Crossbones

19

THE PROPOSITION THAT HE AGREE TO CONDUCT AN INTERVIEW with Fidno as a way of securing his help with Taxliil strikes Malik as a development of second-water grade, as far as diamond discovery goes, even if Ahl makes it sound as though he has uncovered a first-water-quality gem.

Ahl has called not only to share his breakthrough, as he puts it, but also to talk about the bombing of Mogadiscio’s airports. Malik senses both Ahl’s excitement at the thought of coming closer to locating Taxliil, and his worry for Malik’s safety. Yet as they talk, Ahl can’t bring himself to suggest that Malik should be quitting the country. It is curious, he thinks, that of the many ways humans express their affection for one another, worry is an effective one; worry about those whom you love. Ahl’s worry about Taxliil is of a different weave from the twine threaded into his concern for Malik.

Now he says to Malik, “Maybe I am unjustifiably preoccupied, but do you think it is safe to remain while the city is bracing for more bombing?”

Malik is not the worrying type. Ahl has often teasingly pointed this out to him, saying, “It is because you are younger and you leave all worries to others.” He is alluding to the Somali proverb that youngsters worry most about themselves, less about others, and least of all about their parents.

Malik has no similar fears about Ahl, in large part because Puntland, as an autonomous state, has maintained an amicable rapport with the Ethiopian regime following the collapse of Somali state structures.

When Ahl repeats at length the exchange between him and Fidno, Malik asks what it is that Fidno expects to gain, as Fidno is not asking for financial renumeration. “What is his game, really?” Malik wonders.

Ahl does not have a clear answer, but he emphasizes the professional gain to Malik from the deal. Finally Malik agrees to the plan. “Still, I can’t commit myself to either the venue or the time where the meeting will take place,” he insists, and then he excuses himself, because he wants to get back to work.

Malik stays in the workroom, taking notes and reading fitfully. He takes a break at some point and rings Fee-Jigan and a couple of other journalists whose names he has acquired; he is eager to build his base of contacts. No one answers, though. He is tempted to telephone Gumaad but thinks better of it.

In the broadcasts he listens to and the newspapers he reads online, there is general consensus that the big men from the Courts have fled Mogadiscio, a number of them returning to their home villages, where their clans reign. Moreover, every pundit is surprised that the Ethiopians are in no hurry to take Mogadiscio: they take one town at a time, and then assign the militias loyal to the interim president of Somalia the job of mopping up any resistance. So far, reports reaching the wire agencies say there has been no resistance as such. This, to Malik, has an uncanny resemblance to what occurred in Iraq, when the Republican Guard melted away in time before the American ground forces took Baghdad. They returned a few weeks later, having organized themselves into a resistance. Will the men from the Courts do the same?

In the broadcasts, there is persistent mention of Eritrea, described as the arms supplier to the men from the Courts. Eritrea is tarnished by her abysmal human rights record, one of the worst in Africa, and has the ignominy of being quarrelsome and of picking fights serially with all her neighbors: a bloody war with Ethiopia over a strip of cactus and sand dunes in which two million lost their lives; with Yemen, over claims to an island situated between them. Malik can’t even recall what prompted Eritrea’s confrontation with Djibouti. Now Eritrea is going out on a limb and fighting a proxy war with Ethiopia by aiding the Courts.

Hungry, he eats stale bread and hardened cheese. Then he makes a pot of tea, of which he has two cups. While drinking these, he prepares coffee. As usual, he makes more than he can finish. No wonder his wife often describes him as wasteful. It is his habit to boil more water for tea than he needs, to cook far too much and then not bother to check what is in the fridge before buying more; anyway, he seldom remembers to put the leftovers in the fridge so that they won’t go bad. Feeling terrible about his profligacy, he decides he will force himself to drink all the coffee, one cup after another.

