Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) (7 page)

"The Serb. Yeah, got it. You're not
listening
. Why is the Big Bad Bahdoon doing this? Why aren't you in a penthouse on a throwaway phone talking to foot soldiers? Why are you out here where anyone can find you?"

"He reports to someone. I need to know who."

"Okay, you're trying to get rid of the middlemen. Without Chablis in on it..." He paused, stared off like he was thinking it through. Then his cell buzzed and he checked the text. Fast-fingered a reply and shoved it away. "Makes sense, you're in to take that action for yourself. Why would they want you instead of her? All they know about you is you fucked up a couple of their guys. Took down the Prince, busted up the Serb, and now you're sneaking around parking lots. You're losing them money."

"I'm paid up."

Shook his head. "Not what I heard. Took yourself a discount for damaged goods. For whores? You getting principled over him fucking girls that you're going to sell to get fucked anyway?"

"That's not his choice. My customers don't need this guy's prick poking where it shouldn't. Shit, they got enough to worry about. Chablis is getting sloppy, her people need to know it. I can get rid of the Serb, put my man in there. Chablis will work for me."

Kong didn't look him in the eye the whole spiel. He stared out the side window, fingers rubbing his chin. "Shit, you're crazy, nigga, you're just...shit. Thought you'd do your research, old man like you."

Mustafa let the
nigga
slide, for now. "What else do you know?"

Another one of those scoffs. "Like it's that easy. I'm just going to tell you?"

"Fine with me. You want this war to suck your crew in, I can't help it. Things just happen."

"You'd threaten a Crip?"

"I'd threaten you."

Another cell phone buzz, but Kong ignored it. "I came here as a friend. Never had trouble with you. I respect you getting out while you were on top. Nothing ever stuck to you. Coming back like this isn't good for anybody. End this war or I will cut you down."

He was so intense on Kong that Mustafa had forgotten about the guys in the other car. A hand on his shoulder made him jump. The driver of Kong's Honda. Kid squeezed until Mustafa calmed his ass back down.

"Thanks for the advice."

Kong sniffed. "Fuck you."

He nodded, barely, and the hand slipped away. The hulk opened the passenger door and Kong was gone just like that. Mustafa didn't watch the Honda as it drove away. He didn't react much of any way. He kept watching the hotel entrance and the Challenger. He watched for three more hours. When nothing happened, he went home. His real home.

*

M
ustafa sat with Idil at the kitchen table and they drank hot spiced tea together. Arms crossed. Heads bowed, close.

He whispered, "You would think I could...I could have had this all handed to me, but they're hiding stuff. Hiding it from
me
. That's how little they think of me now. I didn't expect this."

"There was probably a better way. Why couldn't you have called in a few favors? Asked a few questions?"

"I don't know. He asked me to keep it quiet—"

"Not for this. He didn't ask you to take over the Killaz. That was all you. You wanted to be a hero. I went along with it. Blame me."

"I can't."

"I know. So there's nothing we can say. No remorse. Do what you need to do and get out."

She made a good point. Would he have granted a favor like this? It didn't matter. The question had to be would Heem have done so, and Mustafa didn't think he would have. Even if he had, Heem would've wanted something in return. But Idil cut right through it all. Yes, he wanted to be a hero. Yes, he wanted to be top dog again after all those years at the warehouse. Yes, he wanted to do something
big
.

"You should call him, you know." Idil lifted her eyes. "He's called me several times while you've been gone."

Mustafa nodded. Three days out of the house, sleeping in Heem's ridiculous "HQ". Ornate bed, satin sheets, just like a rap star's crib, sure. He'd seen them on TV. He'd watched them talking about muthafuckas and bitches and weed while standing next to an 18
^th
century Chesterfield or some sort of British Colonial bedroom suite. Yeah. Ridiculous.

Mustafa pushed back from the table, eased himself tall. Knees were aching, too much time in the car. He leaned down, kissed his wife's cheek. She turned her lips towards him for another, then went back to her tea, both hands clasped around the cup. Mustafa went into the other room to call his cousin Chi in Kenya. Unfortunately, he didn't have much good news to tell him. Yet.

