All the Young Warriors

FIFTEEN

The baby eventually stopped crying. Adem wasn't sure if it had gotten well or if it had died. Didn't know if it was a he or a she. He didn't ask. Otherwise, day and night came and he stayed in bed and then day and night would come again. When he first awoke, he'd thought he was only a day or two away from a full recovery. But as the drugs ebbed and flowed and he tried to get out of bed when no one was paying attention-but it seemed someone always was, like the ever-present guard outside his tented bed-Adem discovered that the beating had been almost as bad as stepping on a mine. He hadn't lost his limbs or his eyes or his genitals, but another minute of boot stompings would've done the trick.

Legs, bruised up and down, his left fibula broken in two places, some bones in his feet crushed. Broken right arm. Broken fingers on both hands. Possible bone spurs along his spine. One testicle, badly swollen. Broken nose. Lacerations all over his face and scalp. A few cracked ribs. And a knife wound across his neck.

He had his eyes, his mouth, despite split lips, and his mind. Enough to survive. Enough to keep him afraid that at any moment, someone would come and pass more judgment on him, finish where his would-be executioner had failed. He slept lightly through the nights, only relaxing once the morning came and Sufia arrived to take care of him.

He'd asked Jibriil more about her on his next visit. Was she a nurse? A soldier's wife? A visiting crusader like they were? His friend had smiled. "Are you getting ahead of yourself a little? Falling in love?"

"I just…it's nice to have someone to talk to."

"Someone who looks that good, too."

"Come on, not like that." But it was and they both knew it.

Jibriil had lowered his voice. "Adem, be careful, though. It's different here. Talk to her, but keep it casual. You want to rub one out thinking of her, fine. Don't let the guard find out. Be careful. Don't lose yourself."

"I wasn't going to-"

"Yes, I know you say that but then feelings get complicated. What if she really does like you? You going to take her out? A nice Italian joint? Sure, a night on the town. I'm sure her fathers and brothers and all of these teenage boys around here who hate you and can't fuck her will be fine with it."

Adem promised nothing would happen. Nothing. He wouldn't risk her like that. But he asked that Jibriil make sure she would keep taking care of him. It was helping him grow stronger every day. With a wink, Jibriil left. Sufia kept coming around, maybe a little more shy than before. She was harder to engage in conversation. Kept flicking her eyes around as if someone was always watching. But Adem kept trying, anything to keep his mind off the pain. And sometimes he would hit a subject-books, music, cooking-that would open her eyes wider, make her spill more animated giggles, show her teeth. And that was reason enough for Adem to keep fighting the depression, the boredom, and the fear. He would do it. He would build his strength and go back to his patrol, standing tall amongst the men who had beaten him and wanted his head on a pike.

He'd be fine. All he had to do was think of Sufia.

*

Seven, eight days in bed. Nine, ten. He wondered how far away from the camp he was. If this wasn't the hospital proper, then where had they set this up? Hidden from government troops, what few there were anymore. The building didn't shake so much when the artillery shells exploded. Like thunder and lightning, counting between the flash and the rumble.

Another boring afternoon. Adem had a Quran and a four month old South African newspaper that Jibriil sneaked to him, which Adem then had to hide under his mattress. The leaders found so much to be "un-Islamic", like football, music, movies, books, newspapers, a list that grew longer everyday, including the rules for how men and women should and shouldn't interact-mostly, how they shouldn't interact at all. The boys in the army seemed to have a problem with women especially, as if blaming them for the lack of Islamic discipline amongst the citizens.

Adem was surprised that Sufia was allowed to tend him, although it was only for mundane things. When it came to bedpans, changing bandages, a wet cloth to wipe down his skin, there were men to do that. Even once his colleague Garaad, not someone Adem had expected or hoped to see. He came to help clean his "brother", grabbed him by the hair above his bandage and pulled, wiped his face, his chest, his feet. Smiling as he did it. Regaling Adem with all the great battles he was missing. All the punishments doled out to the traitors. "But you feel sorry for them, no? Even though you killed a man for stealing bread."

"I didn't mean to-"

A hard yank on his scalp. "You did. That's all that matters."

