Let's Go Swimming on Doomsday, page 21
It isn’t Bashir. Not even close.
My face is pushed into the asphalt. I can’t catch my breath. My ear fills with ringing again.
I hear the noises change, the tenor of the voices shift, and suddenly a white face is swimming in front of mine.
It takes me a second to hear her. “Abdi!” Sam is shouting. “Get him up! What did you do to him? He’s not done anything!”
“Sam?” I try to say. I can only see her out of one eye.
An officer tries to take her by the arm and pull her back, but she shakes him off. “Don’t touch me! I’m with the UN and he’s with me! Let him go! I’ve got his papers right here! He’s not one of them!”
I feel hands pulling me up, Sam dragging me off the ground. The officers argue with her. “Why did he run? Doesn’t he see this is a police stop?”
Sam’s chest heaves. Her hair has halfway come out of its clip and it’s a wild mess around her red face. She’s trying to look authoritative, but I can feel her hands trembling, even as she grasps me tightly. “He’s not done anything wrong!”
I want to tell her to stop. I’ve seen the expression on these officers’ faces before. It’s familiar, the look of men who don’t like being bossed around by women. They’ll hurt her without thinking twice.
No one moves. It’s a standoff between Sam and the police. And then out of nowhere, there’s honking and a roar behind us, and we turn to see a black Mercedes chewing up the side of the road. It shoves its way around the line of cars. It hasn’t seen the roadblock yet. By the time it does, it’s too late. In a screech of brakes and metal it slams into a police truck.
The officers all swivel, and as quickly as they were on me, they pounce in the other direction.
“Get him out of here!” one of the officers snarls at Sam, and shoves me at her.
Sam doesn’t speak; we go. As we scurry, I see officers hauling out the driver, who is as limp as a piece of spaghetti. One officer grabs him and shakes him by the shirtfront. The drunk man throws up all over the officer’s chest.
Sam pulls me by the arm to her car. “Get in.” She doesn’t look at me as she’s throwing the car into reverse, jamming her foot on the gas. I sink in my seat, the stopped cars in the other lane flying by, feeling my heart continue to thrum.
It’s only once the roadblock disappears from view that she speaks. “What the hell are you doing out here? Why am I getting calls from Mama Lisa that you’ve run away?”
“I don’t know,” I mumble.
“You don’t know?” she asks, her voice rising, starting to crack. “What do you mean you don’t know?”
And without warning it’s back, all that hot anger. “Why do you care?” I shout. “You’re not responsible for me anymore, remember?”
“Of course I’m responsible! I don’t want to see you in jail again! Or worse! Don’t you know what they do to terror suspects?”
“So I’m a terrorist?”
“No, Abdi, no!” She rakes her fingers through her hair. “Of course not—that’s not what I’m—”
“Well, what if I was?” I ask. “What if I deserve whatever it is they do to terror suspects?”
She’s barely looking at the road; her wide blue eyes are on me. “What are you— Shit.” She slams on the brakes, almost hitting a car in front of us. “What are you talking about?”
My fury turns to dust in my throat. I feel like I’m on a ship in a storm. One second I’m wild with anger, and the next I’m paralyzed with sadness. Up and down, over and over until I just want to throw myself overboard and be done with it. “You should’ve just left me there,” I find myself saying. “That’s what I deserved.”
She gives me a sharp look. “Okay, that’s it,” she mutters. She swings the wheel and shoves us through traffic. Drivers lay on their horns but she ignores them. I start to ask where we’re going, but can’t seem to make myself move.
She turns off the main road and down a side street, and then we’re in Sangui’s Old Town. The tumble of ancient white buildings reminds me of Mogadishu, and suddenly I’m achy with homesickness on top of everything else.
We’re silent as she winds down the ever-narrowing streets. From within my haze I think dully that it’s like driving back in time; the buildings get older and the streets smaller, more full of fruit and fish vendors than mobile phone and sneaker sellers. It’s quieter too. She drives until we can’t drive anymore, until we hit the seawall. She parks the car and turns the engine off.
“Abdi, look at me.”
I face her, but can’t quite make myself meet her eye.
She takes a deep breath. “I don’t know what you’ve been through, Abdi. I can only imagine.”
You don’t want to imagine, I think to myself.
“But . . . Please look at me?” I force myself to, and she goes on, “I know that sometimes you probably feel like everything has gone wrong and there’s no way to ever make it better.”
I stay quiet.
“But to think you deserve to be hurt . . .” She presses her lips together. “You’re a good kid, Abdi. No, listen.” She reaches out and grabs my hand to keep me from turning away again. “Maybe you’ve done things. Maybe you . . .” She looks away, doesn’t finish. And I know, dully, that she knows, or at least suspects who I was.
