Djibouti

CHAPTER NINETEEN

JAMA WAS TWENTY-EIGHT NOW, his birthday coming on the day they left Eyl for Djibouti.

He rode in one of the five Toyotas rocking across the desert, catching the dust and gravel raised by the two in the lead. Qasim would be in the car directly ahead or behind them. Idris, next to Jama in the middle seats, told him, "We will be there in one period of twenty-four hours. Every two hours we stop to stretch our legs and piss. Twice a day we heat the spaghetti for you. Don't worry," Idris said in English, "these Somalis won't know what we're saying. Harry gave them an English test. He called them camel-fuckers and no one rose to cut his throat. He's with Qasim, but we change cars at times, so I talk to Qasim and Harry talks to you."

There were sixteen Somalis with AKs and their provisions in the five cars: a driver and the Somali in front with him pointing in the glare of distance to the road curving toward a pass through the slopes, telling the driver now to slow down, to watch for falling rocks, until Idris told him in Arabic to shut up. A third Somali sat behind Jama and stared at the back of his head while Jama looked out at the land where Arabs lived and went to sea as pirates.

He said to Idris, "You pretty good at hijacking ships, uh? Make enough to buy houses and expensive cars-why you need to turn me in?"

"So I can retire," Idris said. "Move to Paris. I said to Harry, 'Let's give the boys a tip, enough money to buy cigarettes for the rest of their lives.' Harry refuses to give you a quid."

"I quit smoking," Jama said, "during the time we getting payoffs from gangsters have mules smuggling cigarettes from North Africa to Europe, the Qaeda demanding a cut. We calling it the Marlboro Connection. I went up to Egypt and robbed banks for the cause, a few jewelry stores, and we into dealing hashish from Africa. Qasim says it cost ten million a year to keep the Qaeda running. Some of it Osama's laying down, the reason he hates everybody isn't with him. I saw him in Pakistan one time-not the easiest man to get next to. He kept watching me like he wasn't sure of my credentials. You ever hear bin Laden say anything funny? But I like working for Qasim, the man has his shit together. He's cool without knowing how to act it."

"Why is it," Idris said, "if you're devoted to al Qaeda, you don't blow yourself up for Allah?"

"Me and Qasim don't believe in it. We worth more to al Qaeda alive. There enough boys can't wait to go to Paradise."

Idris said, "Qasim won't talk to me."

"Why would he? 'Less he has a reason."

"Harry threatens to shoot him. He tells me when we stop to piss."

"Harry would give up five mil? Bullshit."

"He suggests we shoot both of you in the knees, so you can't run away."

"And have to carry us?"

"Get the Somalis to do it."

"Then he has to pay them extra. Threaten them to keep their mouth shut. All the shit that goes down," Jama said, "you work out when you're planning a jihad. It took three years to put 9/11 together. Any place you want to blow up can take a good year deciding how to do it. You pick a date, find out it falls during Ramadan 'cause you forgot? I can't ever look forward to the fasting. And the serious guys yell at me. I say if we doing it for Allah, what's the difference? They always yelling about something."

"You took part in the Riyadh bombings."

"My first jihad."

"You began working with Qasim, one of the big players, eh? How were you called at that time? Jama, or by your Christian name?"

"I'll tell you something," Jama said. "Only one man in this whole Arabian world knows my real name. He may even have forgot it by now."

"Qasim," Idris said.

"Ask him, see if he tells you."

"He's difficult to talk to."

"The man can be a wall."

"We could shoot him in the knees."

"See what it gets you," Jama said. "You're talking about a man sets off bombs like earthquakes. They become headlines in every paper in the world. He does it for Osama. They have a brother thing going. You can do anything you want to Qasim. Blind him, cut off his hands, like the Imams do you rob something? You never gonna get him to tell my name or anything about me."

"How can you be that sure?"

"I know him as I know myself."

"You kill for him?"

"We call it assassinations."

"Would you die for him?" IDRIS AND HARRY WERE standing side by side pissing in the road, the sun going down, the guards eating oranges that came from Israel. Idris said, "I ask him if he'd die for Qasim. Do you know what he said?"

Harry turned his head to Idris. "Tell me."

"He said, 'Is the pope Catholic?'"

He saw Harry squinting. Or was he frowning? "It's a saying among that Christian sect," Idris said. "He's telling me yes, he would die for Qasim, not give it another thought."

"I know, but why bring up their pope?"

"Jama is known in the American language," Idris said, "as a smart-ass. Perhaps the Brits don't use the expression." He saw Harry still frowning or squinting and Idris said, "Why are you so serious about it? He was being funny."

Harry had taken a turn with Qasim during the morning drive, asking if he had ever been to America. Asking if he was looking forward to life in an American prison, or perhaps Guantanamo in Cuba. Asking if any of his mates were there, and getting no response.