When he was done, Garaad peeled back the bandage from Adem's neck. Adem slapped at Garaad's hand, but the soldier easily grasped Adem's wrapped fingers, squeezed, sent a river of pain through Adem's arm, shoulder, neck. Garrad examined the neck wound with a slightly open mouth, almost titillated by it.

"It would have been a deep cut. Right through half your neck. He knew what he was doing."

Garaad poked the wound. Adem seethed.

The soldier slapped the bandage back into place and stood. "Lucky man. Blessed, even. Or one might say 'privileged'? One might say."

Adem caught on. Didn't answer. Some of the boys must have thought it was only because of Jibriil that Adem was recovering in such luxury. Or that he was recovering at all instead of his body being paraded up and down the streets as a cautionary lesson to other traitors.

On his way out, Garaad made a finger gun and went "Pow, Cowboy," in English. Then he swept through and was gone, laughing.

Adem closed his eyes and wondered what his friends at college were doing as the snow piled higher outside their dorms. He wished he could give them a call.

*

More days passed. A crutch, some practice, and he was up and around. The room wasn't as long as he'd thought, his bed being at the far end instead of floating in the middle of a sea of them. Adem never saw any doctors around. The closest was when Jibriil visited, which was less often as he improved, and asked what he needed. Like asking a surgery patient to guide the scalpel. But whatever he asked for-pain meds, clean bandages, antibiotics-showed up almost as soon as Jibriil had gone.

Adem began chewing khat. It gave him a boost of energy, helped with the pain. Spit green out the windows. Loved to stand there, looking out while chewing, walking from window to window. Some afternoons, he saw children playing football in the lot behind the building.

Sufia found him one afternoon, chewing, spitting, watching. She watched with him, didn't say anything.

Adem said, "Isn't it dangerous for them to play that? Won't they get lashes?"

"Since when do boys care about that? If they get caught, they'll run."

"They're crazy for it. Willing to risk their hides for it."

"What do you expect? It's football." Something else to make her laugh. A nice smile as she looked out the window. "As long as they're having fun. There's not supposed to be much of that anymore."

He turned to her. "Then why are you here? We're working for the side that hates fun."

"I can ask you the same thing."

"I didn't know."

Sufia turned her face to the floor. "What a terrible answer." She began to walk away.

Adem hobbled behind. "I should have, you're right. Just another ignorant American. But please, why you?"

"Let's not discuss this. It's not right." Busied herself, taking sheets from beds, balling them up.

"Okay, okay, but, let's talk." Finally caught up, tried to get in front of her. "It helps me feel better."

"Sure it does."

"Do you like soccer?"

Sufia stopped, rolled her eyes. "I thought it was bad here, I had no idea. In London, you'd think the college boys were on the team, the way they talked. ' We won. Look at us.' Is that a better obsession than the word of Allah? The will of the prophet? It's only a ball."

"I know, right? The whole sport, so boring. I mean, you know, back in the states we really like basketball. That's got some speed to it, always moving, always taking a shot. Got to think quick, move quick."

"I've seen it." Wrinkled her nose.

"Really? You didn't like it?"

She balled up the next sheet more fierce. "Sweaty boys in, in, baggy shorts. They're not shorts! They look like they're wearing a dress. At least the footballers are manly. That's how sinners are supposed to look."

"Seen any American football?"

She barked a laugh. Adem looked around. His guard was now at the window where they'd just been, watching the kids play until Sufia let that noise fly. Now he watched them both with angry eyebrows.

"Isn't it time for you to get back to bed?" She said, still the hint of a smile there, fading into the gracefulness of her smooth, caramel skin.

Adem wanted to reach out, touch her cheek. Maybe even lean in for a kiss. Simple things. Natural things. All the things the God of this army said he should never ever do. He didn't understand.

"One day you can tell me more about London. I've never been."

"Maybe that's a good thing." She carried her sheets away. He stood watching her go. Turned back to the guard. Still staring. Still had angry eyebrows. Adem winked at him and eased his way back to bed, all thirty-three excruciating steps.

*

Sufia finally told him about London. Whispered about it one morning when Adem ventured down the stairs and outside for the first time in nearly a month. She said it seemed the whole world could live there together and be perfectly fine. She had to be careful. It was so easy to get caught up in the world-the clubs, the shopping, the indulgent food, the books and movies.

