Djibouti (16 page)

T
HEY MET AT THE
Club ZuZu and before long the young gentleman named Hunter was telling Jama where he lived.

“In a residential hotel on rue de Marseille. Sort of an upscale Frenchified joint done in Gallic moderne. My digs are on the top floor. A stairway takes one to the roof—it's quite nice—with a French-blue awning that rolls out to shade the deck, or rolls back to reveal as much sun as you'd ever want. Widows, I suppose well off enough, have suites there, but never venture topside.”

The next afternoon they were on the roof, several floors above the surroundings, Jama lying naked. Hunter said, “I'm surprised you have tan lines.”

Jama said, “You never kept house with a black man before?”

“Keeping house,” Hunter said, “that's what we're doing?”

“Giving shelter to a seaman down on his luck. Hit over the head by a man stepped out of an alley. Robbed while I'm lying dazed and my ship is gone without me,” Jama said, his black snake exposed for Hunter to admire.

“You want to touch it, don't you?”

Hunter said, “You mind?”

 

H
E WAS TWENTY-FIVE, AN
American in this god-awful place to learn the shipping business. “I sit before a computer all day looking at figures and schedules. I'd rather be scraping hulls.” He said, “I'm kidding. I'm bored. Maybe I should go to sea. Is it fun?”

Hunter was from New York, the grandson of a man who owned and ran a half-dozen shipping terminals, “practically with a whip,” Hunter said. “Dad slipped away ages ago to sell debentures, and my dear mother, who swears she loves me more than her clothes, offered me up to her father, a dedicated scoundrel.”

Another night at ZuZu's, Hunter watching the sailors on the dance floor, Jama's eyes on the slim chicks rolling their asses to the music, he said to Hunter, “When I missed my ship and got waylaid, I was following a boy down the alley.”

Hunter said, “A boy?”

“A young man like yourself. And I've been punished for it, losing my ship and getting in trouble.”

Hunter took Jama's hand, a candle burning between them on the table at ZuZu's, Hunter telling him, “No, you haven't, you've found what you're looking for,” and Jama saw his luck turning.

The third day with Hunter, Jama telling him sea stories about incredibly ugly men finding each other and getting it on. “I saw two miserable dogs, both desperately in need of basic hygiene, kissing each other on the mouth. I did, one night when I walked in the head, I see these two hounds in each other's arms.”

Hunter said, “Awww, the poor guys.”

“Their grubby look reminded me, I'm shaving off my beard today.”

“No! I love your beard.”

“It smells old.”

“It does
not
.”

“I'm letting you shave it off,” Jama said, “since you have a tender feeling for it. Use your scissors to cut it down to where you can use your straightedge to finish.”

He seemed to like it, running his fingers through Jama's beard as he snipped, his eyes moist, sniffling at first. Jesus. Never said a word. Lathered Jama's face and became intent on shaving it clean. Hunter grinning by then, touching his work, surprising himself as he said, “Why, Mr. Bushy, you're more beautiful without it.”

Jama said, “Is that right?” looking at himself in the mirror.

Hunter started on his hair with a comb and scissors till Jama told him he didn't need the comb. “Get to it, cut it down.” There was no way to hurry him. Finally, turning his head from side to side in the mirror, Jama said, “Hunter, my boy, you did it.”

Jama sat on a high stool in the bathroom, naked. Hunter stood between his legs, taller, head raised just a bit, still fooling with Jama's hair. Hunter said, “Hand me the scissors, the comb too, please, if you don't mind.” He said, “Have you ever been referred to as a chic sheikh?” His head still raised.

Jama picked up the straightedge from the counter and sliced the blade across Hunter's throat.

He saw Hunter's eyes taking on a dreamy look, and brought him against his chest to bleed on him, wondering at what moment Hunter would know he was dead and Jama could let the boy slide down his body to the tiles. He'd take a shower and then look through Hunter's closet. Find something casual to wear, something maybe collegiate. He thought of Hunter look
ing even younger in his T-shirt and jeans and decided it was the way to go. Become Jama the college boy.

