Djibouti

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

ONCE THE WOMAN AND her servant were out of the room Qasim said, "You tell them you're going to escape?"

"Both of us," Jama said. "What can she and her nigga do about it, tell Idris? He knows it's all we think about. It's what we do we're locked up. You been in the slam. You forget what it's like? How bad you want to get out?"

"I can't think of doing life," Qasim said.

"We get out you can do what you want. You tired of this shit, make a run with a suicide bomb."

What Jama was tired of was Qasim.

"Coming here from Eyl," Qasim said, "I was thinking of a way to kill myself so I don't go to prison. Idris Mohammed would speak to me, I don't say a word to him. The other one, the sheikh they call Harry, he's with me in the car at night. He says he will allow me to escape if I tell him your Christian name. I ask him how I would escape. He says we think of a way and he watches me walk off."

Jama said, "You told him my name?"

"I thought at first you and I are going to prison for life. What difference is it they know you are Jimmy Russell?"

"Russell," Jama said, looking down at Qasim on the cot. "You remember it all these years? I said my name only once that time, seven years ago, and never said it again I'm over here."

Jama paused to think for a moment and grinned. "I did mention it to a chick at the Cafe Las Vegas, right here in Djibouti, but she don't speak any English. I give her euros and cigarettes for the best two days of fucking I ever had in my life. A Ethiopian chick name Celeste Tamene. Twenty years old, man, she was a panther. So I commit her name to my memory."

"I like an Ethiopian girl," Qasim said, "now and then."

"All those years you remember Jimmy Russell, uh? Only I was never Jimmy, I was James. Which name did you tell him?"

"Listen to me," Qasim said, worming his body around on the cot to look up at Jama in the stout chair. "I did not tell Harry your name. As Allah hears me, I will take it to my grave."

"I believe it," Jama said. "You have never said my name to anyone, James or Jimmy. Is that right?"

"You tell me your secrets," Qasim said, "I keep them here, in my head."

"What secrets you talking about?"

"Things you have told me of your life, your time in prison. Things we do when we are together and can be ourselves."

Jama said, "You never talk about any of that, do you?"

"Of course not, it's a private part of us."

A private part of all these guys who don't treat their women like women, but hide them.

Jama thinking again of the girl at the Las Vegas:

How she liked to fool around with him while she was dancing. Get behind one of the cement pillars on the dance floor and come out shaking her ass at him. Come over close to him and wink and flutter her tongue. Man. He'd get a good whiff of her perfume and want to jump her. It was a while ago, but he remembered her name, 'cause in the Toyota coming here, Idris Mohammed talking-Idris telling him things he'd never have again in prison for life-Idris said her name and he remembered it, Celeste, and his time with her, while Idris was telling him about this girl he saw every month.

"For how long?"

"A night or a few days. I relax with Celeste and tell her about hijacking ships. She loves to listen to me. I have a doctor inspect her before I arrive. I don't want any of that HIV/AIDS contaminating me. Celeste is always clean, twenty years old, a flower waiting for a good plucking. I pay her enough she doesn't have to sell her body. But she loves to dance at the club with her friends, the Las Vegas."

In the Toyota on the way to Djibouti, Jama said to Idris, "She loves to fuck too. Celeste Tamene? Lives on rue de Bir Hakeim?" You bet it was the same one. In that moment Idris was stopped dead, he couldn't speak, and Jama said, "Yeah, I had her. I thought she wasn't bad." QASIM WAS LOOKING AT the light coming through the shutters.

"Time to put on my shoes. He'll be here soon. Datuk?"

Jama said, "What's the other one's name up here?" He waited and said, "Ibrahim. You remember it?"

"It's of no interest to me," Qasim said, bent over now to tie his shoes. "You have yours on?"

"Always," Jama said. "You never noticed?"

"You're telling me you never take off your shoes?"

"Only when I sleep. It's where I keep my passport."

Qasim straightened, sitting up.

"They don't look in your shoes?"

