Crossbones (35 page)

“I’ve spoken to his henchman.”

Ahl wishes Malik were here, Malik who knows how to deal with this specimen of humanity, the dirt no one dare clean up, in a land with no laws, in a country where brute force earns high dividends. If warlords
have deputies, and presidents their vice presidents, then it follows that, in a world in which coercion is the norm, a human trafficker must have underlings as well.

“What have you told No-Name about me?”

“That you are my friend.”

What does that make him? Ahl wonders. An associate of a known criminal? Is this what children do to you, knowingly or unwittingly, make you into an accomplice of outlaws? He prays that Fidno does not run afoul of the authorities while they are together, especially not with so much cash and his laptop on him, in this beat-up vehicle on the way to Guri-Maroodi, a hot spot with few equals in notoriety, even within Puntland.

“What else did you tell him?”

“That you are looking for your runaway nephew.”

“My nephew—why nephew? He is my son.”

“Makes no difference. Nephew, son, stepson!”

Of course it does make a difference; but Ahl says nothing.

Fidno says, “I was worried that No-Name might think you would become too emotional, irrational, or hard to please if things do not go the way you want them to. ‘My son’ is different from ‘my nephew.’ I don’t know if this makes sense to you, but that is what I thought. I did it for your sake. To make things happen.”

Again, Ahl thinks that he is not suited for this kind of assignment the way Malik is, having interviewed Afghani drug lords as well as Pakistani Taliban warlords. It requires a familiarity with the criminal mind that is beyond his experience. Ahl worries that once he’s endorsed a lie, he will be open to telling more, and there will be no end to it.

He says, “I’ll set No-Name right on this. A lie does not run off my tongue easily, and I’ll have to beware of what I say all the time.”

“Do what suits you,” Fidno concedes.

They go through a drab-looking hamlet that boasts of only a few low shops built of stone, atop a wood foundation, the zinc roofing painted in different colors, mainly blue. Billboards advertise cigarettes, soda, milk, and other products, Ahl guesses more for decoration than because they are actually available. They have slowed to a snail’s pace, and Ahl can see people in clusters of three and four, with their curious eyes trained on the jalopy. He can even hear them: they are speaking a babble of Swahili, Oromo, Tigrinya, broken Yemeni Arabic, and Somali. A microcosm of the Horn, a cosmopolitan misery marked with unforgiving poverty.

Minibuses ply the road to Bosaso, and young men and women walk along the road, hitching a ride or footing it; almost everyone here is young, and there are more men than women.

“I could hear Amharic, Swahili, and Tigrinya as we passed,” Ahl says. “How on earth do they all get here?”

“The Ethiopians, Eritreans, and Somalis from the south of the country walk for several days to get here,” Fidno responds. “Some of the Kenyans and the Tanzanians arrive by plane or by boat. But only a few make it to Yemen. The owners of the fishing boats have been known to throw three-quarters of their passengers overboard before they make it ashore to avoid the possible confiscation of their boats.”

There is a group of young men gathered around a pickup with the back open. A woman has set up a stall close by selling
qaat
. Ahl sees one of the youths carrying a bundle and a number of his mates following, some clearly asking him to give them a share.

“Tell me how you described Taxliil,” says Ahl.

Fidno says, “A bright young fellow with excellent language skills, impeccable manners, assigned to welcome foreign Shabaab recruits here to join the insurgency in Somalia.”

“In what capacity does No-Name enter the scene?”

“It makes business sense for the boat owners not to return empty after transporting the migrants to the shores of Yemen,” Fidno explains. Ahl considers how this works to the advantage of several groups operating outside the law. Likewise, it makes sense for the pirates and the religionists to work together, not only for profit but also for mutual security.

They have reached the outskirts of the village. As they continue south, the landscape turns desolate, burned. Then there is a sudden change in the wind, which picks up and brings along with it a cooler breeze from the sea. The vegetation is sparse, much of it of the thorny sort, with a few trees to provide shade to humans and fodder for camels. A young boy, shirtless and in a sarong, with a chewing stick in his mouth, looks lost as his camels chomp away at one of the treetops. Ahl says, “There is a world of difference between the young Somali nomad looking after his beasts and the migrants wanting to cross the sea, isn’t there?”

“Do you suppose the young nomad is content because he knows no better life?” asks Fidno.

“I would imagine that many of the migrants, being city born and city bred, are unhappy with their lot and eager to seek adventure elsewhere,” Ahl observes. “Perhaps because they’ve seen too much TV and believe that life elsewhere is more comfortable.”

“What about your son? He had the possibility of a successful future ahead of him. Do you know what made him leave Minneapolis to return to this desolate place?”

“I wish I knew,” Ahl mumbles.

They enter another enclave. The sea breeze is now stronger as they pass men sitting around or lying in the scanty shade of the trees, chewing
qaat
.

“Who are they?” asks Ahl, pointing out a group of young migrants,
half lying and half sitting, as if they are too tired even to sit all the way up.

“Migrants exhausted from waiting.”

“What are they waiting for?”

But Fidno does not answer Ahl’s question. “We’re here,” he says instead, and he turns in and stops at a metal gate guarded by armed men in khaki uniforms. A young man with large eyes and a thin, half-trimmed mustache comes forward. Fidno waves his hand in greeting, and the youth acknowledges him with a broad smile.

One side of the gate opens, and the young man steps out, just as another youth with a small head and wearing huge spectacles emerges from the gatehouse and stands by a second barrier that needs to be removed manually. The first young man approaches the car to check out Ahl.

“We’re expected,” Fidno says.

The gate opens, and Fidno drives in.