"Like my father told me when he called me home. He said, 'The devil throws everything he has at us because all we have is the Word. He knows what we've hidden and shines a light on it.'"

They were slowly walking along the road in front of the building. Still in Mogadishu, but an area where the buildings weren't mostly rubble, the pavement wasn't broken, and where Adem thought he heard the ocean. Could be they were near the shore, sure. He would love to see it, would have to ask Sufia if it was a possibility.

"Then why? If you had all that, what was it that made you come back here?"

"Weren't you listening? All that was taking me further from what I had been taught. I wanted to see the country again. I want to see it beautiful again." Her face gave away something sad, though. "I thought…I mean, I still think one day…I thought it would be different, that's all."

"Less hell, more heaven?"

A nod. "I know war is ugly. Necessary, but…maybe you soldiers should remember that we're all on the same side."

"Hey, don't blame me."

"You know what I mean."

Jibriil had found Adem some clothes, regular T-shirts and pants and sandals. They fit a bit loose, which was more than fine. Adem wondered if they were taken off dead soldiers. Any other place but here, he would not have worn them, but for the moment they were a blessing. His toes didn't send spikes of pain when he took a step. His nose bandage was down to a minimum. The cuts on his head, mostly healed. Only his leg held him up, and then the pain along his spine, the bone spurs. But when he was with Sufia, despite the looks of men and women and soldiers all around them, he felt as good as before the beating.

Adem asked, "Would you ever think of leaving, though? For good? It's okay to love your country from far away."

"It's not the same."

"Think about it, though. London again? Or Dubai? Or, out on a limb here, the States?"

Whatever rhythm they'd had froze over. Adem felt the chill. Sufia stopped walking. Adem nearly fell over trying to stop himself. He worked his way around until he was standing in front of her. Very close.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know we couldn't say-"

"I think it would be better if I left. I can go back to the camp and cook."

"Come on, don't do that."

"You are the one who's doing. This is very inappropriate."

It was a strange feeling, looking into her eyes and knowing that every word she was saying, no matter how sharp and forceful, didn't express how she really felt. She wanted to say Yes, please, I'd love to see the States. She was curious like that. Sufia deserved to see the world, not told her "proper" place in it.

He glanced over her shoulder. No one paying attention. Something so innocent, really. He took one more hobble towards her, took her arm in his free hand gently, leaned in for a kiss. At first she pulled back, but not so much. If she'd truly wanted away, all it would have taken was a step backwards. But she stayed. He kept on. A tiny, dry peck on the lips.

He pulled away. Her eyes, wide open. She shivered beneath his touch. Blinked one two three four-

Then cupped his face with her hand and kissed him for real. Bold, hard. He fought to keep his balance on his crutch. Wanted it to go on and on. But a few seconds later, she backed away, five feet. Held her hands together tightly. As if he was a stranger. What had he done? Adem felt as if every eye in Somalia was on him. Nothing was innocent. He should've fought the urge. Fighting urges was the whole point, now he realized. Oh God. How could he accept anything less than more after that kiss?

"I have to go."

"I'm sorry," Adem said.

"Me too."

"Can't we talk about-"

"I have to go." She shook her head. Her whole body was in denial, like he was a stranger to her.

When she was gone, he leaned against the wall. There was no place to sit except the ground. If he did that he would never get up again.

Maybe that would be okay.

*

He didn't see her again over the next few days. An older woman took over his care, didn't look him in the eye, didn't say much at all. The shadow of his ever present guard appeared closer, darker. He asked Jibriil about Sufia.

"I told you, forget it. So forget it."

"At least tell me, is she okay? She's doing well?"

Jibriil sighed. "Of course. Absolutely. But she's lucky."

He didn't explain why.

Then she was back, one morning, unexpected, there as he was opening his eyes. As vivid as ever. She startled him. He sat up and wanted to shout out her name

Sufia put a finger to her lips. Went about her business, then left without another word.

Maybe it was a weird relationship from then on, but he could live with it. Being close to her, that was worth it. There were a few shared glances, smiles, touches. But all of them subtle.

