Djibouti

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE PARTY COMING TO an end reminded Xavier of a stage once the show was over and the houselights were turned up, the pirate chiefs walking off in their new shoes with leftover dinner wrapped in newspaper, for the women who had to stay home. Xavier was waiting for Dara to finish talking to Idris and Harry Bakar, Dara still digging for information.

Telling them she read that the people running the pirate business were wealthy Somalis living other places now, in England and Saudi Arabia. Harry said he heard gangsters were running the show, the Italian Mafia telling the pirates what ships to look for coming through Djibouti on their way everywhere, information they got from secret agents, spies. Harry smiling, saying to Dara, "Did you know you were making a thriller?"

Dara said she wasn't sure what she was making.

Xavier said to her, "You ready?"

And Idris said, "Harry doesn't know what he's talking about. Do you think I work for criminals?" He took time to name the seven pirate clans boarding ships for the honor of the Somali people, making it sound as if they were Arab Robin Hoods.

Dara seemed to have eyes for Harry Baker, the reason they stood there thinking up things to say, Harry and Idris too polite to end it.

Xavier said, "We gonna make our train, we better get movin."

No smiles or chuckles, only Dara got it. She said, "Well, it was quite a party."

Sitting in the hotel suite with her, Xavier said, "You had trouble tearin yourself from their company."

"I was trying to think of a way to mention the gas tanker," Dara said. "Tell them why Billy thought it was a bomb. But if I was serious about it they'd say I was imagining things."

"And if you made fun of Billy's idea-"

"We'd all be grinning and I'd feel stupid. I wouldn't have learned anything."

"You coulda asked what happen to the Saudis at the party? They disappeared on us. They go back to that gas ship? Then you in it, you wonderin about it."

"Why didn't you ask them?"

"I just thought of it," Xavier said. "You know at that time, hijackin an American ship was the best thing they'd done, the Somalis still proud of theirselves but tired of talkin about it, tired watchin Al Jazeera, nothin new happenin. That was Thursday, the night of the party. The SEALs didn't shoot the three pirates till Sunday. After that it was death to Americans, but we didn't know about it yet."

"I've got a lot of that I can use," Dara said, "if it goes with my story. 'Somali Pirates Threaten to Target Americans,' in the news. 'Pirates want revenge, not ransom.'"

"That time, it was gettin hot, wasn't it?"

"It was turning into a movie," Dara said, "a real one." IDRIS AND HARRY WALKED across the front of Idris's California ranch toward rooms off the four-car garage, Harry saying, "You tell them you don't work for criminals. What difference does it make? Dara leaves and we never see her again. You like her," Harry said, "because you aren't used to a woman being herself, and also intelligent."

"I like her and would like to know her better," Idris said and looked at Harry. "Are you ready?" Opened the door and walked ahead of Harry into a room without furniture, the walls and floor unpainted concrete. Harry followed bringing a Walther PPK from inside his white suit.

The three Saudis were on the floor, backs against a wall, the first officer in his uniform slumped, his chin resting on his chest.

"Bored," Harry said, and then in a louder voice, "Duad Dahir Suliman, are you bored?"

The first officer's head came up, eyes open, confused. Now he was getting his legs under him to rise.

Harry said, "Stay as you are."

The first officer was now upright on his knees. He said, "Yes?" He said, "Please tell me why we wait in this place. Are we your guests or not?"

The two sitting against the wall had not moved. The one with the wrap of white cloth around his head was black, about thirty, with a beard and hair to his shoulders. They sat watching Harry Bakar with little interest. Idris had already put them both down as al Qaeda. Harry believed it too. He said to the younger one, "You must be Jama Raisuli. Is that correct? Tell us who gave you your name. It sounds Berber to me."

Jama, looking up at Harry, said, "The party must be over," in English, with no hint of a Middle East accent.

Harry said, "It certainly is. Tell us, is the first officer one of you?"

"I don't know him," Jama said.

Harry turned to Idris. "You hear him? This Jama Raisuli is American. What we hear about him must be correct. He turned to Islam for the love of Allah and protection while in prison." He said to Jama, "What prison were you in?"

The man sitting with Jama turned his head to say a few words against his shoulder. An Arab with short hair, the bones of his face showing in his skin.

"Qasim al Salah wants you to keep your mouth shut," Harry said. "I'll bet you prefer Jama Raisuli to being called 'boy' or 'nigger.' Isn't that correct?" Harry waited, got no response and said, "There are others like you, still citizens of America. You can return whenever you want as a traitor and be tried in court. Tell us why you came here."

"You're nada to me," Jama said, "and I tell you nada."

Qasim put his face to his shoulder again and spoke to him.

"I turn to a true life," Jama said.

"Good for you," Harry said. "Tell me about your shipmate Qasim al Salah, who hasn't said a bloody word. He's one of you?"

"He and I are one in Allah."

"With little room for the first officer," Harry said and turned to the young Saudi still upright on his knees. "So we don't need you, do we?" Harry extended the Walther and shot Duad Dahir Suliman straight off in the center of his forehead, Harry stepping back as the first officer fell toward him, the young man's eyes still open.

The two against the wall stared at Harry without expression, Idris turning to him stunned. "You had to shoot him?"

"He's of no use to us," Harry said. "We inform the master of the Aphrodite his first mate disappeared. Ran off with these two and the cooch dancers in one of your Toyotas." Harry grinned. "A jolly group. The Egyptian can believe it or not, it makes no difference." He looked at the two sitting against the wall. "This Jama the Amriki is thinking how he can persuade me not to shoot him. Qasim al Salah has faced death many times before. He's tired of it, so he gives himself to his fate, still refusing to speak. I'd like to know what's in his head."

"He doesn't have to speak," Idris said. "Allah put these two on the gas tanker and sent it to us."

Harry said, "Why didn't you take it yourself?"

"I smoke too much to board a tanker. Three packs a day-I'm going to climb on a gas ship? I chew a bit of khat so I don't smoke so much," Idris said. He watched Jama the black American take a cigarette from his pack of Marlboros and light it with a match, Idris saying, "Let me have one of those if you will, please."

Harry watched Jama, not bothering to look at Idris, slip the cigarettes into his shirt pocket again, Harry smiling.

"As the Americans like to say, 'Fuck you.'"

Idris said, "I thought Americans were generous."

"Some are, some not," Harry said. "They have the world's nationalities in America, blacks from the time they were used as slaves. It should be enough to make blacks disposed to Islam if not al Qaeda." He said to Jama, "You should go home and tell the darkies how much fun you're having as a terrorist."

"You have to insult us," Jama said, "before you shoot us?"

"Shoot you," Harry said, "where did you get that notion? Tomorrow you will be riding in a procession of cars under armed guard. Shackled and blindfolded if you give us the least trouble. Late the second day the caravan arrives in Djibouti. We phone the American embassy and speak to the person in charge of their Rewards for Justice program, a way they've planned to stop your atrocities."

"They have a list of the ones," Idris said, "known to be al Qaeda. Both of you are on the list."

"With photographs," Harry said. "We hand you over to the American State Department's Bureau of Diplomatic Security"-Harry had to grin-"and guess what they give us for you naughty boys. Six million U.S. dollars. Five for Qasim and one for Jama."

"You didn't spread enough terror," Idris said to Jama, "to get your numbers up."