He is still upset at the way Amran responded to his enforced stay. True, he had wanted to remain for a few more days, but it is also a fact that the airports in Mogadiscio have been bombed and are now closed to traffic. Her tone when she is unreasonably upset irks him. She seldom applies her acute intelligence to situations before jumping to conclusions, and she tends to get carried away emotionally — like when she talks of raising an orphan if he doesn’t fly home this minute. He will have a word with Jeebleh, who will intercede. Or maybe his mother-in-law, often more levelheaded than her daughter, can calm matters down for the moment.

Insofar as the war front goes, HornAfrik Radio, indisputably Mogadiscio’s best, reports from the border regions that the Ethiopians are entering Somalia from different border posts, and every hour brings talk of another town falling into their hands. With no open resistance, the Ethiopians won’t need to defend or consolidate their hold on the territory they have occupied before moving on toward Mogadiscio. It is assumed they will be in the capital by as early as noon tomorrow. Meanwhile, the interim president, with half a battalion of Ethiopian soldiers and a smattering of Somalis in uniform escorting his entourage, has already arrived at the presidential villa, along with his own Ethiopian bodyguards and advisers, after receiving intelligence that TheSheikh and TheOtherSheikh and almost all the members of the Executive Board of the Courts have left soon after the bombing. What a tragic day it’s been for both Somalia and Ethiopia, Malik thinks, then writes these words and underlines them twice.

Malik is drawing on his memory of other cities that he has witnessed on the verge of falling to enemy forces: in the Congo, in Afghanistan, and so on. He writes, “In most cases, it takes a long time for ordinary folks unaccustomed to bearing arms to work up an appetite for battle. There is more than one side to a fence, and peaceable civilians stay on whichever side makes them feel safer. Rather like young girls in countries with a tradition of arranged marriages, they will go with whichever suitor is presented to them.”

He pauses, pen raised, and thinks how only later, after the occupation has been completed, a touch of cynicism will enter people’s attitude toward the carousel politics of which they have become victims.

Now he writes, “Mogadiscians have met warlords of every variety; the memory of the trauma has cauterized people’s suffering, minimizing it. They see the Ethiopian premier as just another warlord, albeit a foreigner, no less savage than their homegrown politico-sadists. To spare themselves more atrocities, the city will not show any open resistance to his advances. As one former senior military officer known to me has predicted, even the armed men loyal to the Courts won’t attack the Ethiopians until after they’ve taken the enemy’s measure.” Yet Somalis everywhere are incensed by the invasion, he argues, including those who were and are against the politics of the Courts. “They’d wait for their payback day with due patience. And when that day comes, they will dance a victory dance in the dirt roads of the Bakhaaraha Market, dance around the enemy dead, singing and kicking the corpses and burning effigies, giving in to the debasing pleasure of poisoning themselves with the toxins of vengeance. They will, in essence, take self-debasing pleasure in poisoning their souls, as one proverb has it, with the toxin that is vengeance. The world is no longer what the world used to be. Besides, Mogadiscians have done it before: danced a macabre, self-dishonoring dance around a dead Marine, and nothing will stop them from repeating that.”

He marks the article as “draft,” prints it, and then puts it away for the time being. Maybe he can make a much longer piece out of it, he tells himself. A pity he doesn’t know many ordinary people in Mogadiscio. But walking the streets with a tape recorder, a camera, and a microphone isn’t an option in a city where journalists are subject to death threats.

He pours himself another cup of coffee and turns to a new piece on the tendency of defeated armies to wreck cities before leaving them, and why. Before he puts pen to paper, he works the piece in his head, remembering parallel instances from other figures and places he has covered: the Afghani warlord Gulbuddin Hekmatyar, the Congolese faction leaders Laurent Nkunda and Germain Katanga. The HornAfrik commentator, one Mohamed Elmi, is confessing to being “impressed with the grown-up manner in which the Courts have handled their withdrawal,” and Malik finds himself agreeing. Mr. Elmi imagines that “it can’t have been easy to leave the city they wrested from the warlords only six months ago. Now they’ve had to abandon it to the crueler hands of the Ethiopians. True to the wisdom that a parent must not strike in anger the child whom they love, the Courts quit without ransacking the city, promising to return. When they come back, better armed, will they bomb in anger the very people whom they claim to love?”

