Djibouti (18 page)

“He's American, huh?”

“At one time was called James or Jimmy.”

“He never told anybody his name?”

“How would I know?”

“That's all you want, his name?”

“If you can get it.”

Buck said, “You don't think I can?”

Billy said, “He kills people who get close to him.”

B
ILLY CALLED THE NEXT
morning early, 6
A.M
., the blinds closed, the hotel bedroom still dark. She heard him saying they had a terrific tailwind pushing them toward Djibouti, Billy sounding breathless telling her they'd be in by midafternoon if it kept blowing.

Dara said, “What time is it?” half asleep. “You can't wait till morning?” She had to reach for the phone and was on her side, turned away from Xavier.

“It is morning,” Billy said. “You out carousing last night? I wanted to get to you before this guy gives you a call, Buck Bethards, my ace. He was a SEAL nine years, a soldier of fortune with Blackwater till they messed up in Baghdad and he quit.” Billy said, “Wait a minute,” and Dara could hear his voice calling out away from the phone, “Muff, hold her dead-on, for Christ sake. You're losing sail.” On the phone again he said, “My mate's still learning the ways of the sea. Listen, Buck's a pro, a good guy. Tell him whatever you can about Jama. You said you have him on your spy pen—I gotta get one of those. Show Buck what
a traitor looks like.” He said, “Dara, I'm signing off. See you in a while.”

Dara reached to the night table to replace the phone. Behind her Xavier's voice said, “Billy's havin trouble?”

“They'll get in this afternoon sometime.”

Dara rolled over and was looking at Xavier's face on a white pillow, his eyes watching. Less than two feet from her. He said, “How you feelin?”

“Not bad. I'm still tired.”

 

L
AST NIGHT THEY HAD
stopped in the lounge for a cognac and were talkative, feeling good, tried Black Russians wondering what Billy would tell them when he called. They came up to her suite…

She said now, “You were holding me last night.”

“Yes, I was.”

“In bed.”

“Right here.”

“We were naked.”

“We were buck naked. We still are, 'less you got up and dressed.”

“You were holding me and I fell asleep.”

“I did too, since nothin was goin on.” He said, “That's the closest we ever come.”

“You're so easy about it. You let things happen.”

“If they gonna.”

“I mean you don't get serious about it.”

“Serious?” Xavier said. “Girl, it's the most enjoyment there is in life.”

Dara tried to think of something profound. She said, “I
guess you're right. Now I've got the guy on my mind who's gonna call me.”

“I could hear Billy. Wants you to talk to his spy?”

“His name's Buck. I think I'll tell him to meet me for coffee somewhere. It shouldn't take long.”

“I'll drop you off. I'm gonna see a doctor, then come pick you up.”

Dara said, “You have a doctor here?”

“All my years passin through? I got a dentist too, just in case. Gives you gas while he fools with your teeth.”

“You have a pain somewhere?”

“Heartburn,” Xavier said. “I'm waitin to see you get out of bed. The movies, the girl takes all the covers wrapped around her.”

“This is real life,” Dara said.

Xavier watched her roll out of bed bare-ass and walk to the bathroom. Watched her put her hand high on the doorframe and look over her shoulder at him. He said, “You havin fun now, aren't you?”

Did she wink at him as she stepped inside and closed the door? He couldn't tell. For some reason he thought of the song about life being a bowl of cherries, the song telling us “The sweet things in life to you were just loaned. So how can you lose what you never owned?”

 

C
ELESTE, THE
E
THIOPIAN FROM
the club Las Vegas, could not believe this guy coming in her apartment, this Negro American college boy. How could he have a key? She had only given two keys to money clients, one very rich, the other very satisfying. This guy opened the door and was smiling at her coming to the bed.

“You know me, don't you?”

Said it in Arabic and it opened her sleepy eyes. She had not had a college boy since last spring.

He said it again, “Do you know my name?”

“Let me think,” Celeste said, in her Arabic. She didn't want to say she had never seen him before. Don't tell that to a man. Now he was asking if he had ever told her his name. An American name.

This meant he believed he had.

Celeste said, “Oh…?”

She said, “Tell me what it is and I will let you know.”

