Djibouti (17 page)

Dara said in her pleasant voice, “You play tennis?”

“Why?” the police chief said. “You think I'm too heavy?”

Xavier said, “Chief, you got the size to play anythin you want.” Xavier got up from his chair and produced the Walther from the back of his waist.

“What you lookin at here is the murder weapon, the one Jama used on the five people.” He held the pistol by the barrel offering it to the police chief, who took the grip in his hand. “It had my prints on it,” Xavier said. “Now it has yours on top of mine. But me and you never killed anybody with it, have we?”

 

O
N THE WAY TO
the Kempinski Dara said, “Poor Harry, he wanted to scream at the cop, ‘
He's mine
. Keep your fucking hands off him.' While he's trying to maintain his Brit cool.”

They were following the Avenue Admiral Bernard now in the dusk, the blanket of Djibouti's lights behind them.

“What we'd like to know,” Xavier said, “is Jama gonna hang around or go on home, tired of this Arab shit.”

“I don't know,” Dara said, “he's been shooting anybody he wants for the past seven years. I think he's the kind keeps score. He told Idris he shot a man for selling cans of soda the man kept on shaved ice. You know why? They didn't have shaved ice in Mohammed's time. It was Qasim told him to do it. Jama said to him, ‘There weren't any AKs around in Mohammed's time either.' Qasim told him the AKs were Allah's gift to them to cleanse the world of nonbelievers, and Jama said okay then. But I don't think he's going home, not just yet.”

“How about us,” Xavier said, “we goin or stayin?”

Dara said, “If I'd been shooting what's going on…”

At the hotel desk a phone message was waiting.

“From Billy,” Dara said. “He wants us to call him tomorrow.”

Xavier said, “One thing after another, huh?”

Dara said, “Let's stop in the bar and talk about it.”

B
ILLY KEPT
P
EGASO
TRAILING
the gas ship by a mile, following its lights at night, the thousand-foot tanker making ten knots all day and through the night. The wind would stir up behind
Pegaso
and Billy would tack to hold the distance between them, Billy searching his memory for the time an LNG accident happened in the U.S. A major disaster. He believed it was in Cleveland.

Helene, with him in the cockpit, sat perched in a tall director's chair, so far this morning wearing shorts and a T-shirt. She was looking at an issue of
Architectural Digest
from two years ago that featured the pages of Billy Wynn's home on Galveston Island overlooking miles of gasworks. The spread opened with: “Billy Wynn, the whirlwind Texas entrepreneur with countless commercial irons in the fire—” Helene stopped.

“I thought you were an oil man.”

“Basically,” Billy said. “I keep my hand in for the family, bunch of old farts—God bless 'em—still living in the past. My
decorator, Anne Bonfiglio, calls the house Texas Tudor. Has a bowling alley and two swimming pools, one inside.” Billy said, “How come it took you so long to find the magazine?”

“I don't usually look at
Architectural Digest
unless I'm waiting like to get a Pap smear, at a doctor's office. I didn't have to find it, you've got at least thirty copies.”

Billy said, “The most destructive LNG accident I think was at Cleveland in '44. Look it up for me, okay? Blow up an LNG tanker I imagine would be a terrorist's wet dream.”

Helene opened her notebook and turned pages, looking at headings over transcripts and handwritten notes. MISSING SHIP LOCATED, only one page. HOW RANSOM IS DIVIDED, three pages.

Billy was watching the gas ship again, dead ahead, not more than a mile. A man on the fantail was looking at Billy through binoculars.

DETAINEE WENT FROM GITMO TO AL QAEDA, three pages.

Billy picked up his glasses and was eye to eye with the man on the fantail. “He's a Mohammedan,” Billy said.

EXPLOSION DEVASTATES A SQUARE MILE OF CLEVELAND.

“I've got it,” Helene said, “LNG blast in Cleveland. You're right, 1944. What do you want to know?”

“How big was it?”

“A hundred and thirty-one fatalities, two hundred and a quarter injured. Let's see, two hundred and seventeen cars demolished, six hundred and eighty left homeless.”

“Not as big as 9/11.”

“Not even close.”

“What I'd like to know,” Billy said, “is that tanker going all the way up the Red Sea or stopping off?”

“It's stopping off,” Helene said.

“Not to refuel. The ship was sitting at Eyl two weeks, its engine shut down.”

“But the crew's been eating,” Helene said. “I think they'll have to stop for groceries.”

“You're right,” Billy said. “I imagine the pirates took everything that wasn't screwed down.” He turned to Helene, forgetting the eyes watching them. “You know how many times I've said ‘you're right' to a girl I'm thinking of having a relationship with?”

“The Forty-Eight-Hour Test,” Helene said. “She passes or goes home.”