Or maybe James Rus
sell,
from Brown.

Wear this brown T-shirt with
BROWN
on the front of it big, in white. Coming out of the drawer it became
BROWN UNIVERSITY
with a coat of arms between the names, some red in it.

Jama slipped it over his head and looked in the mirror to see brown on brown, the shirt darker than his bare arms. The size an extra-large that hung straight on him to cover his biceps and flat stomach. He'd be lying naked on the bed and Hunter would pretend to play his ribs, saying if he could plug Jama in he could play him like an instrument. Jama told him he wanted to play music there was an instrument standing right next to him. They did a lot of that kind of shit, saying cute things to each other. This boy, a graduate of Brown University, would use words Jama had never heard people say, like
sardonic
and
saturnine,
and he'd have to look them up. He thought of a saturnine person as mostly cool. Hunter's style was acting like a child, begging Jama to tell him his real name and wanting to know why he'd changed it. All the time asking things like that. He said to Jama, “To be intimate is to know each other's secrets.” He said, “God, to be the only person in the entire world to know your mysterious past.”

The time came in bed, Jama spent and having a smoke, he told Hunter, “It's James.” Tired of him begging in homosexual ways, some cute, some woeful.

“James Rus
sell
. All right? My name while I was doing time. My name before I turned to Islam and became an al Qaeda gunman.”

Hunter said, “Oh, my God,” spacing the words, and Jama had to hold him for a minute and got him to sit on the bed. He was all right after, by the time Jama got his shave. Full of questions till Jama told him, “Let's wait till we finish here.” He didn't
mind being called beautiful, but the guy beat it to death. Said he was Rus
sell
's love slave. This grown man who could have all the cooze he wanted, anywhere, turns it down as the way to go. But when he cranked up his homo shit with the gestures, he'd let it come out, knowing he was secure with a lover, and Jama would feel himself getting semihard. But no comparison to the ones he got thinking of Red Sea chicks and the number one, Celeste, his Ethiopian. The one Idris thought was his girl, set her up nice. Two days with Hunter were okay. The third day he couldn't take any more and ended the relationship.

Jama wedged his passport into a pair of Hunter's Reebok sneakers. By now it was hard to tell it was a passport, though it was readable inside. He'd make up a story how it got this way for Customs and Immigration when he got home. Tell them a Nile croc ate it and he had to cut the passport out of the croc's tummy.

He put on a pair of hundred-dollar jeans, the cuffs folding on the sneakers just right. He put other stuff, T-shirts and some of Hunter's panties and some aftershave, in a black flight bag, plain, no writing on it. He slipped on a pair of Hunter's shades that didn't fuck up his vision too much, ones he'd been wearing. Hunter had all kinds of glasses, all the cases here in his desk drawer. Jama brought them out looking at different styles. He picked up a case and this one was fat and soft with bills Jama pulled out, fifty, sixty new hundred-dollar bills. Six grand plus the three hundred he got from Hunter's billfold, sixty-three hundred, man. Where do you want to go?

There were a couple of things he would do first because he wanted to and had made up his mind.

Find the two Arab snobs, Idris and Lord Harry, and shoot them each in the head.

Then locate
Aphrodite,
loaded with frozen natural gas and—according to Qasim—C4 explosives, shape charges among the
tanks, and watch the ship blow up Djibouti, the gateway to Islam. Or the back door to the West, the dividing line between God and Allah. Watch the city burn, people running for their lives. Qasim showed him how you could blow up the city with a cell phone from a safe distance. They had taken Qasim's cell days ago. But didn't Hunter have one? He believed so.

He had Hunter's car. Use it later tonight to dump his body. This afternoon he would stroll down the rue de Marseille to the Djibouti Airlines office and see about flights south to Nairobi, take it easy for a time, spend some of the money Allah had given him for being a good boy. Then come back…No, he should do it first. Kill anyone who knew his name.

