Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) (19 page)

As they cleared the complex, they met up with Teeth and Dawit, a girl between them, and she wasn't going easily. Was she the right one? Wouldn't she know her own Uncle Dawit? But they had her by both arms and she didn't have any choice. They kept running. The cars were split up, a few blocks apart. The girl was going with Dawit and Mustafa, they had already decided. They could talk to her, calm her down. Family first. So they switched partners mid-run, split off. Sirens in the air. The whole neighborhood would be out checking the action soon. They needed as few witnesses as possible. Had to dump these cars and get themselves on the interstate.

The girl was still struggling, twisting her arm and trying to get out of Dawit's grip. She was in a long black t-shirt, nearly to her knees. Flip-flops hindered her running. Mustafa finally heard her. "No, Uncle, no, please! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

Dawit kept saying, "We're here to help you, girl. We're helping you. Saving you."

"I don't want to go back! Don't make me go back!" Crying, too.

They made it to the car, Dawit with the keys. He unlocked it with the bob, and Mustafa took over with Deeqa. Got the back door open, pushed her inside, and followed. He wrapped his arms around her shoulder while she fought and twisted. Dawit slammed the back door and dropped into the driver's seat. They were moving a few seconds later, Dawit hitting the gas hard as some porchlights clicked on.

Mustafa tried again to calm the girl. "Easy, easy, please. We're your family. We're here to help you. Your dad sent us. Your dad, Deeqa."

He had thought that would take her fear away. He thought that she would smile and hug him and tell him how glad she was. But he had never imagined it would make her hysterical. The fear in her eyes, real and growing. She said through tears, "Please don't send me back to him. Please don't hurt me. God, please."

Mustafa caught Dawit's eyes in the rearview. Both of them like,
What the fuck?

"Please," she said, sliding off the seat onto the floormat, head in her hands. Passing streetlights fading in and out, showing Mustafa how fragile she was. "Why would he do this to me again?"

Mustafa looked away, outside at the gray light rising from the east as Dawit found his way back to I-55.

Chi had a lot of explaining to do.

––––––––

"Y
ou could've told me!" Adem paced the restroom at the U.S. Consulate office, shouting at Jacob over the phone an agent had handed him as soon as he got off the chopper and was pretty much shoved into a black sedan, just him and the driver. Five more minutes, he was out again, escorted by silent Americans as Jacob explained what had just happened. "I shit my pants!"

"Good. Means it looked real."

"To me?"

"Don't worry about it. Clean yourself up and someone will debrief you. I'm on my way. Get some rest and we'll talk tomorrow." End of call.

The whole kidnapping had been a put-on. Except when those guards killed his escort early that morning, everything else had been covered. Wrong place, wrong time, blind spot. But they had eyes on him every move after. When he changed in the restroom? Almost got beat up by those three men? It was a CIA sniper who had taken them down. Jacob had said, "They lived. We were careful. They'll be fine."

"But you were going to kidnap me no matter what?"

"Kidnap you, make it look like your Benefactor's work. Tell Faisal to get you a newspaper. You'll see."

But first they had cleared out the men's room at the Consulate, a much smaller building than Adem had expected. But then he realized most of it was probably underground. They allowed him to lock the door so he could clean up. He set the phone beside the sink and peeled off the dress, the foul slacks beneath, his underclothes, tossed them as far away from himself as possible. He smelled sour and shitty. And now that he was naked, cold and alone, he finally took a deep breath and looked at himself in the mirror. An angry man stared back. An embarrassed man.

He noticed a suitbag hanging on the side of the outside stall. He stepped over to it, unzipped. A brand-new shiny gray suit. A soft white shirt, still in the plastic. A pack of boxers, some socks, brown shoes and belt. A shaving kit.

He lifted the kit, opened it. Razor, travel-sized shaving gel, soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash. Everything to get him back to normal. Also, a case for eyeglasses. He opened the case. Wire-rimmed John Lennon frames. Adem took them out, held a lens to his eye. Just as he expected—fake. It was a bit of Superman magic—no one would expect Adem and Mr. Mohammed to be the same person. It didn't make sense.