A week of it. Then another. Small talk between them building each morning. More newspapers delivered from Jibriil. Still distant sounds of war, none of them encroaching their building. It was boring, but it gave him time to think. Whatever reasons Sufia had for wanting to return, for being loyal to her faith and family, sounded a hell of a lot better than whatever Jibriil was chasing. It didn't feel like the same thing. The army of young men, zealots who got off on killing and finding a way to bend the rules so that they could kill and kill again no matter what their holy book said.

They talked about their battles, their ambushes, their assassination of prisoners, all while laughing, smiling. Nothing about those boys reminded him of the beauty of a call to prayer. Or of the beaches, which Sufia and his guard finally took him to see. Or how the women, modest in dress, expressed themselves in brightly colored hijabs. What was it, then? Was Islam what the soldiers said it was, or what Sufia showed him just by being who she was?

He sat on the beach in the afternoon, watched the waves, and thought that he would be more than happy to help Sufia's dreams about Somalia come true, as long as he didn't have to carry a gun any more.

*

Another week. Adem only used the bed for sleeping, but he was sleeping more than usual. It felt good. He could walk without the crutch, but with a limp. The better he felt, the less Sufia was around. To fill the void, he began talking to the other soldiers here, some burned badly, some shot, one or two with AIDS, nearing their end. Adem was surprised to find a couple of boys slightly younger than him, both from elsewhere like himself-Australia and Sweden. They could talk about TV shows they missed, music, movie stars. Quietly, of course. And the stars had to be pretty big for all three to connect-Jay Z, okay. Will Smith, okay. Beyonce, okay.? uestlove, not so much.

The Swede, adopted before he could walk, had really come back to find his father. Turned out Dad had died by way of the Ethiopians, which was enough for Hirsi to sign up. His truck had been attacked fighting the government. He was stuck inside while it burned. Half his face was cracked, crisp, his eyelid burned away. Scalp so thin in parts, Adem thought he could see skull.

The Australian, Yusef, had lost an arm after being shot in a battle with Uni African forces. He seemed proud of it. He asked Adem if he'd met any of the American white guys over here. "So weird. One was from Carolina. Like, South Carolina. He had a drawl and everything."

"White Islam? Really?"

"There's a few. Weird."

They told him stories. Crazy stuff. Soldiers who whipped women for wearing bras. Grand schemes to terrorize Israel, a handful of martyrs at a time. More stonings for adultery, theft, and blasphemy, which could be nearly anything.

Just when he thought he'd found some guys who understood where he was coming from, they began talking about rejoining the fight. Doing whatever it took to prove they weren't weak in the eyes of Allah. Hirsi told Adem, "Yes, they are going to send me home. But it's so I can plan an attack. I'll lie in wait, one year, and then trust me, you'll hear about it. It'll be great."

Adem made some excuses-pain, needed to exercise-and got out of there. Down the stairs, outside, walked right past Sufia without a word. She would've seen it on his face. He didn't want to risk hearing that she agreed with those guys. Hirsi, still cringing in pain, his face half a deathmask for the rest of his life, taking it out on the people who rescued him from this hell before he could even walk. Giddy about it.

He made his way several blocks to the beach, fast as he could. Walked all the way out to the water. In up to his shins. Felt good. He thought about swimming. Then about swimming for it. Freedom. How far along the coast would he need to swim before finding a town not controlled by this army? How far before he gave up and drowned? He stared as far as he could, the sunlight popping off the water like a million flashbulbs.

Then there were the sharks. Both in the water and on land watching. He wouldn't make it far. Didn't matter how free it looked. The ocean was as much a prison as his hospital bed. So instead, he sat on the sand right beyond where the waves could reach.

That was where they found him.

*

He heard them first. Turned, made out four, the heat blurring them. Jibriil was always recognizable to Adem, no matter what. The way he walked, the swagger. With him, someone at least two feet taller, and then two more men, officers. Something about them said officers. As the blur cleared, it was clear that they were all wearing uniforms. Jibriil's was new, dark green, maybe his first time to wear it. The keffiyeh, the white scarf, around his head was blinding. The tall man wore a double-breasted suit, a wide floral tie, and a green beret on his head, ones that their enemies, the UA, wore. That didn't make any sense. The other two men were obviously higher-ups, their scarves sitting on top of their heads, flowing in the breeze behind them. No doubt they'd come looking for Adem.