––––––––

A
t an internet café several blocks off the boulevard, Adem tracked his phone. He hadn't thought he would be using the app to hunt down his own phone somewhere in Yemen, but had hoped his dad could use the service to find him if something bad happened. Now something bad
had
happened and he was turning it all around.

The café was a second-floor apartment, two rooms full of computers, some older, some newer, some laptops, with a heavy smell of someone's dinner still in the air. It was crowded and he heard banging pots in the kitchen. There were little internet cafes all over, the perfect new home business, cheap and busy. Anonymous.

Unless the CIA had a way to keep tabs of each and every one of them. Adem had to risk it. He got a hit on the phone, wrote down the address and disappeared into the streets again for a while, walking around the same block several times to see if he noticed anything unusual. Could he really spot a tail, even if he knew what to look for? Did one of those hijabs look familiar each pass, the eyes behind it watching? He didn't know how it all worked here, the layers of everyday life. Men gathered in doorways chewing khat and talking sports. Teenagers and kids carried jugs for water, plastic containers for fuel. There were long lines waiting for everyday basics at stores, and it took a few tries to catch the order in the chaos.

When he had no reason to wait any longer, Adem walked back to the main street and grabbed a cab, asked to be dropped off several blocks from his destination. It was getting cooler, less crowded, and he didn't have much cover. What was he going to find at this location anyway? An embassy? A safe house? Or his CIA contact chewing khat and apologizing to his superiors?

Instead Adem found just another building. No clues, no sign of an American presence or Jacob or anything out of the ordinary, and he wondered if his man had moved on since the trace. He doubted it. He pulled out a disposable phone he'd bought at the airport and hidden on himself before meeting Hasan. He had three of them.

He called his own smart phone.

A few rings. Did Jacob even realize he had the thing on him?

Someone picked up. The voice was familiar. "Adem, don't hang up, just listen."

"I'm not going to let you track me."

"We can find you in less than a minute."

"Then good-bye—"

"No, wait, we want to get you out of Yemen. You're a target. If these people get you, they
own
the pirates, so they hear. I'm telling you, we're on your side."

"Where would I go?"

"Let's worry about that later. Work with us and you can take her back. They can perform surgery. She'll be beautiful again."

It was tempting, but did they really know where she was after all, or were they bluffing the same as Hasan? Even with all the resources of the CIA, would they follow through on their promise or was this all a sham?

He didn't have long to decide. He hung up the phone and tossed it, stepped on it. He walked around the building, keeping an eye out. Had they found him? He kept going a few more blocks, pulled out another disposable, and called back.

Jacob answered, "Don't do that again."

"Where is she?"

"You can't do it on your own. We'll find you if you try."

"Just tell me where she is and I'll decide."

"I can't. That's not what we're going to do. Adem, I know you're close by. You should look over your shoulder. If you hang up this time, our people will grab you and the deal is off. At least I'm letting you walk through the front door on your own."

"Okay, Jacob, so now I know."

Adem hung up, crushed the phone, and realized he had to cut ties—his real passport, his phone, his bag. He was a fugitive again. A glance over his shoulder. Was that the same red hijab from earlier? Come on, he'd seen hundreds like it. No way. He walked straight on, plenty of money in his pocket for a room, for food, for a boat ride out of the country. As he suspected, no one was waiting to pick him up. It was all typical American bluster.

He needed more time, more research. Maybe she never left Somalia. So that's where he needed to be. But first he needed to get back into character, play the role of Mr. Mohammed. He would need to shave his head and buy a gray suit, wire-rimmed glasses like Sufia's. He would need to take a job to rebuild his reputation. After one of those, he should be able to sweet talk the info he wanted out of his people, the true believers who thought he was some sort of saint. Most of the stories about him weren't true, of course. Why not use that to his advantage?

He found another cab and headed for the Coast.

––––––––

"S
he's not here."