The grounds on which the villa is built are extensive and surrounded in all directions by a high fence. The house itself, set far back, is two stories high, with French windows and a glassed-in balcony large enough for a sumptuous party. The sea is visible behind the house. An awning extends almost to the gates, providing shade as they drive in. Fidno parks, and Ahl picks up his laptop and follows him toward the pair of uniformed young men who wait in front of the awning. The entire structure looks new and well made; the railing on the upper story is shiny with fresh paint. The loud humming of a heavy-duty generator comes from the back.

There is order here, the order of a corrupt autocrat imposed through coercion, Ahl thinks. One of the uniformed men leads them up to the
house, his pace measured. He knocks on the door in a rhythmic knock, presumably a code. The door opens. Fidno and Ahl enter; the uniformed youth stays behind, bowing.

“Welcome, AhlulKhair. I am your host.”

The voice Ahl hears has something magisterial about it: distant, assertive. He identifies it as belonging to a little, lean man of advanced years sitting in what looks like a child’s high chair, with a full, graying beard and penetrating eyes. How very odd that such a small man, almost a midget, can produce such a commanding voice, Ahl thinks. He can’t be more than four feet tall. He reminds Ahl of pictures he has seen of Emperor Haile Selassie, and because of this, he somehow expects a Chihuahua to be imperiously perched on No-Name’s lap. Ahl wonders if No-Name is a cripple.

“How have things been?” he says to Ahl, in a tone of surprising familiarity.

“Everything has been good so far,” Ahl says, although this is not what he feels inside.

“What about you, Fidno?” No-Name asks, his voice sounding a notch more authoritative, its timbre more full-bodied.

Fidno says, “Everything is according to plan.”

“Excellent.”

“How have you been yourself?” Fidno asks.

No-Name appears a little offended. He says to Fidno, “Give us a few minutes, will you? You may join the others outside. You know your way around here.”

The caller of tunes, No-Name expects to be obeyed, and Fidno takes his leave. “Thank you for seeing my friend,” he says.

“We’ll see you later.” Ahl notes the royal
we
.

When Fidno opens the door to leave, the hall is awash in the intense brightness of the midday sun. And once again Ahl wonders if he is doing the right thing, liaising with criminals.

As Ahl approaches, No-Name frowns, like someone used to wearing spectacles. It’s plain he’s not accustomed to anyone doing anything without his say-so. The closer Ahl gets to the high chair No-Name is sitting in, the weirder it all looks. Almost hilarious.

No-Name says, “Please sit.”

But there is nowhere to sit, save a lounge area at the other end of the hall, furnished with an ottoman and a plush carpet dotted with cushions propped up against the walls. Is this where No-Name chews
qaat
with his pals? Does an emperor have pals?

What a day and what humiliation! Ahl crouches down, knees creaking, wondering if children have any notion what troubles one goes through for them.

With a trace of a grin around his lips, No-Name says, “Tell me everything about your nephew.”

“My son, actually.”

“I am sure Fidno described him as your nephew,” No-Name says.

“That may be so, but he is my son.”

“That changes my perspective on things.”

“I am not his father. His mother is my wife. But I raised him.”

No-Name takes all this in. His right foot shakes as though it has its own mind.

“What else did Fidno get wrong, before we move on?”

Ahl shrugs his shoulders in a search-me gesture.

“Tell me about your son, all that I need to know.”

Ahl tells him.

“Have you a photo of the runaway youth?”

Ahl produces it.

“What’s his date and place of birth?”

Ahl tells him.

“What are his mother’s and your full three names?”

Ahl supplies him with these, wondering how No-Name can possibly
remember such details without taking notes or having a secretary do so. Is he being made a fool of, or does No-Name already know where and who Taxliil is?

“What is the name of the imam at the mosque in Minnesota who recruited him?”

Ahl answers the question fully, with details.

“Do you know the names of his fellow jihadis?”

Ahl shakes his head.

“He didn’t know the twenty other recruits from Minnesota and nearby?”

Ahl says, “I don’t know; we don’t know.”

“How do we reach you if we wish to do so?” No-Name asks, and Ahl provides him with a host of phone numbers.

“How long have you been here?”

Ahl tells him.

“When do you leave?”

Ahl shrugs. “It all depends on my success.”

“Or lack of it,” No-Name says. Then, “Fidno has mentioned that Malik, a journalist, is in Mogadiscio.”

“What about Malik?”

“Is he likely to come here?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I’d like to meet him.”

“He hasn’t said he will come and visit here, but I will make sure to introduce you to him if he does.”

“I look forward to that.”

Ahl finds himself sitting uncomfortably forward, supporting his body on his knees, like a devotee at an ashram.

He says, “If I may ask a question, please?”

“Go ahead.”

A current of worry goes through his body, lodging for a moment or so in his heart, then in his head. One indiscreet question from him might jeopardize everything. Nonetheless, he asks it. “Why did you agree to see me?”

No-Name presses his forehead and winces, as if thinking of the reasons or sharing them with Ahl is causing him pain. His eyes closed, he says, “One, because I am doing Fidno, my pal, a favor.”

“That’s very good of you.”

“Two, because sometime in the past few days someone spoke three names in my presence—I cannot recall in what context. But Taxliil’s name was one of them, and the name stuck, as I have never known anyone else with it. So when Fidno came to me, I agreed to step in and to assist. I’ll do all I am able to help you find Taxliil.”

As if on cue, a mobile phone rings in another room. No-Name shifts in his high chair in a manner that suggests to Ahl that their conversation is at an end. The uniformed young man enters from the back, and offers Ahl a hand to help him straighten up. Then he leads him out to where Fidno is waiting in the jalopy.