T
HIS TIME
D
ARA AND
Xavier came to Idris's apartment on rue de Marseille. Idris had Harry staying with him, the shutters closed tight.

“You haven't been here before?” Idris said. “I thought you had. I leased this place when we were paid for the
Faina,
the Ukrainian ship with the Russian tanks. I took home, as you say, two hundred thousand. I'll tell you the truth, I never got less than a hundred thousand as my cut on any ship we hijacked. One three hundred thousand, that giant tanker sat out in the water with a price tag we kept knocking down. The
Sirius Star
was a serious pain in the ass. Dara, excuse the nasty reference, but that's where the pain was, the anxiety giving me the trots.”

“Too bad you're out of it,” Dara said. “Pirates are still working. I think they've taken over seventy ships by now, the gulf full of the world's navies trying to find them.”

“The boys in the skiffs,” Idris said. “Oh, it was a time. Being half drunk to hijack a ship and earn a hundred thousand dollars, often dropped from a plane. I had friends among the men in the
middle, lawyers, fellows doing nothing for their money, making a few phone calls. They took care of me because they knew I could provide them with ships.”

Dara said, “You wish you were still at it?”

“No, I've had enough. Fourteen ships.” He said to Dara, “You like another glass?”

“Maybe half,” Dara said.

“Lemme do it,” Xavier said, picking up the martini pitcher. “I know what Miss Dara means she say a half.” He had the reach to top off their stem glasses without getting up. He said to Dara, “You recognize the stone slab cocktail table and the bamboo furniture? Same as down at Eyl.”

“I'm selling that house,” Idris said. “Why would I want to go to Eyl? I have offers. Booyah Abdulahi, you remember him? He's still doing quite well. Booyah will give me two hundred thousand for the house. Everything in it, I told him it's worth three times that. We'll see.”

Dara said, “You couldn't need money.”

“No, I have it in banks I don't worry about.”

“Then why are you and Harry still together?”

“He's a good friend.”

“No, he isn't.”

They heard a toilet flush.

Idris said, “He's always in the bathroom grooming himself. Always takes a pistol with him. All right, I thought he was a good friend at one time. I bought four hundred machine guns from him, Uzis, and sold them to warlords for twice what I paid. One of them pompous, I charged three times Harry's price. Harry comes out of the bathroom he's calm, almost himself, but I don't know what he's thinking.”

“He has a home here,” Dara said, “doesn't he, in the quarter?”

“He's afraid to go home and find Jama waiting for him. He doesn't say it, it's how he acts.”

“How does Jama know where either of you lives?”

“Ask and find out. People always watching to see what we do, where we go. They're curious.” Idris produced an eight-shot Sig auto from his clothes. “Jama comes, I'll be waiting to shoot him.”

“Harry has money?”

“Of course he does. From the sale of arms.”

“Then why don't the two of you get out of town?”

“We talk about it. Decide it's better to see it end here. Jama's a fugitive, he can't simply go about as he wants.”

They looked up to see Harry come out of the hallway from the bathroom with a Webley revolver, the 1915 British Army model, held in his right hand. He looked quite himself in his starched shirt with epaulets, smiling at Dara, and came over saying, “Our lovely friend Dara,” to give her a kiss on the cheek. “I must say we're in dire need of all the friends we can gather.” He said, “My friend Xavier,” and reached out to take his hand. “By any chance have you a notion of what we might do?”

Xavier said, “You look like you know what you doin.”

Dara said, “Why don't you call the cops?”

“Have them sitting around the apartment,” Harry said, “drinking tea? We had
paid
guardians before and they proved worthless.”

“Well, let's keep in touch,” Dara said, “all right? Call if you think Jama's around and you'd like Xavier to give you a hand.”

It got Xavier looking at her.

“We ready to go?”

“As soon as I visit the facility,” Dara said.

Xavier watched her walk off toward the bathroom while Harry poured himself a martini in Dara's empty glass and topped off Idris's drink.

“Jama comes by,” Xavier said, “you fellas gonna be able to shoot him?”

