The Crisis (47 page)

“The elders were conspiring with the Americans.”

“Oh, a bold act. When will you deal with the puppet government? And the foreigners themselves?”

“Soon.”

Yousef runs a finger along the rusted wire, lifting it at each barb. “You are called Al-Khasmi, the Pruner. Yet that prisoner named you Maahdi. What do you say to those who call you these things?”

“I fight in God's name. It's for Him to say what I am.”

“That is acceptable and pleasing. But be vigilant against those who would deceive you. There are imams who pretend to speak for some hidden Maahdi, infallible in all he says. This is not Islam. It is like the polytheists and their pope.”

“This is beyond a simple soldier.”

“Yes, it's not worth confusing people with hairsplitting, such as this one is Matridi or this one Ashari or this one Salafi. That's for the
Shura
that will govern once the Americans are expelled. Your mujahideen will be the refreshing pond around which will gather the tribes and elders, those merchants who are not sullied by cooperating with the occupation.
But that can wait. The important point is to strike at the West. This is the aim of the Prince of Believers, our sheikh, Usama bin Laden, may God bless him.”

From a sheekh to a sheikh, Ghedi thinks. From Ashaari to Arabic. And what is this Shura council? But aloud he says nothing. The longer he spends as a leader, the more he realizes the worth of silence.

Yousef kicks at pebbles. “You have a great opportunity in Ashaara. You can build an
imaamah
like that in Sudan, in Afghanistan. One day all will unite to fight the final battle with atheism, and restore the Great Caliphate. God will grant you victory over the idolators, the secular nationalists, the other traitorous apostates and deviants.

“We can send fighters and weapons, money and those who build bombs. You have heard of the bombs in Iran and Iraq that kill the
kufr
Shiites. Another was to destroy the Jews, but that went off too soon, though it destroyed an American warship.”

Ghedi scuffs along as pain wraps his neck in red-hot wire. Children trail them but keep silent. Guards stay back from the strolling figures. He murmurs, “We have arms, and money. Outside fighters we don't need.”

The Arab chuckles. “All men need money.”

“To buy what?” Ghedi waves at the human skeletons around them. “You see how my people live. Should I eat off gold plate while they eat the crap the foreigners send? But, true, it is food. If we strike at them, it will stop.”

“You see clearly. But let me ask this. What is the reason the foreigners give the world, for being in your country?”

Ghedi frowns. “To prevent starvation. It's a lie, but—”

“Of course it's a lie. They are like the Jews, they do nothing for pity. But let me ask this. How can they stay if they can no longer distribute that food?”

Ghedi halts. “I don't understand.”

“Those who give the aid—who distribute it. What happens if you attack them?”

He catches his breath. “Then what will our people eat? Will you feed them?”

“You don't have to depend on the charity of infidels. Ponder this: To a land truly devoted to God, rain must come.”

A boy pelts up. He gasps, “Respected General, the honored Hasheer Ali Wasami is here.”

“Let's go back to the tent,” Ghedi says, and they turn back along the footpath, along the rusty wire lined for a hundred yards with its silent, watching audience. And although he doesn't say it aloud, he wonders:

When did his lieutenant become “the honored”?

. . .

HASHEER looks fresh. He comes forward with arms spread and Ghedi embraces him tightly even though the pressure reignites the flames of Jahannam in his neck. This young fighter has finally admitted he owed loyalty elsewhere before he came to swear fealty to Ghedi. Perhaps this conversion is even how he feels, but can he ever be trusted again? They hug each other and then Ghedi seats him at his left hand, the Arab at his right, and Juulheed, who's come in too, across from them so all may feel honored but the guest most of all. “You have not met our new friend, one who comes to advise us from a country of high mountains.”

The courtesies accomplished, Hasheer puts his palms on the worn carpet. Ghedi says, “You met with this former major of police?”

“General Abdullahi Assad compliments you on your victory at Uri'yah. He regrets having to fight you at the Tarkash oasis, but is displeased at your activities north of Malaishu. He says the Governing Council will resume power once the foreigners leave, whatever the result of the election.”

