Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) (10 page)

He turned and walked down the empty hall past half-finished offices and conference rooms. This was going to have been the executive branch of a construction company, so the signs on the wall said. They got as far as carpeting the hallways, but the rest was skeletal. Occasional walls, but mostly just beams, wires, sawhorses, stacks and stacks of panels, drywall, aluminum sheets. A few leftover tools. At least fifteen floors above and below him like this. The meeting was set to take place sixteen more stories above him, right before the floors that hadn't even been enclosed yet. Very likely they never would be. Dubai's eyes had been too big for its stomach. So much ambition, so much money thrown into the wind.

He pushed the button for the elevator and waited as the closest one rushed for his floor. He'd arrived here three hours ago, hoping to throw off any security or surveillance the company might bring at him. They'd want to know where he came from, who he was with, and where he went after. Now there was a good chance they would never know the first two, and the third was already set-up so they would see exactly what Adem wanted them to see.

An elevator arrived. Adem stepped inside, hit the right button, and felt his stomach drop as it rocketed up.

*

H
e walked into the conference room past a handful of bruisers in similar suits, all with Bluetooth headsets and bulges under their jackets. Adem made it seem as if he paid them no mind, but he was scared silly. If this was a trap, he had no Plan B this far along. Idiot. If he had taken up Jacob's offer, he would've had at least
something
to feel comfortable about. Snipers, or sleeping gas, or a Black Ops team hidden down the hall in the Ladies' Room.

He was surprised to see art on the walls. Reproductions, of course. Impressionists. This was probably the only furnished room on the floor. He had ordered a conference table with thirteen chairs delivered here. There were only eight other people in the room, none of them sitting. He took inventory before he'd taken two steps. Four of the six men were Indonesian, from the shipping conglomerate, plus one African, whereabouts unknown unless he was to speak, and a white man. He wondered for a second as he crossed the room if this was a CIA plant. But he couldn't worry about that now. Two women, one in a hijab, but wearing a stylish suit with a skirt mid-thigh. The other was uncovered, Asian, probably a translator. Adem didn't need one. He planned on speaking English, and did so on his third step, kept right on walking.

"Ladies, Gentlemen, I trust we can skip the preliminaries because time is short. I have spoken with the captain, and he has assured me that this can be brought to a very swift conclusion, one way or another."

Right on through, nodding at each person he passed, until he was staring through another wall-sized window, a view of the sea. He turned. After all, how did they know he didn't bring along those snipers? Then a chill passed through from head to toe—how did he know they didn't bring their own?

Stupid, Adem. You're not ready for this.

He waved his hand towards the table, stepped to the chair at the closest end, and sat down. He carried no papers with him, same as the others. These were not people who bothered with paper unless a low-level employee handed it to them to sign, and that was rare indeed. The fewer times these men put their name on paper, the more powerful they grew. They wanted to ignore problems like this hijacking. They wanted governments, which they usually had no use for, to come in and do the dirty work for them.

Adem could tell they wanted to sneer at him, spit on him, yell at him. But they were too amused. It was the white man who stepped forward and took the first chair, the rest falling in line moments later. So he was leading this. That meant he was the least important man in the room. Which meant he was their PR liaison.

The white man said, "While I am glad to hear there may be some reason finally taking hold, I believe we must first express our outrage—"

Hey, an American. How about that? And as he had guessed, the young Asian woman translated into Indonesian. A burbling undercurrent while the loud American got a little showy-offy.

"—such a despicable act. We demand, and that's a word I choose carefully—"

Adem said, "One of your crew is dead."

That shut off the pointless talk. And, again, as he thought, everyone in the room knew what he had told them before the translation.

He continued. "It was not something the captain wanted, of course, but it has happened and we must accept that, move on."