Jama looked into her eyes. He said, “James Rus
sell
.”

Her expression didn't change.

Her eyes didn't show a memory of his name. The times before he had spoken only English to her, wanting her to know he was American but talking too much. It's why he was back to see her, find out if she knew his name. She didn't. But he was here, he was thinking he should give her a jump. The first time with her, at the Las Vegas, she said, “Why don't you fuck me crazy, big boy?” Said it in English. This morning he said it to her, “Why don't you fuck me crazy? No, you said cra
zee,
didn't you?”

Celeste came alive hearing the only English she had bothered to learn because she loved the word, cra
zee
. This man knew it. He had a key. He was important, but she couldn't remember his name. Well, she knew what it was now.

She said, “James Rus
sell,
” and in Arabic told him, “I was joking with you. Of course I remember loving you so much, James.”

She watched his expression change.

“What's the matter with you?”

She waved her hand in front of his face.

“You keep staring.”

“I'm all right,” Jama said. “Let's get in the bed.” Showing a
tired smile now. He watched her pull off her shirt and lie down. Now she held her arms out to him, this little Ethiopian chick, this little pro. Jama took off Hunter's drip-dry sport coat, a couple of sizes too large, dropped it on a chair and got on top of Celeste. He pulled the pillow from behind her head, Celeste trying to unzip his fly. Jama said, “No need to let out Godzilla, we gonna be through here in a minute. I'll rest this pillow on your face.” She started to fidget. “Don't worry, you can breathe. I got a surprise for you.”

He pulled a Walther P38 from a holster on the back of his jeans. He picked up this one in the same gun shop he had robbed in 2003. This time he took the Walther, a box of rounds and the holster. That big nigga with Dara was right, it hurt you shove it in your pants with nothing to pad it. Now he got down close to the pillow and lifted up the edge to see part of her face, her nose, her mouth. He said in Arabic, “Sweet girl, open your mouth for me.” She did, she opened her mouth. Jama shoved the barrel of the Walther into her throat, tilted it up a speck, pressed his left hand down on the pillow hard and shot Celeste through her brain.

 

T
HE ONLY OTHER ONE
Jama could think of knew his name was the movie girl Dara and the big-ass nigga who followed her around. He'd start calling hotels from here, beginning with the Kempinski. It seemed the movie girl's style. He'd ask was she registered.

The hotel voice said he would connect Jama with the room. Jama said, “No, I'll call back,” and heard the voice tell him sorry, the line was busy.

She was there, talking to somebody on the phone six in the morning. The movie girl making plans.

Jama left the apartment, went out to the street and got in Hunter's BMW convertible, silver with a black top that was never down since Jama started driving the car. Man, there was a lot had to be done. Four this morning he'd got rid of Hunter. Took him out to the pier used for yachts and dumped him in the bay, a twenty-inch TV set tied to Hunter's legs, the TV the only thing in the apartment Jama could manage that was heavy enough to keep Hunter down.

He told himself he wouldn't be sitting around watching TV anyway, not with all the things had to be done. First, go back to Hunter's place for his binoculars. Then drive up to the Kempinski to watch the entrance from a spot in the trees. Being a terrorist was a pain in the ass when you weren't spreading terror.

It was going on 10
A.M
. before he saw them come out.

 

C
ARS CAME AROUND TO
take different streets off the Place Verdun, circling past the statue of Marshal Ferdinand Foch, 1851–1929, on a pedestal in the center of the plaza, the single word
J'Attaque
below his name.

Xavier said, “Ferdinand was asked what he'd do if surrounded by Germans and he said he'd attack. I believe it was at Verdun he lost somethin like eighty thousand men j'attackin.” He said, “There's your man there.”

The onetime SEAL and professional soldier for hire looked like any other forty-year-old in pretty good shape; nothing that told he had special tricks for fighting a war. Getting out of the car Xavier watched Dara and Buck Bethards shake hands and sit down at a table on the sidewalk. It looked like he was drinking coffee. He was, black as it comes. Xavier met him and said, “You're doing this job for Billy, huh?” so they'd get right to it. It wasn't going to take Xavier long at the doctor's.