By the looks on their faces, the sharks suddenly seemed a better fate.

"Look who can walk all the way to the beach by himself now. See? He's in good shape." Jibriil, finally breaking into a smile, helped Adem from the sand. Adem was only a little taller than Jibriil, but next to the giant in the suit, both seemed like children.

One of the older officers, fully bearded with more of an Arab look, said, "And not running away this time. That's good."

No one introduced themselves. They acted as if they all knew Adem's story already. He didn't know if he should drop to his knees or fear for his life. Jibriil would've told him, he was sure. So he stood there. Not a word.

His friend now motioned to the tall man. "Go ahead. Really."

Now that they were closer, Adem saw that the green beret had a bullet hole in it and was stained by blood. The tall man's blood? Or had he taken the hat as a prize?

He'd been used to the mix of Arabic, English, and Somali he'd heard, but when the tall man began speaking, it was different. He immediately understood-this was Northern Somali. The "official" version, slightly different in dialect from the Mogadishu version. "I am Farah. And yes, I took this beret from the head of my enemy."

Adem didn't realize he'd been staring at it. Farah took it from his head. "Shot him by my own hand, back when I did that sort of thing. Next time I'll aim lower and keep the hat clean."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean…I wanted to ask."

"Absolutely. Tell me, your family is originally from the eastern coast?" Switching over to Arabic.

"Yes, north of Mogadishu. I've never been there, though. I might have some uncles and cousins there. I wouldn't know them."

"Shame, then. You came so far to be so close and still not know. Are they Muslim?" This time switching to Af Maay Maay, a Southern dialect, almost a different language. It was like watching a bad Minneapolis comedian doing a Texas twang. Was this a test? Adem's father knew Maay, taught Adem a lot about it while he was in high school.

"Yes. We all are. I'm pretty sure."

Farah glanced at Jibriil and the others. Nods, raised eyebrows.

Then, in very mannered, rough English, "But this language, this is your bread and butter, is it not? An American college boy. You grew up speaking English. More than that, you know how Westerners think. You know when they mean what they say."

Back at him, in English, "What's going on here?"

In French: "Can you tell when an American is lying?"

"About as well as I can tell when Jibriil is."

Laughs all around. One of the officers slapped Jibriil on the back. But Jibriil did not look amused. Pain was creeping down Adem's leg again. He hoped they'd let him sit down again soon.

Farah said something else, something Adem couldn't translate. But he recognized it. "I don't know Dutch. Or Swedish. It's one of those, isn't it?"

Farah waved it off. In English again, rough indeed. "No matter. I need someone like you. We have importance…ah… importance for you. A job for you."

"One that involves talking to foreigners?"

"Can you tell where an American is from on accent alone like you can a Somali?"

Adem shrugged. "Sometimes. But a lot of people grow up watching TV now, so they're losing some of the differences."

In Minneapolis he'd hardly heard the typical Minnesota accent everyone laughed at and imitated. Then he moved out west for college and discovered many of the adults honked like that every day. The kids his own age, though, could've been from anywhere. He missed that sound-the flat, neutered English of his friends.

The men laughed the way older men do. Adem wasn't sure what was funny. Jibriil said, "Shall we go back now?"

They began walking the road to the hospital, all of them patient with Adem's limp, as if he was the most important among them. Jibriil and Farah flanked him.

"You're perfect for this. It's going to be great." Jibriil wrapped Adem up with an arm around the shoulder, a big squeeze, knocking Adem off-balance. They waited for him to get his rhythm back, started again. "They need a translator."

"Who are they?"

A shrug. "Kind of like the navy."

Farah said, "When enemy states send their tankers and cruise ships into our waters as if they are immune simply because they are not on the frontlines, then we act. They take our fish, they poison our water. And we make those states pay for their transgressions."

It took a moment to click in Adem's head. He turned to Jibriil. "You mean-"

"Yes, exactly. Pirates."

"Pirates?"

This was when Adem expected to wake up. It was bizarre enough to be where he was and to have seen what he had seen. But then there were pirates?

He didn't wake up. He was still limping towards a building he wished he'd never have to sleep in again, full of seriously wounded young men still dreaming of martyrdom. A woman he couldn't fall in love with even though he already had. A handful of newspapers he'd read forty times apiece.