The murmuring began before he had finished, and grew in volume until one man, in his mid-fifties, a mustache and bald patch up top, grunted. They all shut up and waited for him. And he took full advantage, too, starting slow and sounding as if he was some sort of mystic seer reciting verse. Adem almost missed the quiet translation, the woman not even lifting her head as she recited, calmly, his words: "You are a murderer. How dare you. How dare you dictate to me. To any of us. There is one way forward now. Surrender. That is the only—"

"Unacceptable. I will tell you what we can accept and see if we can find a solution."

The man wasn't used to being cut off like that. His jaw hung open like he wasn't sure what to do with the other words he had planned to say. Adem didn't even have to raise his voice. The translator began to interpret what he'd said, but the man waved her off, a loud
Shk!

The American started in again. "I'm sorry, this is...um...sudden. Um. I believe a recess is in order, wouldn't you all agree? Five minutes?"

"No." Adem let the word go calmly. Let it float away like a balloon. "The Captain requires—"

"He's not the Captain." The big boss, in English this time. Clear as a bell. "He is a criminal."

"Beg pardon, but no. The Captain runs the ship. The Captain requires four hundred thousand, American. He requires safe passage for him and his crew."

Boss stood. "Absolutely not!"

The American lifted his hand. "Wait, wait. Just...yeah, we can't do that."

"He will give you the shooter. This death was absolutely not sanctioned by the Captain. He will give you the shooter plus eleven others. That's your face-saving. That's the deal."

"It's nothing." The boss turned and spoke in his native language to the others at the table, all of whom nodded but wouldn't meet his eye. They knew better. This had gone on long enough. It was a good deal.

The American kept trying to break into the stream, the hand growing heavier each passing moment. Adem stood and walked over to the American, shook his hand. "You know how to reach me."

He ignored the boss and kept on walking. The boss shouted louder. Adem kept on.

Until the boss said, "We will not negotiate with terrorists!"

Adem stopped and turned just so, not even facing the boss.

"You're not negotiating with terrorists. You're negotiating with me. Mr. Mohammed."

And out the door he went.

*

T
he only thing harder than walking out of that room as smoothly as Adem had done just then was cutting off a thief's hand in Mogadishu three years earlier. He had been caught stealing food, and the job was given to Adem as a way to prove himself before his new comrades. He made a mess of it, but he did it. And because of that, he had no problem slicing off the hand of his best friend once it was clear that friend was going to kill him.

But he walked past the gauntlet of private security guards without a flinch or an off-balance step. They had lined up when they heard the shouting from inside, obviously, barely leaving room for him to squeeze through on his way to the elevator bank. Of course, all eight of the elevators were on the lowest possible floors. Only seven floors of the planned eighty floor building were actually open to the public for shopping, and many of the businesses were already gone, less than a year after opening. Adem pressed a down button, shoved his hands into his pockets, and turned. A grin and nod towards the guards, who stared back. Once the soft bell sounded and the elevator doors slid open, Adem stepped inside, pressed 6, leaned against the wall, and waited for the doors to close.

They did. He crumbled. Caught his hands on his knees before going down completely. Ragged breaths. His eyes spilled the sort of tears you got when chopping onions. Get it together. Get it together. Get it together. He needed to remember the plan. Down to the sixth floor, get lost because they'll have someone on your tail. Plenty of someones.

The doors opened and he stepped out, picked up the pace. Not as many people as he had hoped, and he figured the tails easily. Four of them, spread out, all with Bluetooth, not bothering to hide their presence. It was as much a threat as a tail. Adem turned left. He knew where he was headed, but he had to lose them.

The mall was laid out like many American malls—stores lining both sides, two pathways, an open area separating them, a view to the floors below. Echoes of soft trance music, sampled Arab folk songs and instruments alongside thumping and burbling synths. Some employees hung around outside, arms crossed, pacing or talking to other employees from the store next door. So many world-famous brands—fashion, phones, leather, the latest electronics, jewels, more, more, more. And hardly anyone here to buy any of it.