A knock on the door. Adem stepped over, opened it a crack. A brown agent, chiseled. Adem asked, "Faisal?"

"Yes, sir. Are you ready for the debriefing?"

Sir
? "I need more time. Sorry."

"Not a problem. I'll be here when you're ready."

Adem closed the door. Sir? They called him sir here?

He took his dear sweet time washing, shaving, dressing. If they expected him to act like the legend, the one that had grown so much that Adem barely recognized the character of Mr. Mohammed in the stories anymore, then he would live up to it. Fussy, arrogant, and very, very important. He checked out the new suit in the mirror. Perfect fit. Slipped the glasses on, ran his hands over his freshly shaved scalp, and winked at his reflection before heading to the door.

*

A
small office, a small desk, and four US officials crammed inside. They gave Adem the nice chair, highbacked, leather, one that obviously did not belong on Adem's side of the desk. Faisal was on the edge of a small folding chair, nearly touching Adem's knees, while one guy perched on the edge of the desk and the other sat behind it. He leaned back strangely for a second before righting himself. The man had forgotten Adem had his chair. The woman surprised him. She stood behind him, over his left shoulder, and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. He had seen her before, at the mall. In the ladies' room. Without her hijab, her amber hair was a wild, coily Afro. If he had to guess, he would say half-Somali, half-white. A long nose, dark eyes. Gorgeous. But she wore a hard expression and wouldn't look him in the eye. She had also changed into a severe black suit and red blouse.

The desk pilot introduced the room. Faisal, of course. White old guy named Kilkelly sitting up top. And the office belonged to Paul Guidry, originally from New Orleans, but you wouldn't know it. In his late forties, not quite fat, but soft enough, and with a suit as expensive as his, no one was thinking "fat". The woman was Fatima, and she said, "Hello" in the flat Midwestern American accent he knew so well. She was from the Cities. Had to be.

Guidry said, "Mr. Mohammed, I'm terribly sorry we—"

"Adem."

"What?"

"You can call me Adem. It's okay."

Guidry glanced at the other two. Both shook their heads, shrugged. Guidry said, "Your name is Adem Mohammed?"

How much did these guys actually know? Adem cleared his throat to give himself just enough time to figure it out—maybe Jacob never told them who Mr. Mohammed really was. Maybe not even the woman knew. Then, "No, it's been a long day. Mr. Mohammed is fine, thank you."

"Anyway, we're sorry about all this trouble. We didn't have a lot of time to pull it together. What do you know so far?"

Adem crossed his legs, arms on the armrests. All part of the game. He had been through worse. He had to remember what it was like to bounce back quickly, take command. He made sure his English carried enough of a Somali accent to fool them some more. "I
know
that I've had enough of being the plaything of this, this,
benefactor
. And you people. Don't worry about what I know. Tell me what
you
know."

A few more looks around the room. No one sure who should start talking, where in the storyline. Kilkelly finally said, "He calls himself Uzayr. You heard the name?"

"Maybe."

"But you didn't know it was him?"

Stupid, Adem. Stupid. Of course he had heard the name. He had kept up. Of course, Uzayr was as shadowy as a Bin Laden or Al Zawahiri. It didn't occur to him that this Benefactor would be Uzayr. Put on this big public act as a rich old man, then work hard to obscure the life of this grand terrorist icon. Brilliant. A lot smarter than Adem's blundering.

He wondered, though: why hadn't Uzayr blown Adem's real identity to the rest of the Muslim world? Did he really not know it himself? Even the pirate Gunfighter called his bluff on that.

Adem shook his head. "That is not how he presented himself to me. Very little is known about Uzayr. How did you know it was him?"

"We got lucky a few months ago. Word traveled that you were coming back onto the scene. He started asking around about how to reach you. But someone else reached you first. Still, he had you in his sights."

"Trying to destroy me."

Guidry said, "At least your reputation. Almost did, too. We've been working hard to fix this. Show him, Faisal."