He shook hands with the spy again, got back in the car and turned into a street east of the Central Market, turned a few corners finding his way and pulled up in front of Dr. Chin's medical practice and drugstore.

The sign in Chinese characters didn't mean a thing to Xavier, but there was Dr. Chin himself in the doorway, the little doctor of traditional medicine reaching up now to put his arms partway around Xavier saying, “What's new?” With just a bit of an accent. “I hear you in the movie business.” Dr. Chin smiling in his wispy white beard and eyes that were slits. They chatted a few minutes until Xavier said, “You know what I want.”

“Horny Goat Weed, of course. How you doing with it?”

“I ran out a while ago.”

“You had I believe three hundred capsules of my special blend?”

“That's right, five bottles.”

“How long they last?”

“I been out of 'em most of a year.”

“But you stay active until a year?”

“If ‘active' means a lot of action, you have to remember I'm seventy-two.”

“I'm eighty-four,” Dr. Chin said. “So…? What do numbers mean? I remain as active as I wish to be. Get ten bottles for a year, I make you a deal, hundred fifty dollar.”

Xavier said, “I never tried the Rowdy Lamb Herb.”

“It's Horny Goat Weed with a different name.”

“How about Fairy Wings?”

“Same thing. It's all epimedium, the same plant, maybe a different variety. It's the name gives you ideas. Use for two thousand years, no complaints.”

“What about rhino horn?”

“Stop it. You know it's a myth.”

“But maybe it works,” Xavier said, “you set your mind on it givin you a donkey can be rode.”

“Maybe sometime only. They killing all the rhinos for the horns, shave it to a powder you take. It will cost you a fortune, as much as fifteen thousand for a small one, but gives no life to your waning desire.”

“I'll tell you what,” Xavier said. “Let me have ten bottles of your Horny Goat Weed.”

“Now you talking,” Dr. Chin said. “Six hundred capsules. Write to me you need more.”

 

D
ARA WAS TELLING
B
UCK,
“I remember how confident he was. Jama said he'd take care of Idris and Harry once he walked out. We believed his tone of voice, but not what he was saying. If that makes sense. Idris said, ‘Of course he thinks of getting away. For Jama, what else is there of importance?'” Dara giving her thoughts on Jama Raisuli. She said, “Did you know Raisuli was Sean Connery's name in
The Wind and the Lion
?”

Buck said, “You see that as significant?”

“It means he has a sense of humor. Don't you think it's funny?”

“Yeah, but does Jama think it is?”

“You're right. He's American, but according to Idris speaks street Arabic.”

“And you think his first name is James.”

“I'm pretty sure, from his reaction when I said it.”

“The name Jama,” Buck said, “looks like James. What does Raisuli look like? You come up with an Italian name, don't you. Like James Ravioli.”

Dara said, “You know what I thought it might be? James Russell.”

Buck looked up from the photos of Jama on the table. He said, “James Russell, that's good. Russell, Raisuli. Is that how he's thinking, wanting the same sound?” He picked up a photo. “Let me run his name, see how many James Russells are in the system. Say in the past ten years.”

“In ten years,” Dara said, “there could be a thousand James Russells.”

“Not that many with his profile. What surprises me,” Buck said, “he doesn't seem to have told anybody his real name. I know a few al Qaedas who can be bought, but that doesn't mean they'd know his name. Yet this boy likes to talk and brag on himself. I would think if he told you he told anybody.”

“Why?”

“Wasn't he attracted to you?”

“You mean, did he try anything?”

“Come on, the guy go for you or not?”

“I think he did,” Dara said, “but ran out of time.”

“Tried to impress you, didn't he? Worth a million dollars to the United States government?”

“Idris and Harry,” Dara said, “were going for twenty-five million.”

“They might get it for bin Laden, but not some kid learned Arabic in prison.”

“How do you know that?”

“It's where black kids become Muslims.”

He looked out toward Marshal Foch in the middle of the plaza.

“Who do you know,” Buck said, “drives a silver BMW drophead, has a black top?”

Now Dara was looking for a BMW in the light traffic, a few cars coming around to slip off into connecting streets.