Djibouti (6 page)

N
OW THEY WERE WATCHING
on the screen a ship stacked to the bow with trailer-size containers that would be dropped onto railroad freight cars or hooked to eighteen-wheelers in a few weeks, the ship coming west to the Red Sea and Europe.

A bottle of French Pinot Noir stood on the table between them. “This wine,” Xavier said, “cost twelve bucks, a store on Magazine. Djibouti wholesale we pay fifty and think we drinkin pretty good wine.”

Dara said she was never sure why a good wine was good. She liked this one, but never got much of a taste holding the wine in her mouth. Xavier said, “You any good you can even tell where it's from. Catch a scent of maybe smoke, you sniff it, or has a taste of wood.” Xavier said, “I have a friend name of Christopher in Tucson, Arizona, could take a sip of this wine, roll it over his taste buds, tell you where it's from and what the taste is, Christopher detectin a hint of tobacco juice musta been spit in the barrel.”

The container ship was passing within a mile and a half of the
Buster,
Dara on it with the Sony. She said, “You hear what I hear?”

“I see 'em,” Xavier said, “comin top speed. Two pirate boats, six in one, three in the other. Goin for the aft end of the ship like hyenas gonna nip at her fantail, the lowest freeboard and no containers in the way. Yeah, I remember this. The crew puttin fire hoses on the pirates. Hittin 'em good and the boats veer off.”

“Now they're firing at the ship,” Dara said.

“Can't get close enough to hit anybody. They veer off a ways and Niag'ra Falls comes down on the pirate boats, the hoses reachin out to them.”

“They're giving it up,” Dara said. “Who wants to board a ship soaking wet?”

They watched the boats heading for shore, more than a mile from the
Buster.
“Here's where the one spots us,” Dara said, “and falls back. The boat with all the guys continues heading in. If they'd seen us we'd be facing nine instead of three.”

Xavier said, “
Facin?
You they mama, one of their biggest fans. You love pirates.”

“I should've asked if they want to be in a movie,” Dara said. “It might've given them pause. I remember I told you to use the Sony and shoot as long as we can. I had the Canon peeking through the hole in my bag.”

“I remember I said they try and snatch it from you,” Xavier said, “lemme have it.”

 

T
HE SCREEN SHOWED ONE
Somali in the boat, holding it against the
Buster;
the other two coming up over the side, both swinging AKs from their shoulders while Xavier was shooting the closer
one looking right at him, Xavier filming until the hand spread open in front of the lens. The pirate put his hand on the camera to take it and Xavier held on. He said, “You want to put me out of business?” and looked over at Dara and the other pirate—a young guy with a skullcap of short hair.

Xavier saw him snatch at Dara's bag hanging from her shoulder. Dara took his hand around the wrist and started talking to him in what sounded like a kindly way, speaking Cajun French to him, and now the young pirate was nodding as Dara glanced at Xavier.

“He said yes, he would love to be in a movie.”

Now she was speaking French to the pirate looking up at Xavier standing over him, translating to Cajun what Xavier was saying. “You won't be in the film you don't return my boss's camera. She'll be all over my ass. Understand what I'm sayin?” Dara at the same time shooting him through the hole in her cotton bag.

Xavier's pirate said something to his buddy in Somali, yanked the Sony from Xavier's hands and went into the wheelhouse, this fella with a don't-fuck-with-me attitude.

Dara slipped the bag off her shoulder, handed it to Xavier and followed the one with the Sony through the wheelhouse and the hatch to go below.

Now Xavier faced the younger pirate holding the AK.

He said, “How things goin, Dog?”

The boy looked nervous, not knowing how to answer this English coming at him.