"You don't see anything. The passport's between the inside of the shoe and the sole, always there all the time. You know why?" Jama said, "Give me scissors and a straight razor," touching his beard. "I can clear off the foliage and be the cool-looking kid in the passport again."

"They have your fingerprints?"

"Where? You mean in America? Who knows I was ever in prison? Over here I got a Djibouti passport, I'm Jama the khat-seller. I have my real self put away for when it's time to leave."

"You tell me more about who you are," Qasim said, "than I ever knew before, in years together."

"You know my name," Jama said, "you know everything about me."

"Maybe, maybe not," Qasim said, "but it's time."

"For what?"

"To give you a phone number. You will remember it?"

"Is Allah God?"

"The number is 44-208-748-1599."

"Whose number is it?"

"The explosives aboard Aphrodite." DATUK CAME IN WITH their supper, a tin bowl in each hand, and passed behind Jama's chair to place them on a card table. He brought two spoons and a saltshaker from under the shirt hanging to his knees.

"Nothing else?" Jama said.

Datuk said, "Wait," and walked out of the room. In a few minutes he was back with coffee in tin cups and placed them on the table. Now he brought a Walther from under his shirt, smoothed the shirt over his hips and placed the gun on the table.

"You pay me now?"

"As soon as we leave," Jama said, "all right? I have the money in my shoe."

Datuk unlocked him and went to Qasim as Jama picked up the Walther and said, "This is my gun," surprised, "I can tell by the scratches on it." He released the magazine, saw it was loaded and shoved it back in the grip. He couldn't believe it, the same gun he'd lifted from the shop in 2003. Man, his own gun given back to him.

"We should eat this before we leave," Qasim said in English. "We don't know when we will have food again."

Cold spaghetti in tomato juice; no camel this evening.

Jama said, "Are you fucking serious?" He paused, looking at Qasim's eyes, and saw a faint glimpse of hope in his stare. It wasn't food he wanted but time, some more of it.

How did he know it was coming to an end?

He said to Qasim, "Eat if you want," and told Datuk to call Ibrahim. THEY WENT DOWN THE stairway, Datuk first, Jama with a hand on his shoulder, the other hand pressing the Walther into his back. Ibrahim had banged through the door to the room. Qasim has his AK now, the four of them going down the stairs.

The sitting room was empty, and the dining room with its formal table painted green. Jama motioned Datuk down the hall to the open doorway into the kitchen. Past Datuk's shoulder Jama saw the two downstairs guards at the kitchen table eating what looked like lamb with peppers and beans. He caught the scent of their meal and swallowed. He pushed Datuk into the kitchen and saw the guard sitting at the end of the table look up. Now the other one was looking this way. They could see who had the guns.

Jama said to them, "Where is my friend Idris?"

The one at the end of the table said, "They left, both of them. But they coming back very soon. They should walk in at any moment."

"It's time for tea," Qasim said. "They will be gone two hours or more."

Jama looked at him.

"It's who they are," Qasim said, "being gentlemen."

The man sounding like himself again, knowing what was going on: at Riyadh telling him about Americans running the Saudi companies, telling him to find them and shoot them. Qasim cool in those days.

The one at the end pushed up from the table and spread out his arms. He said in Arabic, "I am not armed, our weapons are over there. You want to escape? Please, go ahead."

The kitchen table was no more than twenty feet from Jama. He moved to Datuk's side raising the Walther and shot the one standing at the end of the table. Jama put the Walther on the other one, still seated, staring at him, and told himself no, turned the Walther on Datuk raising his arm in defense and shot him through the heart. Now the one at the table-but Ibrahim was taking the AK from Qasim, twisting it from his hands, and Jama shot him in the face, turned to the guard who was finally up from the table and shot him as he started to run. He turned to Qasim now holding the AK. Qasim watching him. He said, "You don't have to do it."

Jama said, "You know my name."

"I have always known it."

"But it's different now." Jama wasn't sure what the difference was but could feel it looking at Qasim. He raised the Walther. Qasim turned his head and Jama shot him where you would shoot yourself if you saw it was that time, in the temple.

He still had three rounds. Two for Harry and Idris.