Djibouti

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

HE WASN'T SURE HE hit the movie girl. Talking too much, not tending to business. He hit the suit was with her but not in a good spot. Saw him grab his side twisting around and go down. Not a cop, a white man with a bright-metal piece. But the one rammed into him could be cops, the reason Jama gunned it out of there, tires screaming on the pavement, and thanked Allah for saving his ass. Jama didn't look back till he was out past Marshal Foch and saw in his rearview it was a white Toyota had plowed into him. Saw the tall nigga outside the car. Saw him standing, hands on his hips, watching him drive away. Saw Dara the movie girl and the suit on his feet now raising his piece, sun flashing on it. Then lowered it, cars passing in front of him. Jama remembered the suit scooting away from Dara and aiming the piece to fire when Jama shot him. Was he drawing gunfire away from her? It looked like it. What was he, the suit, a boyfriend? Jama asked himself what woman he knew, any of them, he'd stand up to draw fire away from. And saw Dara looking out from behind the table, her shirt wet from coffee spilled on her. He saw her at Idris's party at Eyl and aboard Aphrodite the time she visited. She knew his name. He came to realizing it, he didn't start with it. He saw her by the table and shot holes in it to scare her. He wanted to hit her he'd of done it. Then why didn't he?

He turned north on to rue d'Ethiopie and thought of Celeste and knew she'd lied to him. He didn't know it in her room but did now, sure of it. She didn't know his name, even after he told her. Saying she pretended not to know it. Lying was the girl's business.

He pictured Dara again on the tanker, while they were anchored off Eyl. On Aphrodite, full of liquefied natural gas. He thought of the phone number that would set off the C4 in the hold. Saw the numbers in his mind, 44-208-748-1599. He had another number Qasim had given him, an al Qaeda contact. Someone with the latest word. And saw Dara again in the room where he was handcuffed to the chair. She never put on different looks, she used the same one all the time. Show she was interested in him. He believed they could sit down and have a conversation and keep each other thinking. He wondered if she was fucking that tall nigga. If he wasn't too old. He could be her grandfather. Mean. Told you he can break your neck and you believe him. Dara, he couldn't see her going to him to fuck her. Dara could take her pick. No, there was nothing going on with Xavier. Maybe she'd let him see her naked once in a while, that's all. The old fucker stares thinking of the old days. Jama knew he had to kill her. She knew his name. Except he'd like to get to know her better first.

He could be running out of time, once she gave the FBI his name. If she did. Or if she was in no hurry, he believed Dara would like to sit down with him, too. She was cool, but not how she talked, told you things. She talked eye to eye with you and could put you on doing it. That was cool, asking did he want to be in the movie she's making. Was she fucking with him or was she serious? Find that out if you want, then shoot her.

He'd put the car in the alley behind Hunter's digs-what he liked to call his apartment-and make some plans for the next couple days or so. See if he could pull off something with Aphrodite he needed to do. That big fat LNG tanker waiting in the stream to blow up. When he wanted to see Dara again for some reason-he might feel a need to do that-he'd go to her hotel. Right now he had to phone his al Qaeda connection, find out if they were still fucked up, couldn't make up their mind, and tell his guy what he was going to do. Take it out of their hands. Get it done.

He called the number of his contact. THE VOICE ON THE cell repeated the numbers Jama called and said in Arabic, "Allah is God. He hears us and watches over us."

Jama said, "Why, I believe that's Assam Amriki I'm speaking to. My old buddy, is that you?"

The voice said, "Don't use names."

"It's been seven years, man, I still recognize your voice, your proper way with the Arabian, showing you cultured. Assam, my brother, where you at?"

"Don't ask that."

"You still the propaganda man, doing recruitment videos?"

"I'm hanging up the phone you talk to me like that."

"How you want me to talk to you?"

"Tell me why you called."

"I want to know about the tanker, where it's at."

"The mission is no more."

"Delayed? Postponed?"

"It's off. We don't touch the ship."

"It's got explosives on it."

"The ship is explosive. It makes no difference, we don't touch it."

"Once they took us off, Qasim thought you'd put two more Qaedas aboard and get it done."

"I'm telling you it's been called off," Assam's voice rising as he said it. "We have other work to consider. We are losing people in Pakistan, this week in Somalia, our brothers being killed one after another by their planes with no pilots, their drones."

"Where you located these days? I want to see you."

"Impossible."

"I saw you on CNN one time," Jama said. "Had like before and after shots of you. Back in '02 when you still looking Jewish, they call you a computer geek then. Now with your turban and your beard grown out, you running the news for al Qaeda. They calling you their media director. Another time I saw you, I believe on a Shabaab Web site, you showing Palestinian children all blown to hell on a bus, an Israeli bomb set off under it. It don't bother you being a Jew most of your life? You know you the first American charged with treason in fifty-eight years? I haven't seen they put any money on you yet. There was a picture of you with Khalid Sheikh Kiss-My-Ass Mohammed they calling a 9/11 mastermind. You hanging out with the big boys, huh?"

Assam's voice in the cell phone said, "I'm going to warn you, you have been marked for death."

"No shit," Jama said. "Tell me about it."

"See? You show no respect. Listen to what I say, as a former American to another who has my sympathy. You tried perhaps, at least at first, but you failed. Now there is a fatwa on you, condemned to death for the murder of Qasim al Salah."

"You talking about?" Jama said. "Was a Somali they hired as a guard plugged Qasim and I plugged the Somali. Understand, Qasim was my boss, my teacher, my best friend in the al Qaeda world for seven years, the most dedicated motherfucker I ever knew, and I say that with respect for the man. I want to know who's saying I shot him."

He heard Assam's voice in the cell telling him, "There is no more I can say to you. I leave you with regret that knowing you I never felt like a brother to you."

"I can't say I give a shit," Jama said. "What I want to know is where the ship is now."

"It is of no concern to you. The ship will take on supplies and continue to the U.S."

Jama knew he was lying. He said, "Assam…?"

He was gone.

It didn't matter. He could pick up a boat and cruise around till he found the tanker. There was no way he could miss it, the ship's structure hanging on to its ass end, the rest of it five tanks of deadly frozen gas reaching to the bow. You couldn't miss spotting a ship looked like Aphrodite. It would be off Djibouti, out in the Gulf of Tadjoura ten miles or so. No port wanting a ship sitting close by could blow up on them. He had to make sure of the phone's range, how far it would reach to do the job.

Jama saw himself sitting at an outdoor cocktail lounge in the European quarter having-what would he have?-a rum and Coca-Cola, once he sent it back for more ice. Like they were saving their fucking ice, never put enough in the drink. Hunter's cell in his pocket. At some time, after he'd had a couple of Cuba Libres, he'd take out the phone and dial the 700 number Qasim had given him. Look up and hear the explosion, a terrific thundering BOOM coming from some miles away but loud, man, everybody in the place looking up, the glasses on the bar shaking, all the white people in there asking each other what was that. Some would go out in the street. Jama would sip his drink. Somebody would say to him, "Jesus Christ, you hear it?" And he'd say, "Hear what?"

Cool.

But wouldn't he like to see the tanker explode?

Else why go to all the trouble.