Xavier said, “Why don't you hand me your gun,” moving a step toward him. “So I don't have to take it from you and heave your ass over the side. You comprende ‘heave your ass'?” Xavier smiling to show the pirate he was offering this suggestion as a friend. Now he motioned to the young man to step over here, closer to him, Xavier saying, “We got Pirates at home playin
baseball for Pittsburgh. Only time I saw 'em was in '79, they playin the Orioles for the World Series and won it. I was seein a woman in Baltimore and she got the tickets. Willie Stargell, my hero at the time, thirty years ago when I was prime, was named the Series MVP. Hit four hundred with seven extra-base hits. I think it mighta been a record. I won money bettin the Pirates, but this woman got mad and quit doin right by me.”

Xavier was ready to take the AK from the boy, but heard Dara's voice again speaking French, Dara coming out of the wheelhouse now with the other guy, Dara holding Xavier's Beretta in her hand, the gun loaded, thirteen in the magazine, one in the throat.

“Kwame,” Dara said, “will return the Sony if we give him your pistol. But you have to say it's okay.”

“They neither one speak English?”

“Hardly a word.”

“Tell Kwame,” Xavier said, “he don't give you the camera, I'm gonna shoot him between the eyes with this gun and pitch his ass in the sea.”

Dara told the Somali in her Cajun French, “Kwame, my associate says yes, he'll let you have the pistol, if you prefer it, to the camera.”

Said all this handing Xavier the Sony and said, “Start shooting,” as she handed Kwame Xavier's Beretta and the deal was done.

Xavier said, “You know what you doin?”

Dara said, “We'll have to use subtitles on my lines.”

“You giving this man our only protection?”

“We'll get it back,” Dara said.

D
ARA, THE NEXT MORNING,
came out of the wheelhouse to see Xavier on deck scoping the shoreline through binoculars.

“I woke up thinking about a picture I love, but can't remember its name.”

Xavier lowered the glasses to his chest but didn't turn to her. “A wine lover takes his buddy to Napa to sample wines. Paul Giamatti's the one who knows wines. Can't stand Merlot, it's so common. I'll think of the buddy's name in a minute. He's a likable lout. He's getting married the next week, but keeps jumping in bed with a girl he meets. Actually he does her standing up.”

“Sideways,”
Xavier said, raising his glasses. “You hear the boats comin out this time?”

She said, “That's why I came up,” looking at the shore now, about three miles from them.

“We're meetin the Sheik of Araby in a few minutes,” Xavier said. “You anxious to see Idris?”

She said what was on her mind. “Use the little camcorder but
keep it under wraps. He might not want to be filmed. I'll decide later if we show him the footage.”

“I asked are you anxious to see him.”

“Well, he ain't bad.”

“For a Arab or a hijacker?” Xavier said. “You don't mind gettin close with a black guy?”

“If I were nuts about him, why not?”

“You sayin that for my benefit.”

“You aren't bad either,” Dara said. “No, what I like about Idris, he comes off as a free spirit. But is he for real or is he putting us on? Billy Wynn comes off the same way.”

“Won't be long we be seein Billy,” Xavier said. “And cool Helene.”

“Really. You think she's cool?”

“I do, and I haven't even spoken to her.”

 

T
HE CLIP PROJECTED ON
the screen showed three boats coming out, their sound rising to a hard whine. Dara said, “They're called skiffs in most of the reports, but they're twenty-four feet long and they're deep.” She said, “They sound angry, don't they?”

“Pissed off,” Xavier said, “haulin ass for these African muggers.”

They watched the boats on the screen reduce speed, creeping toward the
Buster
now, the Yamahas rumbling.

Or grumbling, Dara thought, and liked it for the voice-over, if it worked. Now she was explaining to someone, anyone:
Now I'm laying in a voice-over for my documentary,
Djibouti.
It's an interesting title, isn't it?
Djibouti.
I feel lucky I found it. I'm humbled by it
.

What does that mean, you're humbled? You've never been humble in your life. But leave it, it might work.

I've only made three documentaries
.

But worked my ass off for other people.
Cajun
was one, a disaster. Limp. Folksy. You should do your own. Maybe call them “docs.” It won't hurt you.

I've only made three docs in my life and all three happened to win major awards. Heck
.