The phone rings: Dajaal is on the line. Malik puts a couple of questions to him, most important, what he thinks about the Courts quitting the city.

Dajaal has nothing kind to say about the Courts. “When they first arrived on the scene, they entered the city with cannon, purportedly to oust the U.S.-supported warlords. But they damaged the morale of the residents by indiscriminately bombing a number of the districts, totally destroying ordinary people’s lives. Why are they in such a hurry to abandon the city to the Ethiopians now? Cowards win no friends.”

Malik knows well that during the war with the warlords, the Courts commanders inscribed the phrase “Allahu akbar” on the bazookas they launched, which fell in the most populous area of the city, killing hundreds. Still, he says, “At least this time they did not sack the city, or subject it to looting, as I have seen the Congolese and Afghan militias do when they fled.”

“Still, where are they when the city needs them?”

Malik says, “But they quit without firing a shot.”

“Why do you accept weapons as a gift from Eritrea, a pariah state, when you won’t fire a shot at your mutual enemy?” challenges Dajaal. “Rest assured that when they return, calling themselves ‘resistance fighters’ or ‘martyrs of the faith,’ they will resort to bombing the very people whom they claim to love.”

Anyway, according to Dajaal, only the men who are the known public face of the Courts have quit the city. The rest have stayed behind, supposedly to organize the resistance from within. Malik supposes that they have not yet released any statement because they must feel secure somewhere before doing so.

Dajaal goes on, fuming. “Shabaab, meanwhile, have assassinated three former military officers who came to Mogadiscio in advance of the interim president’s entourage, to prepare the way for the Transitional Federal Forces, such as they are.” One of the men killed was a former colleague of his. “But why provoke the Ethiopians, then flee the city? Nothing makes sense.”

Malik says, “If you weren’t under the weather, I would ask you to come straightaway. I would very much like to talk to you in more depth.”

“You know what?” says Dajaal. “I can’t afford to be ill on a day such as this, a day in which the city braces for the arrival of our archenemy. I’ll ask Qasiir to fetch me. We will be at the apartment shortly.”

Dajaal has barely entered the apartment when Qasiir says, “The Kenyans have caught the first big fish in their net. That’s the news we’ve just heard on the car radio.”

Qasiir is in a T-shirt and jeans, and he has on an elegant pair of painted leather shoes. Maybe he was on his way somewhere when Dajaal rang and requested a lift, Malik thinks. As for Dajaal, despite his claim that he is feeling better, his lips are swollen, as if freshly stung by a bee, and his eyes look dull, too.

Malik asks, “Who is this the Kenyans have caught? Does the big fish have a name?”

The big fish is Saleh Ali Saleh Nabhan, Dajaal says. “He’s considered the third most wanted on a list of so-called international terrorists and is suspected of planting bombs in two U.S. embassies and of attacking an Israeli-owned hotel in Mombasa. The Americans have always insisted that he lives in Somalia and enjoys the protection of a highly placed Courts individual.” But he ascribes the supposed Kenyan “coup” to rumor.

Malik, too, doubts if such a big fish will have fallen easily into Kenyan hands on the very day the Ethiopian invasion has started. The only fish, big or small, that are likely to fall into Kenyan nets will be those who might be fleeing the fighting or who will present themselves at the closed border between Kenya and Somalia, either as bona fide travelers or as asylum seekers. Since Saleh Ali Saleh Nabhan fits neither description, he has more likely thrown in his lot with the top Shabaab men said to be in the forest in Ras Kamboni, and it will take a few days to flush them out.

Malik makes tea for them, and as he passes them milk and sugar, the discussion resumes.

Dajaal says, “What worries me is not what they will do with the big fish they catch — the so-called terrorists and high-ranking Courts officials — but all the small fry, hundreds of them. When you send big trawlers into waters where a war is raging, you can’t help overfishing. The Kenyans have been fishing in troubled Somali waters for years now. In addition to the pirates who have been handed over to them to bring before their corrupt courts, the Kenyans have benefited in many ways from the collapse of Somalia.”