“You can kid about it, you scored high. Most of those girls, they get to take the test 'cause they have possibilities. I start telling her something, I could be speaking Arabic for all the sense it makes. She listens to every word, nods, smiles when I smile and gets rejected. But every once in a while—not too often—the girl says, ‘What…?' paying attention, trying to follow me. You know what you said?”

“‘Are you fucking nuts?'”

“You asked if I was serious.”

“And that won your heart?”

“You were yourself. I don't mean you don't have tricks, how you put on certain looks. Finally it dawned on me, Hell, you're having fun being a girl. It was the first time in my life I realized it. A girl could be pleased with herself enough she didn't need a guy spending money on her. She's told herself she's a big girl, can make her own decisions.”

“And because of that,” Helene said, “it was love at first sight?”

“Yeah, well close to it, there're certain conditions. If I'm a sailor, you have to be a sailor. You have to love pitting yourself against the sea. You get seasick? So what? Clean it up. Long as
you don't have to keep to your bunk the whole trip.” Billy said to her, “Lady, I have to admit I saw almost right off the bat you're a keeper.” He left the wheel, came over and hugged her and gave her a kiss.

Helene believed it was time to express herself and be serious about it. He'd already said he liked her standing up to him. Now she said, “Don't I have anything to say about it?”

Let him think she might have some mysterious reason she'd turn down a billionaire's proposal. Or, he might think she wanted to talk about the prenup first.

Billy said, “My Lord, of course you have a say in this, Muffin. Tell me what's on your mind.”

Helene said, “You're Billy the Kid, aren't you?”

“I've always felt like a kid in my ways,” Billy said, “but guided by a whole lot of good sense, and some learning.”

Helene said, “Do you love me?”

“You know I do, Muff, with my whole heart.”

“And you want us to get married?”

Helene, looking him in the eye, waited for him to grin and begin making up a story. But he didn't.

“Of course I want to get married, make you Mrs. Billy Wynn. The first and only one I've ever met to go all the way with.”

Helene put her head down long enough to get her eyes wet and looked up with happy tears, saying, “Billy, I must be the luckiest girl in the whole fucking world.”

Billy said, “Being smart and good-looking didn't hurt. You can be sassy but cute about it, so it didn't blow your chances.” He said, “Listen, Muff…I have to call Buck Bethards, see if he's gonna help me out here. Okay?”

Helene wiped her eyes, the romantic interlude over. She slipped off the director's chair saying, “I'll go below while you two do your man-thing.”

“No, stay here. I told you Buck's a former SEAL? When I
get different opposing stories from my contacts, I like to play my ace. Buck will charge me an arm and a leg, but he most always comes up with the goods. No charge if he doesn't deliver. I'll put him on the speaker so you can listen.”

Helene found the sheet on Buck, a printout from CNN with Buck's head-shot on it, his cold eyes staring at her. Billy was looking at the twelve-digit phone number written across the top of the page, and the phone rang.

 

“H
I, IT'S
D
ARA
. W
HAT'RE
you doing?”

“I'm tailing the gas ship, hon. What you think I'm doing?”

“Helene still with you?”

“We get to India I'm gonna have a Jesuit missionary marry us. Here, say hi to Muff.”

Dara said, “Muff? You must be the happiest girl in the whole world.”

“I told Billy I'm gonna love being rich. Things just seem to work out,” Helene said, “if you let them. Here's Billy.”

Dara said, “Billy, you remember Jama Raisuli? One of the al Qaedas, not Sean Connery.”

Billy said, “Yeah, the Gold Dust Twins were holding him for ransom, and the other one, Qasim.”

“Jama killed Qasim and four Somalis guarding them and got away.”

“Why would he kill his boss?”

“I don't know,” Dara said. “That was three days ago. Yesterday we see him coming along rue de Marseille. We were visiting Idris. Harry's with him. I'll e-mail you about the Twins. I see him coming toward me and I put my spy camera on him. He's had a haircut, lost his beard and he's wearing a Brown University T-shirt, a bag over his shoulder.”

“The murder weapon in it,” Billy said. “Wait till I light my cigar. Paid fifty bucks for the son of a bitch and it keeps going out on me. So now he's disguised. How'd you know it was Jama?”

“I've shot him enough,” Dara said. “You're right, the gun he used on Qasim and the guards was in the bag. He tried to hang on to it and Xavier hit him. Jama took off and Xavier shot at him but missed, only three bullets in the gun.”

“What was it, what kind?”

“A Walther P38.”

“Holds eight loads,” Billy said. “He must've killed the five execution-style, one shot each. Had three left and Xavier wasted them on him. So now Jama's unarmed till he gets another piece. I wonder, is he African American or American African? Tell me what you're doing about him.”