 

I
N THE LIFT DESCENDING
to the main floor Dara said, “Those guys kill me, sitting around drinking martinis with their guns out.”

“You had two,” Xavier said. “You all right?”

“I'm fine.”

“I never heard you call the toilet a facility before.”

“It's a gun room,” Dara said, “AKs in the shower stall, one for each of them.”

“The boys have their own style of doin things,” Xavier said. They stood on the sidewalk along rue de Marseille, Dara getting a cigarette now from her bag and lighting it.

She said, “I noticed Djibouti Airlines down the street when we drove past.”

“It's local flights,” Xavier said. “Won't get us home if that's what you have in mind.”

She said, “I don't know, maybe. We could give Billy a call, find out what he's up to.”

“We done here, but you don't want to leave, do you?” He said, “Think about it while I go get the car.”

 

S
HE SAW THE BLACK
guy in the T-shirt coming along Marseille, the shirt hanging out, too large for him, the guy and his shirt shades of brown. A black flight bag hung from his shoulder.

Dara turned on her spy camera clipped to her shirt pocket and shot him coming straight on with her head turned, not looking at him, the guy in no hurry. Closer now he seemed to hesitate, break his step as he looked at her and said, “You makin it today?” She turned to him.

Passing her his hand went to his sunglasses to slide them down and up, like tipping a hat, and walked past.

Now Dara was shooting him from the rear.

The guy walking toward the Djibouti Airlines office, that direction, about twenty meters past her when she called out:

“James…?”

He stopped. Two, three…six beats before he turned around. Now he came back, almost to her, Dara saying, “I mean Jama. I don't know why I said James, you never told me your name. You know what? I think I started to say Jama and it came out James because I know you're American, you tell everybody.”

“Yeah, but you recognize me.”

“I've photographed you, I know what you look like,” Dara said. “You're a much younger Jama—I almost said James again—without the beard.”

“I don't recognize myself. I been al Qaeda gunhand too long.”

“I doubt anyone else would recognize you. You have to remember, I shoot faces.” She said, “What's the story that goes with Brown University?”

“That was a while ago.”

“What hall were you in? I bet Harambee, with the black radicals. I had a friend went to Brown. He said the school motto was ‘In God We Trust' because it's printed on money.”

“Oh, you looking at my shirt. It's a friend of mine's.”

“A classmate?” Dara said. “I can't believe you're still around, being on the dodge. I've got quite a few shots of you I'd like to use, with your permission. List your name among the credits. I would say you have the confidence of a movie star, walking around with police after you.”

“You were filming me, weren't you, with that bitty thing? I recognize it, from you shooting us on the ship.”

Dara said, “I would love to hear how you killed five people at
the same time, one of them your leader.” She kept talking, giving Xavier time to arrive on the scene. “I'd like to hear about that, too, why you felt you had to shoot him. I could film you telling about it, telling anything you want, your adventures with bin Laden…You'd get a credit up front.”

“You saying this to me,” Jama said, “you don't think you're taking a risk?”

Dara was shaking her head saying no—Jama heard that much before raising his eyes to Xavier appearing behind her, Xavier coming to stand a foot above her head.

He said, “Jama, how you doin? You stayin out of jail?”

Dara said, “It doesn't look like he's giving himself up.”

Xavier said, “No, he's got a new thing. Gone college boy on us.”

Jama, standing as erect as he could make himself, said, “You want to let it be or take some kind of action?”

Xavier said, “There wasn't a lady present I'd have your neck broke by now. Have it done before you pull the piece you done those people with. Gun you stuck in your jeans but didn't feel right, so you put it in your bag.” Xavier said, “On second thought, I don't need to shoot you. We gonna give you to the police.”

“You want, we can let it be,” Jama said. “Couple of brothers run into each other—why not? And I'm on my way. Tell your grandkids you met me one time.”

“Let you go?” Xavier said. “You too scary. First thing, I want you to slip the bag from your shoulder and hand it to me.” Xavier took a step to stand in Jama's face. “Try to run, I'll bust your head on the pavement. Mess up your nice haircut.” They stared in each other's faces till Xavier pulled the bag from Jama's shoulder and handed it to Dara.

