things. Workin right under him till they alone. Then Jama's on top.”

“I don't know,” Dara said. “I bet I can get him to come on to me.”

“Listen to you. He gets lucky, remembers girls and goes straight?”

“Why do you think he's gay?”

“Just somethin about him.”

“He's not at all effeminate.”

“No, a man comes out actin girlish over here he can get stoned. I mean get rocks thrown at him. But you've seen Arabs walkin along holdin hands, haven't you? They in a man's world, the women at home lookin out the window. It's like in prison,” Xavier said, “you don't have to be in love to get a blow job.”

Dara watched a medical truck back up to where the body bags were laid out.

“Why did he shoot everybody?”

“They know him. Can point him out.”

“The cop didn't ask if I knew any of them.”

“You tell him you know the man that got away?”

“Every word—one of Judy Garland's biggest hits.”

“You tell him you know the guy they want or not?” She hesitated and Xavier said, “You messin with police business now.”

“Maybe somebody else shot them.”

“If I know,” Xavier said, “you know. Jama shot his Qaeda boss and four Somalis, the boys just makin a buck. You want to see if you can turn him up. Hopin it keeps goin. It does, you got material for a feature. I told you that before.”

“I see myself sitting in a studio exec's office,” Dara said. “He's got my screenplay in front of him. Or it might be a treatment.”

“What are you callin it?”

“
Djibouti
. They'll want to change it to something else, tell you foreign words don't sell as features.”

“Like
Casablanca,
” Xavier said. “They don't like
Djibouti,
go indie. Get financin from some rich guy loves you or the story. Billy Wynn. He's on his two-million-dollar boat thinkin of this same movie as we speak. Starrin himself.”

“Helene said he's finally in love with her—killing herself acting like a little sailor. I hope she gets him.”

“The man loves movies. Take his money and make him the producer.”

“You know what I keep thinking,” Dara said. “I write a screenplay and show it to a studio exec and he says, ‘I had a great time reading this one. It's a howl. It's out there and has legs. But where are the backstories to show motivations?' He'll say something like ‘It lacks verisimilitude.'”

“Tell him you don't know what that means and walk out. Get independent financin and a girl like Naomi Watts to play the documentary filmmaker turnin to features.”

“You think I look like her?”

“Naomi can look like you. Naomi never overplays her parts. You see her in
Happy Time
? She makes you keep watchin her.”

“She's in her underwear half the picture.”

“Naomi could dress like a nun, you still be watchin her.” Xavier said, “In that picture, the boy that made her take off her clothes? He's homasexual. Else he'd of jumped her. Can you see another star playin that role? One that liked bein in her underwear? She'd make 'em change the ending. Not Naomi,” Xavier said. “Put her name above the title,
Djibouti
. You know what it means, Djibouti?”

“I have no idea.”

“It means ‘my casserole.' No one knows why. Comes from the Afar language. I read someplace Djibouti is ‘splendidly seedy…Gallic elegance turned shabby.' Look at this building, you see it.”

He watched Dara staring at the house where five men were found shot to death, one bullet each. Xavier said, “You want to find the boy playin he's more African than American, huh? Wouldn't mind runnin into him.”

“I'll bet we could,” Dara said.

“Labor Day one time,” Xavier said, “I was in Atlantic City and called a girl I know lived there with her sister. The sister tells me, oh, she's gone to play the slot machines. I stepped out on the Boardwalk and five minutes later who do I see coming toward me in the Labor Day crowd of people? LaDonna. The girl lit up, she's so glad to see me back from seafarin. She'd just won seventeen hundred dollars playin a quarter machine and we celebrated it together. LaDonna always liked me.”

“Don't tell me,” Dara said, “you expected to run into her.”

“I didn't expect not to,” Xavier said. “I always keep it open. It happens, it happens. When it don't, what are you out? It's best never be anxious.”

Dara took his arm and they walked away from the house.

She said, “All right, I'll leave it up to you. We keep at it or quit and go home.”

“Just a minute ago you talkin about makin a feature with Naomi Watts. All we need to know is what happens next. Now you just as soon go home?”

Dara said, “I think we'd have a better chance of finding the Gold Dust Twins than Jama. Now he's free he's gonna hide out or change his looks.”

“They still hijackin ships,” Xavier said. “The world navies not shuttin 'em down any.”

They came to the white rental car. He opened the door for her, walked around and got in.

“The latest hijack,” Xavier said, “they want a million for a Finnish ship, the
Arctic Sea,
with fifteen Russian crewmen on board. Flies a Maltese flag. They think it might have a ‘secret cargo' they callin it. They tested it in Finland for nuclear shit aboard and musta scored positive. But now the ship's gone and disappeared.”

Dara said, “Where was it last seen?”

“In the English Channel, two weeks ago.”

“It's not around here?” Dara surprised.

“In the channel on its way to Algeria, but never arrived. You want to know more,” Xavier said, “you have to call Billy. I bet he can tell where the ship's at.”

Dara said, “I keep thinking about Jama. He could still be around here.”

“But the Twins'll be easier to locate,” Xavier said. “Give Idris a call. Find out what they're up to. Talk to Harry. Ask him how come he blew his big chance.”

“If he wasn't at the house,” Dara said, “he'll blame Idris.”

“You think they know what they doin?”

“I think they have no idea,” Dara said.