Try saying
shit
. You're being humble again.

I've produced three docs that won awards and I'm determined to make a name for myself
.

Boring. Who cares? Just say:

There is nothing I'd rather do in the entire fucking world than make documentaries
.

Delete
fucking
?

Just get rid of the docs
.

 

“C
OMING LIKE WILD DOGS
,” Dara said. “How about ‘Coming like wolves'?”

“It's the same thing. But ‘dogs' sounds meaner.”

They watched Idris Mohammed standing in the lead boat, his yellow scarf around his head and looped under his chin, a long Arab-looking shirt open, and sunglasses. Pirate chic. The first thing she'd say to him.
You didn't stop on your way back yesterday. Maybe you didn't hear my invitation. I know it was a bit windy
.

Not the invitation, the fucking wind blowing.

But when his boat bumped alongside the
Buster,
the pirate chief looking up at her in his yellow scarf, Idris said, “It comes as my pleasure to see you again. Forgive me for not stopping yesterday. I knew if I did I would stay with you and my Coast Guard boys would have no one to instruct them.”

He called them that, his Coast Guard boys.

Idris was maybe a quarter black, a quadroon? She remembered a scene in
True Romance,
the one where Dennis Hopper knows he's going to be shot and tells Christopher Walken, a Sicilian gangster, his great-great-grandma was fucked by a nigger. Meaning a Muslim from Africa like Idris.

What she kept wondering, How did Idris get started? Who gave him machine guns so he could hijack ships and make enough to buy whatever he wants? Who was backing this fun-loving pirate?

He said, “Yesterday we had trouble boarding the ship, so we let that one go. What difference does it make, there are so many ships come through our sea. Today,” Idris said, “is an easy one. These boys are not mine, they from another clan, with experience. They won't need anyone telling them what to do.”

“Good,” Dara said. “I'd love to see you in action, but I'll settle for an interview.”

He said, “Yes, a chance to be with you. Perhaps make plans for sometime we not doing nothing so important as being together.”

He had turned and was speaking Somali to his Coast Guard boys, all armed with AKs, gesturing now for them to get going. He said to Dara, “There is a sailing yacht out there you can't see. It's maybe two miles from here.”

Xavier shooting all this with the Canon, recording Idris's voice.

“Two persons aboard. Maybe we know them.”

Dara said, “Billy?”

“It could be, yes, I'm hoping so.”

“You'd hijack Billy's yacht?”

“Worth two million dollars he told me,” Idris said. “How much you think he'd pay to keep it?” Idris grinning now. “I'm
kidding with you. We frighten Billy, that's all, as a joke. Show we have a sense of humor. People don't think we have things to laugh at, but we do. Funny things happen to us.”

“Climb aboard,” Dara said, “we'll go rescue the poor guy.”

She turned to Xavier as Idris stepped aboard.

“You get all that?”

“The whole thing,” Xavier said.

B
ILLY
W
YNN WAS WEARING
a canvas shooting vest with cartridge loops on both sides of his chest, eight loops, four empty. He threw his lines to Xavier and Xavier pulled the
Pegaso
alongside to tie on to
Buster,
the boat sitting a hundred or so yards from Eyl's beach of white sand and shelves of rocks.

He said to Idris, “Hey, it's good seeing you again, buddy.” He told Dara and Xavier he must've looked like money-money-money sitting out there like a brain-dead Republican, no idea there were pirates about. He said to Dara, “I
know
you never vote their ticket, you're too with-it. You know things.” He said, “I saw the boats coming out toward us, I thought sounding mean—I told Helene, ‘Hon, go on below while I take care of business.'” He didn't mention what Helene asked him, if this was part of the test. Wild Arabs bearing down on them. Was she being funny? He questioned times he wasn't sure. His feeling for Helene was love, the tender kind, till she drew him to the king-size bed he called their love bunk.

“The first thing I did was check my elephant gun I keep up
here in the cockpit when we're under way. Every morning I bring it topside and fire both loads. Get use to the kick.”