At the end of the hallway was a large department store, the front filled with glass display cases full of watches. A woman in a hijab leaned her elbows on the top of one, texting. One fat Arab in his sixties, it looked like, peered into another case, one full of women's watches. Guy was wearing a
fur coat
, no fooling. No Bluetooth, so maybe he wasn't one of theirs. Adem wiped sweat off his head, rubbed it into the front of his suit jacket. He took a right into ladies' shoes. A left into ladies' intimates, straight through until he found the woman working there wearing the purple dress, just as he'd been told.

"Excuse me, but—"

"Yes sir, I know." She pointed behind her. "Keep low. You'll need to go into the back through the shoes. Someone is waiting for you."

"How do you know—"

"We all know who you are. Go, hurry, and I will hold them off." She walked away without another word. Adem ducked. She stepped into the aisle just as Adem saw his pursuers spread out through the watch cases, four different headings.

Watched them through women's nighties. Adem crab-walked towards the shoe department, looking for the door out of here. He thought someone was just inside the opening, watching him. Shit. Maybe the shipping company had outflanked his own network, what few of them there were. Hastily thrown together, not even having met in real life, versus a sophisticated corporate security firm. Maybe he could skitter through housewares and find another way out.

But he looked at the door again and this time there was someone, and he was waving for Adem to hurry up.

"Sir, can I help you? Sir?"

Another glance at the woman in purple. She had placed herself in front of one of the men, stepping backwards, matching his pace. He was trying to speed up, step around her, but she matched him, the whole time in heels.

"No thank you," he said. "No, please, just...no."

But there was a subtle way she had guided him away from the path, into the racks. He probably didn't realize she was leading him against his will. A blessed talent.

Adem turned to the shoe department door one more time. No one waving now. He just had to trust he could do this. Walk and don't look back and be a
man
. Three crouched steps, then up and making long strides. Counting them in his head
six seven eight nine
...

Halfway. He checked back over his shoulder, unable to help himself. No one on his tail. The woman had kept the man occupied. The other three were well across the store, no longer in sight. Then Adem bumped into a display table full of glitzy sandals, knocked half of them off and bruised his hand. He dropped to the ground, flat. How could the man following him not have heard that? The few ladies shopping turned and stared at the strange man on the floor. Adem was about to make a run for it when a pair of legs appeared next to him, men's slacks, men's shoes. The man who had waved him over. He said to the people staring, "I'm sorry. Clumsy me. So sorry."

Then to Adem without moving his lips. "Back through the stockroom, out the exit I left propped open for you. Take a left until you find the stairs."

Adem started to push himself off the ground.

"Stay down." Almost a hiss. The man knelt to pick up some fallen shoes. "He's still looking this way. Crawl."

"Crawl?"

The man looked pained. He was young, with thick dark hair and a thick, modern goatee. "I'm sorry, sir. I wish there was another way."

"It's okay, it's fine." Adem worked his knees and elbows, scraped them across the stiff carpet, chafing through the suit to his skin, but he kept at it. He had known there would be some people helping, but he never expected this. He guessed there were more people out to kill him than help him.

He still had a long way to go.

Once he'd crossed the threshold, Adem stood and kept on at a jog. A maze of shelves at least three stories tall, with robotic arms to pluck boxes from the top when needed, sending them down on mini-elevators. He followed the salesman's directions but got lost several times, panicking, unable to tell if he'd already rounded this corner, if he was going in circles, and if he was running out of time before his pursuers figured it out. The smell of too much leather was getting to him. He passed a few other workers back there, but none of them tried to stop him. Were they in on it, or did they not care that a sweaty man in an expensive suit was breathing heavily and frantically searching for an exit? What if someone had already closed the door the salesman had left open? Should he just try one at random?

Next corner, there it was, propped open with a crushed Prada shoebox. He pulled the door open, kicked the shoebox out in the hall, and tried to shut the door behind him. Didn't matter. It closed at its own speed, a nice solid click. The air conditioning back here was full-on chill. Adem leaned against the door and took in deep cold breaths, readying himself for the climb.