The Arab agent reached under his chair and picked up a newspaper, handed it to Adem. There were pictures of the kitchen he had been held in, blurry photos of his kidnappers on the floor. The aftermath. A smudgy close-up of Adem's face, hiding the fact he was in a dress, inset in the massacre photo's corner.

The headline:
Mr. Mohammed Cleared After Hostage Attempt Foiled
.

He read on, about how he had been kidnapped and forced to do the deal with the Indonesians. One of the translators in the boardroom, so it said, told the reporter that Mr. Mohammed had signaled to her that he was not there of his own accord. Mall security confirmed that three men dressed as guards had found Mr. Mohammed after an escape attempt and dragged him from the building. Someone had enough presence of mind to tail them and call for help. Somehow, the French were called in. The French denied any involvement, but not forcefully. Adem wondered about that—a deal between the US and the French? Not that those were French soldiers, but as cover, someone was really working some wild angles to pull this off.

Guidry said, "It's a great story. You'll get your say after the debrief, and they'll tell you how to spin it. Full-on press conference. Not here, God no. We'll sneak you out."

"And...where do I go? What am I supposed to do?"

More glances, more raised eyebrows.

From behind him, Fatima said, "You don't know?"

"Know what?"

She sighed. She
really
didn't like him much, did she? "Jacob has been assigned to work with you on capturing Uzayr. We need more evidence. It might take several months. But we think he will come after you after the interview tomorrow. You've come as close to anyone ever has to outing his real identity."

Which I still don't know
, Adem thought. "How is that possible?"

Faisal said, "You've seen him. None of us ever have."

"Not even Jacob?"

Head shakes all around.

"People either work for Uzayr and know who he is, work for him and don't know who he is, or so on and so forth. We've gotten close, but people who've seen him have gotten killed. You got lucky."

Kilkelly said, "So we've got you a condo, fully secure, the sort of place a man of your reputation would deserve, of course. We'll sneak you out, set you up there, and start putting together the organization everyone thinks you already have. He'll send someone after you."

"Again."

A shrug. "You're a celebrity. If that's what it takes to make this work for all of us, we're more than happy. We weren't convinced at first, but Jacob was adamant. Said your grandmother moved to Minneapolis in the Nineties. Said you like American music. Said you were tired of working for teenage thugs."

Adem grinned. "More than you know."

Kilkelly pointed towards the woman. Adem turned in his chair. "Jacob asked Fatima to be on your back-up team. She's from Minneapolis, too."

"St. Paul," she said.

"What's the difference?"

Adem grinned. "Just because they're twin cities doesn't mean they're exactly the same."

"Whatever. But you have her to thank for escaping today. She's a great goddamned shot, I tell you."

She finally gave him her full attention as he absorbed it. Fatima, the sniper who took out the assholes outside that restroom. She raised her eyebrows, then looked away again.

After some more debriefing and planning, they all stood and shook hands, except Fatima, who left halfway through. Faisal was about to escort him out when Adem turned, held up his finger. "I did what I did to help. I did not want the hostages to die. I did not want the boys to die. I wanted peace. I would
never
agree to what they said I did for this man, I hope you understand."

All of them,
Yes indeed. We understand. Thank you for your help
.

"Good day." He turned to the door, buttoned his coat, and walked out in to the hall and didn't stop. Thought to himself, if he was going to lie about why he was doing this, might as well go all in.

*

A
dem snooped around and found Fatima in the hallway talking to Kilkelly later. He stood in an open doorway and tried not to stare, several steps away. He tried not to listen in, which was easy enough to do because they were experts at the art of whispered conversation. After Kilkelly had looked up, gave him a funny expression, and then walked away, Fatima went back into the nearest office. Adem followed.

At her desk, at least temporarily, Fatima went to work on her laptop and ignored him standing there. He knocked on the open door, lightly. She looked up with the same granite expression she had in the office.

She said, "You shouldn't have bought that dress."

"I'm sorry."

Eyes back to the screen. "You shouldn't have gone into the men's room. How was I supposed to cover you? What were you thinking?"

He remembered his logic and thought about how backwards it seemed now. Too clever for this world, his grandmother used to tell him. "I had just seen an agent killed. I was alone. I didn't know what to do."