Dara saw Idris about to step from
Buster
to the
Pegaso
and said, “Wait.” And handed Idris a mike to aim at his buddy. “You'll be doing me a huge favor.”

“But I can't show my face,” Idris said, “I'm a bandit to people who can persecute me.”

“We're only shooting Billy while I talk to him, for the film. You won't be seen.”

Xavier shot Idris stepping to the sailboat, Billy offering a hand, Xavier hearing, “Man, but it's a treat to see you again,” while they shook hands. And Idris's voice: “You had trouble with my men? They went by us towing one of the boats and drinking champagne. I said, ‘What is going on?'”

Xavier nudged Dara. “You gonna love it.”

Dara called to Billy, “What did the pirates want?”

“Hold me for ransom, what those people do.”

“Where's Helene?”

“I told her stay below while I run 'em off.” He looked around. “She's still there.”

“Two weeks ago,” Dara said, “we saw you leaving Djibouti. You flew past us and turned around to go back.”

“I took off,” Billy said, “not realizing I was short of stores.”

“Champagne?” Dara said.

“Among other goods. These guys now,” Billy was saying, “they're making a wide circle to come around and run past me from about fifty meters.” He said to Dara, “Why, you think I drink too much?”

Dara said, “How would I know?”

“Helene says getting ripped seems to calm me down. I become serious for some reason. Helene says I make pronouncements.”

Idris had to wait before saying, “You wave something at my boys, show you're a friend?”

“Like what, a white flag? I'm out of the cockpit holding a double-barrel rifle fires six-hundred-caliber Nitro Express rounds. They're coming past me now, ducks in a row. I fire and blow the Yamaha off the first one. The second boat I fire a speck wide, hit the outboard but took a chunk out of the stern. The boat sank in five minutes opened up like it was. I see the guys swimming to the first boat drifting away. Dumb guys don't bring any oars. They look like they're in a panic, the ones in the water, till they got pulled aboard the third boat. I reloaded, my shoulder sore as hell. You talk about a kick—I've seen that Holland & Holland knock people right off their feet. There's a trick to not getting injured by the recoil.”

Dara said, “What about the third boat?”

“They sat out there two hundred meters looking at me. I wanted, I could've hit two of 'em before they pulled away.”

Dara said, “Why didn't you?”

“For what? 'Cause they want to get rich? I thought of telling Helene to put her bra on and come topside. Show these Mohammedans what they're missing. You know my elephant gun set me back a hundred and thirty-five thousand? I'll tell you for a fact, it's good to have the means.”

Dara said, “The third boat left?”

“No, I finally motioned 'em over. Put the rifle down and held up a bottle of champagne in each hand.” He said to Idris, “Those were your guys want to hijack me?”

“They want to greet you,” Idris said, “as a friend of mine come to visit. But you shoot at them?”

“At the boats, not knowing their intention,” Billy said. “I was to shoot
at
them, they'd be floaters.”

Dara watched Idris on the screen shrug and then smile. He said, “I apologize for the misunderstanding.” She watched him turn now to gaze toward the coast. “And would like you to be my guests”—the camera moving toward a scattering of low build
ings along the beach, one much larger on the slope above, dominating the scene—“at my home in Eyl.”

 

D
ARA CLOSED THE LID
of the laptop.

Xavier said, “You went on the sailboat so you could speak to Helene.”

“I got Billy to invite me. He said, ‘You want to learn how to sail?' I told him I had to use the head and went below. Helene was sitting at the table in the salon with a bottle of champagne. She said, ‘Get a glass. That fucking gunfire—my ears are still ringing. He wants me to fire it, get knocked on my ass.'”

“Champagne helps now?”

“It can't hurt. I find if I stay ripped it's easier to follow instructions. ‘Aye, aye, Captain.' He's teaching me how to sail, in the fucking ocean. I don't know how many times I thought of sticking a finger down my throat.”