“Who will then be president?”

“I believe it is in his mind he will be.”

“You explained the Waleeli do the will of God?”

“He smiles at this. Assad calls himself Muslim, but he is not a man of God.”

“No one but God is perfect,” Yousef offers. “Still, he's not a creature of the Crusaders.”

Hasheer nods. “He gets Western food to distribute to his clients. But he has hidden weapons from the old army, and is backed by the Indian merchants.”

“He accepts gold from the idolators?” Yousef mutters.

Ghedi claps, as if making a bargain in a souk. “What did he say when you put our proposal to him?”

“First, there must be a line drawn. Your power to the south, his to the north. The clan lords who remain have lost all respect. It is now only the Waleeli, the Council, and the secularist traitors.”

“Perhaps the traitors will be destroyed. Where to draw this line? The Durmani River?”

“Not acceptable. Don't forget, he says, much of the north is the Empty Quarter, which has no water.” Hasheer unfolds a map. They lean over it as he explains various proposals. “Each of the lines ends outside the city. There, no line is possible. You hold some neighborhoods and he others. Yet others are stubbornly obeying the Americans.”

“Juulheed?” Ghedi asks his elder adviser. Then changes his mind and
turns to the Arab. “But first, what is your advice, O my brother? As one who sees from afar.”

Yousef frowns, knitting amber prayer beads into his fingers. “This poor servant has not yet heard that Assad Abdullahi will fight.”

“This was not openly promised. But I believe, speaking with his second in command—”

“Tell us of this second in command,” says Juulheed, and Ghedi nods. It's wise to know who's next in line.

“His name is Olowe, a terrible man with the hideous pale face of a Euro pe an laid over that of an African. He was a sergeant in the army, much feared. He has killed many who were once set over him, but seems loyal to Assad.”

“Is he a man of faith?” asks Yousef.

“He did not join me in prayer.”

Ghedi sits unmoving as flies crawl over his face, though they seem to annoy the Arab. Does it matter where a line runs on a map? So long as the Waleeli flag is not openly flown, a village can be God's no matter where it lies. He murmurs, “I feel inclined to agree to the southernmost line.”

“That's very far south,” Juulheed says, blinking. “We lose fourteen villages.”

“Ghost villages, abandoned. Who owns them isn't important. I will agree to this division. But only if his men join in the jihad.” He watches Hasheer as he says this, but the boy betrays no flinch or blink he can detect. “Will they?”

“I believe he'll agree to this. Yes, my elder brother, I believe he will.”

How long has Hasheer been working for the northern warlord? Reporting on the inner circles of the Waleeli? No doubt Hasheer, and through him Assad, believe they're using the Pruner for their own ends.

As he's using them. Because what's left unsaid, though he's sure all four are pondering it, is what happens once the Americans leave. Ashaara may be divided, but it can't stay that way. Either he, the secularists, or Assad must rule. Ghedi holds more villages, but this will not determine who finally wins this deadly game. The key will be the
magaada
—Ashaara City. Whoever holds it will control the import of aid; whoever occupies the capital will be believable as a government. Whoever can eject the Crusaders and intimidate the other factions will rule.

Aloud he says, “Thank you, my brother. Take this agreement to the general, as my most trusted emissary.” Hasheer puts his hand in Ghedi's, and they sit smiling at each other.

When he's gone Zeynaab comes in with fresh cups and a steaming pot. She leans, murmuring there's no more coffee, only tea. She's going into
the city to buy more. Men arrive here day or night, from across the country and even from Eritrea and Sudan. There must be hospitality. He nods. Yousef glances at her, then drops his eyes. “Yes?” Ghedi says.

“This unworthy one did not congratulate you on taking a wife.”

“I have no wife. I have a sister.”

“I see. Well, about this relationship we offer. It's good sometimes to trust, and bargain. But it's also necessary to be hard in the face of evil.”

“You don't believe I can be hard?”

“What we hear is good. But that's why I'm here. The Western media trick the faithful into seeing dusk as dawn. How can we know what we hear is true, unless we ask?”

Ghedi ponders, then looks to Juulheed. “You said you had someone to bring to me.”