It was the one thing Mustafa had not wanted to hear. It would make all of this much harder. He nodded at the foot soldier standing in the doorway. He had only opened it face-wide at first, and then didn't open it farther when he realized who was standing there. Must be one of Heem's boys, still loyal to him, still leaking info. And cash, too.

They were down in Powderhorn, near the park. He had Ali with him again, the only one of the Prince's guys who played straight with him, told him all he knew about the girls. Rafael was driving this time, keeping an eye on the street while the other two went door-knocking. One of the houses where they stashed the girls. Heem had a good system—blend in to the neighborhood, hire an older Somali woman to cook, clean, and take care of the girls, keep a soldier posted, and never let the clients come here. When the girls left, they were taken in one car to whatever apartment or party they were scheduled for, but always picked up in a different ride to go home. The drive back was never a straight line, just to make sure no one was following. While at home, the girls dressed like Americans—uncovered heads, jeans or shorts, tight tees, make-up and bling—but they could "Muslim up" on request. Not a lot of call for that, but it got a few guys off, right? The forbidden? That sort of thing. In the homeland, a girl would be stoned for doing it. Here, she got paid.

Not enough though.

So this soldier blocked the door all casual like, big grin, thinking the new boss was going to get the message and go away. Mustafa kept it cool, spread the fingers on his right hand wide—the man had some thick rings on those fingers—and pressed the tips against the soldier's chest. Gently, but with enough force for him to get the picture right quick. He stepped back and let Mustafa past, shirt rubbing shirt. Ali was right behind him. The kid gave him a sneer. Under his breath, "Fuckin' punk."

Ali kept on. He knew better. So did the kid. Mustafa waited until the soldier closed the door to say, "But she's been here, right?"

Shrug. "You asking me for? They say watch the door, I watch the door. They say drive a bitch somewhere, I drive a bitch somewhere. I don't get to know 'em."

Ali grinned.

"What, you got something to say?"

"Just sayin', houseful of pussy, and you the only boy that ain't paying attention."

"I don't need they dirty-assed pussy. I get enough in the clubs for free. Ain't seen you out in a while. Massa got you on a short leash?"

Ali turned to Mustafa. "Kids."

Ali of course barely into his twenties.

The wide-screen Vizio in the front room was paused on some sort of video game fight scene. The coffee table had been pushed against the couch. On the table, a can of Moutain Dew, a Droid phone, and a nine millimeter pistol. Cocky, leaving it around like a toy.

"What's this, anyway? Kinect?"

"Just like taking kung-fu classes." He made a couple chops and
Wah
sounds like from movies.

Mustafa scrunched his eyes. "Aren't you supposed to act it out? Like a mime?"

"It's virtual reality!"

Ali laughed, doubled over, laughed some more, said, "Got yourself some sort of Sesame Street imagination. Good for you."

The soldier looked like he wanted to grab that nine off the table, get the upper hand again. Funny, him thinking he ever had it. Best he could do was, "It's Twenty Twelve, bitch."

Mustafa cleared his throat before these two whipped theirs out and pissed all over each other. "If she's out, where'd she go? I want to pick her up."

"I don't remember." Flicking his eyes around on the floor, at the TV. Lying his ass off.

Mustafa was about to show him who the real Prince of this gang was when he saw the house mother at the end of the hall, clothes basket against her hip. Her face was a blank slate. Mustafa told Ali to get the boy wonder to teach him how to play that game, then walked down the hall to meet the woman.

She didn't move as he came near. He heard music and the voices of girls either singing along or talking all at once from several different rooms. When he was close enough, he could see her face, framed in a purple and pink hijab, was one of a strong grandmother, perhaps in her late fifties. She had seen the worst of what happened in the homeland, and something told him she wouldn't have taken this job unless she had dire need of the income. A widow, or a divorcee. There was shame in her expression, but under wrinkled defiance.

Mustafa said in the mother tongue, "You know me?"

She nodded.

"You know I'm the one who pays you now. No matter what the Prince has told you."

"He says you are a bad man. You will hurt the girls, that they will go to jail because of you."

He shook his head. The noise from the bedrooms had stopped. He imagined young Somali teens with their ears against the doors. "What do you think?"