"The trouble is," Harry said, "he's been questioned countless times, tortured, urged in various ways to speak. Qasim bends over, he has trouble straightening himself again. He wears kid gloves to cover his broken hands, hit with mallets. I can't get him to say one fucking word to me."

"Why do you bother?"

"I want to know how Jama's called in the U.S."

"He won't tell you." Idris was silent for a moment and said, "If there was a way to bribe him, offer something he'd want desperately in exchange for the name…"

Harry said, "You might have something." HARRY WAS WITH QASIM again later that evening, the Toyota rumbling, bumping along, night inside behind dark-tinted windows, Qasim close beside him. Harry turned his head to him and caught the odor of the Arab's breath, spaghetti and spiced camel, and said to him, "I understand you know Jama's American name."

Qasim stared at him.

Harry held his breath waiting, counting almost to ten.

Qasim said, "Yes…?"

It felt good to be talking again.

"Can I ask, why you want to know?"

He won't tell you, Qasim thought. He has to set you up first. Finally get around to the reason he's talking to you. Then he'll tell you.

"Let me point out," Harry said and took a breath, "you haven't performed much in the past seven years. Let's see, an embassy-"

"Two embassies and a consulate."

"Most of the past decade, though, you've been a Qaeda fundraiser. The American Rewards people are going to say, 'That's all he's done lately?' I'll bet if they don't drop your reward they reduce it considerably." Harry lighted a cigarette.

Qasim took his time, staring in Harry's face before he said, "You have to give me up to find out what I'm worth. Take my word, the Americans can't wait to get hold of me, show me off to the world. They can make what I did two decades ago seem like yesterday."

"Yes, they will," Harry said, "display you to their hearts' content, congratulate themselves and throw you in prison."

Qasim said to this fellow Arab who wanted to be an Englishman, "For what exactly, acts of war or what you call terrorism?"

"For being you, you idiot. Do you know how many you've killed?"

"Tell me."

"And mutilated? Many of your own people, Saudis?"

"Some became blind," Qasim said.

"You sound like you don't believe you're going to prison."

"You have me, that's all."

"You'll be our gift to the Americans." Harry dropped the cigarette between his legs to the floor and placed his boot on it. "But your partner, Jama the Amriki? I'm betting the Americans will pay more than 'up to a million,' once they discover he's a traitor. What do you think?"

"Why do you say I'm going to prison," Qasim said, "and not be executed?"

"You'll get life for crimes against humanity," Harry said. "Federal courts in America rarely decide on the death penalty. You'll spend the rest of your years in a prison cell by yourself. One hour a day of recreation, rain or shine. They allow you to walk about in an enclosure about the size of a decent hotel room. Then back to the cell. You know what you'll look forward to each day? Eating the dog food they give you on a tin plate and evacuating your bowels in a bucket. Ahhhh," Harry said, "until one day you die of old age, finally a happy man."

"You say they won't pay anything for me," Qasim said. "Then why turn me in?"

"I like to think of you as a lifer."

Harry opened his window to inhale fresh air rushing past-a bit cool-and closed it again.

"Or," he said, "I decide not to hand you over."

Qasim waited. He said, "Why?"

"We know Jama's an American."

"Tell me how you know."

"You call him Amriki, don't you, for Christ sake? We both heard him speak English in Eyl the time I shot the first officer. Quit fucking with me, please. We both know he's American."

"All right," Qasim said. "Tell me what you want."

"His real name."

"Oh, is that all?"

"And we let you go," Harry said.

Qasim listened to the sound of the car following its headlights on a road that came to no end.

"If I had a match," Qasim said. "I would strike it and look at your eyes."

Harry took his lighter from a shirt pocket and flicked it on. "You'd like to know," Harry said, "if you can trust me. Look in my eyes, you bugger, and tell me. Can you?"

What did they call this kind? So confident he believed you could see truth in his eyes. Or what would pass for it. Qasim saw nothing to encourage him. He said, "I walk away, you could track me in the desert and shoot me."

"It would be far better than prison, wouldn't it? I'm kidding with you," Harry said. "I give you my word as a gentleman, tell me his name and I'll set you free."

"You'll give up five million dollars?"

"To get at least ten," Harry said. "My offer for the name of a traitor they can look up in five minutes and know who he is, where he went to school or prison and got mixed up with Muslims. Without their knowing his name, he could speak Arabic to them, say he's a former shepherd boy from the Holy Land. Crewed on the LNG tanker to raise money for his family, they're lepers and can't find employment."

You want to listen to him talk? Qasim thought. What difference is it, they have Jama, you tell his name or not? He said, "All right. When we reach Djibouti you will release me?"

Harry waited a bit staring at the endless road in the headlights. He said, "That's fine with me. What's his name?"

"I told you," Qasim said, "when we reach Djibouti."