“Those working in the city captured him. They would have dealt with him there, but realized who he was, and brought him to me.”

Ghedi takes a sip of the hot tea but it goes down wrong, and his throat blazes like hot metal poured into his mouth. It's all he can do not to groan aloud. He wipes sweat from his face. They're watching him.

“Bring him in,” he says.

 

HIS sergeant of guards pushes a limping boy in. “Name,” Ghedi demands, although he knows it.

Yes, it's Nabil. He recognizes his younger brother, from the dark eyes to the dragging foot. But his brother doesn't recognize him. Why should he? It's been years. They're neither what they were. The boy's been eating well, that's obvious. He's dressed in bits and pieces of American uniform. He even wears tan American boots.

“What is the charge against this Ashaaran?” he asks Juulheed.

Who hesitates, unsure what he's being called on to do. “The guard who captured him will report.”

A bearded young man in a headwrap steps forward. “This one was taken aiding the infidels. Translating, and acting as guide.”

“But this is only a lad,” Yousef puts in.

The boy flinches and looks up, staring from one to the other.

 

NABIL stares at the man who sits. His face is savage. Hairy, swollen an angry red-purple. But the voice hasn't changed, and by his voice he knows. “Brother!”

“You were
once
my brother, yes,” Ghedi says, and his tone stops the boy halfway across the tent. “But my brother would never help the infidel. Is this true? You guide those who invaded our country?”

“The marines aren't infidels.”

The men chuckle. “Not infidels? How can you say this foolish thing?”

“They're warriors. They feed the people. That's why I helped them.” He takes a breath and his face works, desperate to convince. “I saw the port, the rice. Floods of it! So much you can't believe!”

“Truly, this is only a child,” Yousef murmurs. “He can be set on the right path. Your brother? Truly?”

Juulheed's gaze swings from whoever speaks to whoever speaks next. “But also truly, he helped the invaders.”

Nabil trembles. His gaze returns to his brother's. “You won't let them hurt me, Ghedi,” he mutters.

Ghedi's hand trembles too as he massages his neck. The heat streams into his head, clouding his thoughts like steam from a boiling kettle. The rule's his own, ruthlessly applied in the villages he controls. All who help the enemy military must die. But this is Nabil. A face distorted with tears wavers through the boiling mirage of pain.

“Is Zeynaab here? Have you seen Zeynaab?”

Thank God she's left; he can decide without a woman's softness. Though she has less in her than any other he's ever met. “This is your defense? That they bring in foreign grain, to buy the souls of the faithful?” he manages to get out. How could his own brother defy his word! Turn against him! He takes a deep breath. The words are irrevocable once pronounced. The agony's a sheet of lightning in his head.

When he opens his eyes they're all staring. Has he pronounced them? Apparently he has.

“In what manner?” Juulheed finally manages.

“Beheading,” Ghedi says. He doesn't look at his brother.

The agony comes again. When it clears he's outside, in the sun and wind, and a crowd's gathered. The guards hold Nabil, but their grips seem tentative. They keep looking to him, as if for a counterorder. He finds this strange, that at times he's not himself, then is again. His head and neck feel enormous, taut, as if about to burst his skin. The knot of poison in his jaw's killing him.

The pain comes again and without his knowing it the thing's occurred. A corpse writhes on the ground. Dust is already blowing over it. As he watches, the blood soaks into the earth and the wind blows more dust and it's gone. He takes a stride and kicks sand over the thing's back. “What's it to you?” he shouts. “Don't complain. You're not hurt. You're not hurt!”

Behind him a woman screams. When he turns, it's Zeynaab. She's uncovered her face. She hurls herself onto the corpse.

Beside him Yousef sways, hand to his chest. “Was he truly your brother?”

Ghedi stares at the foreign boots. “This is how we deal with those who aid the Crusaders.”

When Yousef looks up from the body respect shines in his eyes. And something like terror.

Ghedi sees the same amazement in the faces of the guards who surround and protect him every day. Of the men and women behind them, forming a witnessing circle. A whisper goes from mouth to mouth.