Malik knows from his research that Kenya is raking in millions in hard currency from the foreign embassies and all the UN bodies working on Somalia-related projects, all of which are currently based in Kenya, because of the chaos here. But he doesn’t understand all of what Dajaal has said. “What small fry are you talking about?” he asks.

Dajaal says, “Many Somalis who had left the country earlier and established citizenship elsewhere returned during the Courts’ reign, to lap up the milk and peace that was on offer. I worry what will happen to them now as they head back to their respective homes, bearing their foreign passports. The Kenyans will exploit the situation.”

There is a knock at the door. “Who is it?” Malik asks.

“It is I, Gumaad.”

Malik doesn’t ask if Gumaad has come alone or if he has again brought someone with him. He opens the door.

Gumaad is alone, but he is clearly not happy to find Qasiir and Dajaal with Malik. He looks as if he has been in a fight, and lost. His shoes have lost their buckles, and the back of his trousers are stained. His shirt is dirty and rumpled, and some of the buttons are missing. There is straw in his uncombed hair. In addition, he seems to be shedding dandruff at an incredible rate, as if he is suffering from some sort of skin disorder.

Qasiir asks, “Where have you been roughing it?”

Gumaad is noncommittal. “Here and there.”

Dajaal says, “You’ve been on the run, haven’t you, holed up with TheSheikh in a rat hole somewhere and preparing to sneak out of the city, like thieves in the night.”

“It’s been tough,” Gumaad says to Malik.

“A towel for your shower,” Malik says, handing him one. “And then we’ll talk.”

Dajaal is a model of restraint and says nothing more until Gumaad vanishes into the bathroom. Then he repeats the rumor circulating in the city, that TheSheikh is on a plane heading for Asmara, where he will be a guest of the Eritrean government. TheOtherSheikh, who is considered to be a more moderate force within Shabaab, is believed to be headed for the Kenyan border to seek political asylum.

As soon as Gumaad emerges from the bathroom, Dajaal asks where TheSheikh is. Malik thinks that you might as well ask a Mafia minion to tell where his boss is.

Gumaad replies calmly, “Somewhere in the city.”

“You’re lying,” Dajaal says.

Malik wonders if Gumaad is the kind that lies as unconsciously as he sheds dead skin. He has known pathological liars in his day, not all of them men.

Gumaad challenges, “Why would I be lying?”

“The city is small. Where in the city is he?”

“I can’t trust you enough to tell you.”

“If he is in the city,” Dajaal says, “I’ll bet he is secreting himself somewhere like a dog gnawing on a stripped bone. Imagine TheSheikh, on whom the hope of the nation has rested, hiding his face but showing his fear. Is that what you are telling us?”

Dajaal no longer seems ill; he is full of energy born out of rage — rage at the assassination of his friend, rage at what he sees as the Courts’ senseless provocation of the invasion.

“Please, Grandpa,” says Qasiir. “Why are you torturing Gumaad?”

“His lies upset me.”

Gumaad says, “I’ve told no lies so far.”

Dajaal says, “The foreign news agencies all place TheSheikh on a plane headed for Asmara.”

Qasiir says, “Why believe them and not Gumaad?”

“That’s right. Why not believe me and not them?”

“They have a point,” Malik intervenes.

Up close, Gumaad’s appearance bespeaks his true mental state. Tears well in the corners of his eyes. He does not seem to be lying, and perhaps he isn’t. After all, StrongmanSouth, when he was warlord, hid out in Mogadiscio for several months without the foreign “invaders” apprehending him. In fact, he used to throw parties within a mile of where the U.S. Marines were garrisoned, and they never found him. Will TheSheikh do the same with the Ethiopians if it turns out that he has stayed put to lead the resistance?

“Why is he here?” Dajaal asks, speaking not to Gumaad but to Malik.