But he'd rather sleep there than be a pirate.

"I can't be a pirate. Look at me! Just because I have a limp doesn't mean it's a wooden leg."

Jibriil laughed. The others didn't. Jibriil explained the thing about the leg, and one of the men said, "Oh, Johnny Depp. Pirates."

Adem hadn't meant to be funny, leaned in to tell Jibriil, "I can barely walk. I'm in a world of pain. This is ridiculous-"

Jibriil shut him up with a curled lip. No jokes.

Farah said, "You can come to Bosaso with me, and you will help me talk to the companies who own the ships. You will be my mouth. But they will know that you are an independent… ah… contractor, I think is how you say it. So if they were to arrest you or threaten you, it would not deter us. You will have no inside information. You will only know what we tell you."

Adem couldn't believe it. Bosaso. Like, a real city. Modern, growing, free. It was on the northern coast, near the horn, Puntland. Mostly untouched by his army. He was surprised to hear they had any presence there at all.

One of the other officers picked up again. "We have trained some of their men. They recruit from us. In exchange, we have been rewarded very well. A vital source of help to wage our campaign."

"So I don't have to be on the ship?"

Farah said, "No, no. To put you there would be pointless. I need you on land, in meetings with me, talking to moneymen and politicians. They won't see you the same way they see us. We dress like them, talk like them. We will give you a place to live, on your own. When your job is done for the day, you will be free to move about the city. And you will be given money to cover your living expenses, and a small portion of any ransom you help negotiate."

Another glance at Jibriil. Grinning, made his scar look more frightening. "You're perfect for this, Adem. It's what you've been studying for. It's business, politics, world affairs, all balled up into one."

It hadn't come out of the blue. That was obvious. Jibriil must have used his rank to ask around, find a way out for Adem. Not a real way out. As the man had told him, he would be "free to move about the city", but he left unsaid, but not to leave it.

"I don't know," Adem said. "I need to think about it."

Farah looked down on him, a sour look on his face. "I don't have time."

Jibriil pulled Adem aside, spoke softly. "What are you doing?"

"There's a big difference between fighting a war and becoming a criminal."

"Not really. Not here. Look, to kill a man, for the glory of God even, is still killing a man. What will you be doing for these men instead? Talking. Just talking. Not killing. Some of us are called to fight. But you're special. You are not a fighter. But goddamn, can you talk."

Adem shook his head. "Too fast."

"You've been here over a month now. How much more time do you need? I've been trying to help you, and now I can. Please, take the job. You'll be like an ambassador. Adem, please."

He was right. It was better than what he had expected. Lying awake at night, waiting for his guard to tell him it was time to go back to the camp, gear up for another fight. Or worse, for the guard to take him out back, put Adem on his knees, and finish the job the mob had started. This limbo was nice-Sufia, the beach, the quiet. But once it was over, there would be no plane back to the States. Farah's offer was the best chance he had.

He said, "Okay. Okay, I'm ready."

Jibriil let out a deep breath. Smile coming to his face. "Thank God."

They rejoined the men in the middle of the street, Jibriil about to start talking when Adem said, "I'd like to make one request, if that's okay with you, sir."

Farah narrowed his eyes, but it wasn't anger. More like he was amused by the weak American standing up to him like that. He told the other officers in Arabic, "What kind of monster have we created here?"

Laughter. Then, "Hear him out, at least. He's already started negotiating hasn't he?"

Did they think he didn't know Arabic? Hadn't they tested him, like, two minutes ago? Adem said, "Please, it's not much to ask."

More laughter from the officers, but Farah wasn't so happy this time. Adem continued in Arabic. "I would like an assistant, especially since I'm still not completely healthy yet. There's a woman who helps me here, Sufia, and I could really make use of her kindness until I'm fully recovered."

No one was laughing anymore. Farah stared into Adem's face. Taking it apart in his mind? The tall man finally said, "Absolutely not."

Jibriil leaned towards Adem. "It's not the way-"

"I'm sick of that answer. I know it's not what they do here. But it's what I want, and I can at least ask."

"You asked, he said no. There."