“We sat down with the chief of police. I told him what I know about Jama, and Xavier gave him the gun, the murder weapon.”

“The cops'll start investigating,” Billy said, “and Jama will know you ratted him out and come looking for you.”

Dara said, “What he does is out of our hands.”

“But you're still in Djib, aren't you? You're not calling from Nawlins. It's good you got Xavier with you, even if he can't shoot straight.” Billy said, “The gas ship's scheduled to go to Lake Charles, but I'll bet it's stopping over in Djib for stores. They'll get a few suicide nuts aboard, blow the ship, take out most of Djibouti and whatever navy ships are close by. It won't be another 9/11 but it'll make an al Qaeda statement, won't it?”

Dara said, “You think you can do anything about it?”

“Go ashore and talk to the Port Authority, see they keep the gas ship a good twelve miles from town. The time comes I'll call the captain—what's his name, Wassef?—tell him to get all the good guys off the ship before I blow it up.”

“Did you ever think, what if you didn't have money?”

“I'd make it,” Billy said. “It's not hard.”

“You're marrying Helene?”

“You sound like you don't believe it?”

“No, you were meant for each other. Helene's funny, if you listen to her.”

“I've noticed that since I let her be herself.” Billy said, “Did you hear Osama bin Laden's got a crush on Whitney Houston? They say he's gonna put a
fatwa
out on Bobby Brown for abusing her. Send some true believers to cut his head off. Bin loves Whitney but hates music, says it's evil. Love doesn't have to make sense, does it?”

“That's old stuff, Whitney Houston,” Dara said. “Listen, I forgot to mention, when I first saw Jama he said something like ‘How you making it?' Like he didn't recognize me, but he had to, I was with him before. He walked past and I said, ‘James?' and he stopped and came back.”

“You tricked him,” Billy said, “and he bit.”

“I didn't mean to. He looked so natural in the Brown T-shirt I called him James. And I'll bet anything that's his name.”

 

B
ILLY HANDED
H
ELENE A
color shot of Buck Bethards, the former SEAL, a nice-looking guy, dark hair, forty-one years old, five-eleven, 170 pounds.

“Look at his eyes.”

“They're nice.”

“They're killer eyes. Look how he's looking at you.”

“He's smiling, sort of. Isn't he?”

“Muff, that's called a shit-eatin grin.”

Billy reached over and turned the wheel to set
Pegaso
back on the trail of the gas ship, the wog with binoculars still on the
fantail. Billy picked up the phone and dialed a number. He heard a voice this time, a live one, and looked surprised.

“Buck…?”

“Billy, how you doing?”

“You know how many numbers I had to try?”

“No more'n I gave you. You start with the last one. It's the newest, what I'm into.”

“Where are you, Djib?”

“I believe so. Wait…Yeah, I'm still here.”

“What's the latest on the LNG tanker?”

“Going to Lake Charles, Louisiana. That was in the paper and confirmed by people who know where ships are going. Those people make so much tipping off pirates they raised their bribe rates. I call those guys the Bribery Pirates.”

“That's not bad,” Billy said. “You think it's going to Lake Charles but might stop in Djibouti?”

“To take on stores. Arriving a week late after it was held by buccaneers. Man, they fucked up taking a ship al Qaeda wants.”

“Even if it wasn't hijacked,” Billy said, “I bet a hundred dollars the plan was to stop at Djib. You know what would happen the tanker blew up? I mean anyway near the Gateway to the East.”

“That's what I'm talking about,” Buck said. “I'm told al Qaeda's getting low on funds. They need to raise money to keep fuckin with us and're looking at the LNG tanker as a way to make some bucks. I got it on authority they're holding up Emirates Transport for fifty million. They don't pay, the Qaedas'll blow the ship to hell.”

“Ram it into Djib,” Billy said, “turn that town into a pile of mud.”

“I doubt they'll let the ship come anywhere near Djibouti.”

“Bin wants to blow up the Gateway, how you gonna stop him?”

Buck said, “I'd blow the ship out at sea.”

Billy said, “I'll give it some thought. You find out if Emirates Transport wants to bargain with them?”

“They're not talking to me yet.”

“Listen,” Billy said, “the reason I called you, a guy named Idris Mohammed and his pal Ari Sheikh Bakar had two al Qaedas they wanted to turn in for rewards. They had the two right here in town, under heavy guard.”

“I've seen the police reports,” Buck said. “One dead with the guards and one absent.”

“You knew of them or what?”

“I've followed their careers some. Qasim al Salah's dead and the other one's loose.”

“Jama Raisuli,” Billy said, “born in the U.S. He's in Djib somewhere hiding out. If there's a reward for him, you can have it. I want to know his real name and where he's from.”