“But you hung in.”

“Still his little sailor. I have to actually mop the fucking deck.”

“Part of the trial, eh?”

“I guess. I'm not sure it's worth it.”

“Outside of that, you still like him?”

“He's weird. Always looking for pirates, his elephant gun handy.”

“But he doesn't try to shoot them.”

“He sunk their boat. If they happen to drown, tough shit.”

“What's he talk about?”

“The rules of the sea. How to tack, come about. How much money he has. Arabs. He doesn't care for Arabs, I found that out. He said, ‘The Mohammedans scored with 9/11'”—Helene
trying to sound like Billy from East Texas—“‘now they'll try for a bigger bang.'”

“Does he mean al Qaeda? Bin Laden and his people?”

“Billy doesn't say. I think he's dreaming, trying to think of a role he can play. And I happen to be with him, I'm his gang.”

“He isn't CIA, is he? You mentioned that once.”

“He hinted at it, sounding like he's some kind of government agent, but he's not. I came right out and asked him and he smiled, very condescending, and patted my cheek. Like what do you expect from a chick works fashion shows. He said why should he get tied up in rules and red tape when he's got the way to get answers on his own. He means he's got enough money to bribe anyone who can help him. He believes terrorists are playing a part in this, letting the pirates have thirty million, less than half of what's been paid so far.”

“That much in ransoms?”

“At least. More than sixty ships have been hijacked—the latest number he told me this morning—ransomed off or still being held.”

“How does he know that?”

“He makes phone calls. To Billy, the bad guys are the lawyers and Mohammedan terrorists. He always calls them that, Mohammedans. At first he thought it was al Shabaab, the strict Muslim gunmen. They're supposed to be against piracy, but Billy says bullshit, they're taking a cut like everybody else. He told me al Shabaab means ‘young guys' and calls them ‘the lads.' He got that from the BBC.”

“But if Idris and his guys are doing all the work—”

“Billy says Idris is afraid to complain.”

Dara shook her head. “He doesn't know Idris.”

“Billy says they'll shoot him and get somebody else.”

“But Idris is having a ball hijacking ships.” Dara paused.
“There
was
something on the Internet about middlemen, lawyers handling the ransom negotiations from Nairobi, even London. Billy thinks the lawyers represent terrorists?”

“Or they don't know who they represent, or care. Billy can be terribly boring, but he's not dumb.”

“Maybe melodramatic?”

“Serious,” Helene said. “Sometimes he's so fucking serious it's scary.”

“The money's delivered directly to the pirates,” Dara said, “by boat or dropped from a plane. I've seen it.”

“Billy says they get only part of it that way, for show. It keeps the lawyers out of the news.”

“Idris,” Dara said, “has never even hinted at someone telling him what to do.”

“Ask him about it. Maybe Billy's full of shit.”

“I don't know—Idris has always seemed straight with me,” Dara said. “It's why I like him.”

“I do too,” Helene said and took a sip of champagne. “The other night at that club in Djibouti, Las Vegas, he asked me to go for a ride. You'd already left, I didn't know if he wanted to show me the sights or jump me.”

“He made a move when I was with him,” Dara said. “I told him I don't do it in cars, even a Mercedes.”

Helene raised her hand to slap Dara's.

“So you went for a ride with him?” Dara said.

“No, because Ari Ahmed Sheikh Bakar walked in and we started talking. Billy was still after Idris, asking him about his pirates, if they were high when they boarded ships, making it sound like a guy-thing. Idris—he's so fucking cool—said, ‘They do what pleases them.' So Harry and I went for a stroll.”

“I flew in from Paris with him,” Dara said.

“I know, he told me. The two of you talked all night. So you know more about him than I do.”

“To me,” Dara said, “Harry's one of the good guys, if there are any.”

“That's what I told Billy after we left the club. Billy said, ‘There is no way to tell who's good and who's bad in this fucked-up Mohammedan world.'”

“He may be right,” Dara said.