Adem turned back to Farah, Jibriil's hand wrapping around his bicep. "Why not?"

Not used to being talked to like this. The tall man let out a breath, probably dismissing the little bastard. There was always combat if that's what he preferred. Farah said, "We can give you a nurse. We can give you an assistant. There's no need-"

"Tell me, you can give me a cook, someone to change my bandages, someone to help with my schedule. But you can't give me a woman who speaks English better than I do. One who was educated in London. I don't need an assistant. I need her. If she's in a meeting, maybe she sees or hears something I miss. Body language. Tone. I don't know. But believe me, you want both of us for this."

Farah couldn't help but grin as Adem pled Sufia's case. He turned to the other officers. "A born negotiator. I'm glad he's on our side. Otherwise, I would kill him where he stands."

Adem flinched. But held his ground and his tongue. Nothing else to say.

One of the other officers motioned to Jibriil. "You know the girl he's talking about?"

"Yes, she's helped his recovery greatly."

Nods all around.

Farah finally stuck out his hand. "Deal. But you pay her out of your cut. You find her a place to stay. Not with you."

Adem shook it. He wondered what else he could've gotten-more money? Two weeks vacation? But Sufia was worth more than any of that. The others began walking back to the hospital. Adem didn't have anything to pack. He wondered if they would let him keep his rifle. He hadn't seen it since being dragged from the truck, so it was probably lost forever, in the hands of some twelve-year-old ready to take on the infidels. Let him have it. Adem preferred a shower, a bed, and some time alone with Sufia.

Jibriil told Farah, "I'd also like to send along a bodyguard, if that's okay. I know you might have plenty of men for this, but I can send a man with combat experience, someone vested in keeping Adem away from danger at all costs."

Not a bodyguard, Adem thought. A babysitter. Maybe the guard who had been watching him his entire time here, never got his name. Whatever. If he wanted to stand in the hall with his gun and look bored, fine.

At the hospital, a jeep awaited Farah, his driver very much looking like a pirate-sleeveless shirt, bandana around his head. Scars on his arms, face. Staring daggers. Farah told one of the officers to find Sufia. Jibriil called out to one of his soldiers, but Adem missed exactly what he said. The soldier rushed off.

Jibriil slapped a hand on Adem's back, pride spilling out of him. "Trust me, this job is important. I even think it can help you make it home."

"Really?"

"No promises. If this goes well, there are high hopes for you."

"For what? I don't get it. If I get them a good ransom, I'm set free? Is that the deal you made?"

"Better than that. Much better." Wide smile.

"Cut it out. Tell me already." He'd been standing too long. Shifted from foot to foot and again and again.

Jibriil said, "If you prove yourself, then they will see you are perfect to lead crusades back home. A long one, where you will plan and guide our people towards a strike against the Cities. One big target. You understand?"

Adem first thought he meant Target Center, the arena in Minneapolis where the Timberwolves played basketball, and where many pop artists help concerts. Adem had been there several times to see games and shows. He saw Jamie Foxx in concert there last summer. But then he realized, the prize, the one big symbolic strike that would really hit at the heart of American indifference and consumerism.

"The Mall."

"Now you see. The Mall."

The Mall of America in Bloomington, south of the Metro. Adem hadn't gone there much, but of course he'd gone. Everyone had to go at least once. Huge, so much stuff to buy. Filled at all times of the day or night. Some tourists came from out of town to shop there-that was the whole vacation. A bus from your hotel would drop you off at the mall, pick you up. It was like a city. You could practically live there if you played your cards right and had some money in your pocket. To hear Jibriil say it this way, excited, hopeful, even, chilled Adem. He remembered hanging out there with Jibriil, meeting up with girls, talking about all the clothes and watches and sunglasses they couldn't afford.

Adem couldn't imagine how he would react if a suicide bomber detonated himself while he was there buying some sneakers. Four, five, six bombers at once, strategically placed. More, even. The scary part was that he could pull it off, easily. His stomach twisted. His sweat felt colder.

A soldier arrived with Sufia behind him. She looked confused but placid. Nothing about Farah intimidated her, either. Made Adem feel all puffed up. Wanted to say, That's my girl.

Farah said, "Adem has been given an important assignment in Bosaso. He'll be working with us. You will come along to assist him."