But it is Gumaad who answers. “I’ve come to arrange an interview.”

Silence, in which they all exchange looks.

“TheSheikh wants to do an interview with Malik.”

“How very grand!” Dajaal says. “One minute he bides his time in concealment, like a bank robber keeping his loot company, the next instant he acts the role of royalty, granting an interview to a foreign journalist.”

“It’s Malik’s prerogative to accept or not accept the offer,” Gumaad says. “It is not my place or yours to decide.” He turns to Malik. “You make up your mind, if you will or won’t.”

“An interview by phone or face-to-face?”

“Depends on what we can arrange,” Gumaad says.

“I’d like to do the interview face-to-face.”

“As matters stand, he wants a phone interview.”

Dajaal says, “If I were you, I wouldn’t do it face-to-face, as there is always the risk of him being blown up. The drones are more active than before. They might pick up his movement and go for him.”

There is a spell of jumpiness, Gumaad shifting in his seat. Then he cries, “Malik has no reason to fear being blown up. What nonsense!”

“They blew a former colleague of mine sky high with remote-controlled roadside bombs,” Dajaal says. “They have perfected their art of killing. If I were you, Malik, I wouldn’t do a phone interview, either; a drone might mistake your number for his, and strike you dead.”

Gumaad has gone nervy and sweaty again, and a new layer of scurf coats the back of his neck and shoulders.

“Please, Grandpa,” Qasiir begs. “Stop this.”

“Why? His men have killed my colleagues.”

“Someone may hear you.”

“It isn’t long before they kill me, I know.”

Gumaad mumbles something inaudible, his words colliding discordantly. He mixes his tenses, trips on his adverbs, stops making sense. Malik’s stomach goes through the complete life cycle of the butterfly. He is remembering a fragment from a dream he had a few nights ago, in which Gumaad betrayed him, handing him over to a group of freelance militiamen, who took him hostage. In the dream, Malik pleaded with Gumaad not to break faith with him. But all he says is, “Enough now, Dajaal.”

For the first time, Malik thinks that maybe Dajaal’s days are indeed numbered. He also wonders if an interview with TheSheikh would be a scoop worth the risk. Then he picks up a foul scent. It is Gumaad’s breath — not so much ordinary bad breath as the scent of his fear, which Malik thinks he can smell in the same way that he believes he can smell Dajaal’s rage.

“Please, all of you,” he says abruptly.

Everyone looks at him, mildly shocked.

“I want to be alone.”

After they have gone, Malik telephones Jeebleh and asks his opinion about whether the interview with TheSheikh is worth the risk. In truth, what he really wants is for Jeebleh to be aware of what he is up to, in the event that something happens. In his head, Malik can hear Amran harping on about his taking needless risks.

Jeebleh acknowledges the professional benefits of doing the interview, but believes that it is not worth it, given the imminent Ethiopian occupation. “You may become an easy target for both the Transitional Government and the occupying force.”

“What if I use a pseudonym?”

“Don’t do it,” Jeebleh says. “Please.”

Next, Malik calls Ahl. Ahl, too, advises against it. He says, “TheSheikh is a man on the run, for crying out loud. Think of this: The FBI will be on your tail once it becomes known that you’ve talked to a wanted man.”

“But it would be a big scoop for me,” Malik argues. “And earlier you were all for my interviewing a funder of piracy who is by all accounts a crook. How is that?”

“That was different,” Ahl says.

“Different? What do you mean ‘different’?”

“We all want to get Taxliil to come home safe,” Ahl says. “What you are proposing poses danger to us all. Look at it from that angle. Please think again and do not do anything that might jeopardize our chance of recovering Taxliil.”

Malik is not convinced that he agrees with Ahl’s reasoning. But he opts not to speak, apprehensive that his brother might think that he places his professional advancement far above family loyalty.

“It’s been a long, eventful day,” Ahl says.

“You’re right. It’s been long and eventful.”

Ahl says, “Sleep on it, and let’s talk tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

“Good night to you, too.”