She zipped it open and brought out the Walther first, held it as she looked in the bag. “T-shirts,” Dara said, “and girls' panties,” bringing out a pair and going into the bag again.

Xavier didn't look at the panties, he was watching Jama, Jama going for the gun, had hold of it as Xavier stepped in to hit him with his big left hand balled up, threw it hard against Jama's clean-shaved face to turn him around stumbling, almost going down. Now he was running away from them, glancing around once, but not running as fast, Xavier judged, as he could.

Xavier said, “Gimme it,” took the Walther from Dara, aimed at Jama sprinting up the rue de Marseille, fired three rounds at him, the gunshots loud in the street of buildings, and the Walther clicked empty.

A half block away Jama the college boy stopped and yelled something at them Xavier couldn't make out. He started to run off again, stopped and yelled something else and took off past the Djibouti Airlines office.

“Isn't flyin anyplace today,” Xavier said, “is he? I missed some of what he was tellin us.”

“He pointed at us and said, ‘You two are next.' Like he has an agenda,” Dara said, “for killing people. Why do bad guys take themselves so seriously?”

“'Cause they dumb.”

“Jama's not dumb. Sometimes he sounds street, but I think he's putting it on.”

“What else he say?”

“Before, when he walked past me, I said, ‘James…?' I don't know why. Because he's American? I don't know. He hesitated then and we started talking, but pretty soon it got edgy and you showed up.”

“James,” Xavier said. “We know that much. He made Jama out of James when he went Arab. Have to figure what name Raisuli came from.” He stepped out to the street where Dara was looking up at Harry and Idris in separate third-floor windows, shutters wide open.

Harry's voice came to them. “Did you get him?”

“I ran out of ammo,” Xavier said. “I should've had one of your machine guns.”

“Do you want to come up for a drink?”

“I think we gonna wait for the police,” Xavier said. “Somebody must've called them.”

“I did,” Harry said. “The chief happens to be a friend of mine. They should be here shortly. They'll want to ask you about Jama,” Harry said, “since you were shooting at him. That was Jama, wasn't it?”

Xavier looked at Dara.

“How'd he know that?”

 

“H
IS
A
MERICAN
N
EGRO ACCENT
,” Harry said.

They were in the Twins' apartment again.

“I could hear it clearly. That ‘Yessuh boss' way they have. But he didn't call you boss, did he? I said to Idris—we went to the window—‘Who is that guy?' Idris didn't hesitate, he said, ‘Jama?' We both knew he would try to disguise himself. It's curious, when he speaks Arabic you don't hear the American Negro sound.”

The police arrived. The police chief in a suit and tie, a big man, heavy, said, “Yes, I will have one of your cocktails.” His aide in uniform stayed with him to listen to Miss Dara Barr's story and take notes. The police chief said, “So this is the one murdered five people a few days ago. Now has us believe he's the student of a university.”

“There's a reward if he's taken alive,” Harry said, “and I deliver him to the American embassy.”

“I catch him,” the police chief said, “I can deliver this one.”

Harry said, “Yes, but I've already spoken to them about it. He's on their list.”

“If I don't have to shoot him,” the police chief said. “This is a desperate man we looking for.”

Idris mixed cocktails, raising his eyes to Dara, and seemed to shake his head. Dara would have one drink, that's all, as Harry explained that Jama was not wanted dead or alive. “They made it clear he has to be taken alive if we expect to collect a reward, possibly in the neighborhood of a million dollars.”

“You told me before,” the police chief said, accepting the cocktail from Idris, “it would be something less than that.”

“Dara Barr, in the meantime,” Harry said, “has had meetings with the embassy's regional security officer. Ms. Schmidt has agreed to our delivering Jama into their custody.”

The police chief of Djibouti said, “Yes, Miss Suzanne Schmidt? Yes, I know her well. I see her from time to time at the Racquet Club.”