"Sir?"

"He requested you. You'll help him."

Shouldn't she be smiling? Or at least trying to hide it? Adem said, "You've been so helpful, I thought…anyway…"

She nodded. Still no sign of gratitude. "I have work here, caring for the soldiers, preparing food, so much to do."

Farah, loudly, "There's always someone else for that. We've already decided. Your needs will be provided for. We're ready to go."

Finally a glance from Sufia. Those eyes. Adem raised his eyebrows. Great, yeah? Isn't it? But what he got back from her made him feel like hiding. Such a contemptuous stare. A frown. Adem looked at the ground to escape it.

And then a young soldier joined them, stopping his run, kicking up dust. Out of breath. Adem kept looking down. His boots.

"You wanted me, sir?"

The voice got Adem's attention. The last one he wanted to hear. Raised his chin. This wasn't his guard at all. It was Garaad. Good ol' Garaad, ready to take off Adem's head in a second. An idiot full of bloodlust. No, please, not this, Jibriil. Anything but this.

Jibriil pointed towards Adem, then Farah. "My friend here is going to Bosaso to do some important work. He needs you to watch over him, protect him. It is very important you keep him safe."

Garaad was nodding the entire time, hands on his hips while he caught his breath. "Yes sir. I will, sir. You can count on me."

Adem's heart sank. Even more when Garaad saw Sufia and said, "What's this one doing here? What's her problem?"

Adem stepped up. "She's coming with me. My assistant. My rules, understand? You keep me safe, but we play this my way."

A round of ohs and ahs from the crowd, applauding the American's balls, standing up to an obviously much stronger, tougher, and deadlier soldier. But even standing toe to toe, Garaad smirking, looking down on Adem like he could crush him in one go, all Adem could remember was Garaad running away from the gunmen in Ethiopia, passing all his brothers-in-arms as if they were stumps. Somewhere deep in those muscles lurked a coward.

Farah placed his hand on Adem's shoulder. "No. My rules. Are we clear?"

Adem sucked his cheeks tight against his teeth. "Yes."

"Excellent." The tall man in the suit started for the jeep. "Shall we?"

Jibriil embraced Adem one more time, a hard hug, one that hinted that Jibriil knew this might be it. "Be safe, brother. Don't give them a reason to kill you. Do it right. For me."

"You stay safe, too. Come see me. We can get you off the battlefield, you know."

Jibriil let go. "Why would I want to leave? I love it here."

Then Jibriil embraced Garaad, a fine, undeserved send-off. The silent guard was looking to be a good choice right about then, but Adem didn't dare mention it. He knew exactly why Garaad was the one Jibriil wanted. He was the one who wouldn't put up with any bullshit Adem tried to throw at the pirates. He might say all those kind things, call Adem his brother, but all of it was nothing compared to his distrust.

Sufia sat in the front seat of the jeep, since to put her in back would have her rubbing up against two men. Adem thought it was a place of honor, but the others he knew considered it shameful that she was coming along alone. If any other soldiers happened to see this, they might drag her off the jeep and stone her immediately, no trial.

But they made it down the road, Farah between the two men in the back. Bumpy road, traveling too fast. Not much was said. Adem wanted to ask many questions-what boat? How many hostages? What's the hold up with negotiations? Has there already been talk between them? What's my job, really? But he had already guessed that Farah was not a man who liked questions. He preferred giving orders. So Adem kept quiet, bumping along until they came to a clearing where a helicopter waited for them, blades already whirring. No wasting time.

They held onto their scarves to keep them from whipping around as they ran from the jeep to the chopper. Sufia struggled the most, her hijab threatening to fly clean off her head. Adem helped her up into the chopper, climbed in after, and there they were, finally, sitting next to each other.

He said to her, "Trust me, this is going to be better for both of us."

She didn't answer. Didn't even look at him. He couldn't understand why this wasn't okay. Why was she giving him the cold shoulder? Maybe it felt like a demand-Adem turning into one of the other men, always demanding but never thinking to ask what she had wanted.

He turned to the windows, watched the chopper lift from the ground. His first chopper ride. His stomach knotted tighter as they moved forward, the land and the beach and then they were over the open water, leaving purgatory for a lesser kind of hell.