Maybe I killed people, I almost say. But as I do, I realize that’s not even the worst of it. “I let people die,” I say, and feel my face go hot with tears I can’t seem to shed. “I left them. I abandoned them.”
Bashir.
My brother.
How many others?
They were willing to give up everything, even to die for me. There were a million things I could have done to save them. But I didn’t do any of them. And now it’s too late.
Sam is quiet. Then she asks, “Do you want to tell me about it?”
And suddenly I feel it all bubbling up, and yes, I want to tell her. I want it all to spill out. It’s like that moment when you’re sick and you know you just can’t keep the bad stuff down anymore, and no matter what you do, no matter if it’s embarrassing and painful, it’s all going to come out in one nasty, messy rush.
So I open my mouth. And I tell her.
THIRTY-NINE
THEN: OCTOBER 3
THE FORT, SOMALIA
Guide us to the straight path, the path of those upon whom you have bestowed favor . . . The words of my prayer are the same as always, but this morning they don’t echo in my heart. They sound dull and flat, like rocks dropped onto the sand.
I barely slept last night, and when I did, I dreamed of being chased over the desert by something dark and shapeless. I spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, watching my whip open the first cut across Safiya’s back, over and over again. Bashir never came in to sleep. I haven’t seen him since he sent me away.
I stumble through exercises and breakfast and am on my way to tactical when Khalid pulls me aside.
“We’re wanted for a meeting,” he says, “about the mission.” He waits for my reaction, but I can’t manage anything more than a nod. A tiny worry line appears between his eyebrows. “Come with me.”
I follow my brother silently to the General’s quarters. I know I should be excited that I’m finally being brought into the plan, but I just feel empty. I force myself to pull it together and at least look alert. This is it, Abdi, you’re here. This is what you’ve been waiting for, I remind myself. If whipping Safiya was the price, the least I can do is not waste her suffering. I risk the Doctor and the General changing their minds about including me if I look like I regret what I did.
The Doctor and the General are already in the room when we get there, talking together softly. I’m surprised but happy to see Scarface. He jerks his chin up at me in acknowledgment, his arm in a white sling. There’s also a boy from Khalid’s unit whose name is Muhumed, I think, and Commander Rashid.
I sit next to Khalid, all of us in a circle turned toward the Doctor. Just as it looks like he’s about to start talking, Bashir steps in.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” he asks the General.
“Yes, come in. Sit.”
Bashir looks around the room, his eyes widening in surprise, then narrowing when he sees me. He sits on the opposite side of the circle, pointedly not looking in my direction.
I swallow. Did Bashir know he was being invited to this? If so, why didn’t he tell me last night? Then I drop my gaze to my feet, knowing why.
“Brothers,” the Doctor says, pulling my attention back. “Some of you understand why you are here today; some of you do not.”
He looks around the room and I see Muhumed’s back straighten. He must be new, like me. I don’t know anything about him, other than he seems to be one of those natural athlete types—the kind of guy who’s good at every sport he tries. I can see why he’d be a good soldier.
“The mission you will soon undertake is of utmost importance,” the Doctor says. “You have been called together because you have been found worthy. You have the skills and the heart for this job, and you are essential to its success. You honor your country and God by being here.” He looks at each of us, one by one. “As most of you know, I will not be leading the mission. But I will be watching from close by, and praying for your success.
“This is the moment in which you become the sparks that light God’s fire. Each of you is a match. This mission will not be easy. It will likely be the hardest thing you have ever done. It will not bring you glory. It is a mission solely for the glory of God. And so you must, from this point on, think of the mission first, above all else. You must keep an oath of silence about all that you will learn today. Always remember that the devils are hard at work too, and have most likely placed spies among us.”
I pray to keep my face from twitching.
“These spies would tell our enemies our plan, and who is involved. Can you swear to silence, my brothers?”
Echoes of “Yes, Hakim Doctor” swell in the room, and the other Boys raise their hands, making an oath. I follow their lead, hoping the trembling in my hand isn’t as obvious as it feels.
The Doctor settles back, turning things over to the General.
“The Doctor is a kind man,” the General says, “but do not mistake his kindness for weakness. I will say what he said again, and mark my words: if you so much as breathe a whisper of what you hear in this room to anyone—and I don’t just mean the men in your units; I mean the stars in the sky, the trees, the air, anyone, anything—you will be slaughtered like animals and cursed to the hottest pit of hell. And that will be just the beginning. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir,” we say.
The General unfolds a map of Mogadishu onto the floor in the middle of the circle. “We’ll go over the whole thing again, for the benefit of our new team members.” He looks at Muhumed, Bashir, and me. “Pay attention, boys.”
The General touches the center of the map, where yellow earth meets blue water. “Mogadishu,” he says. He slides his finger north. “Lido Beach. You’ve heard of it?”
I glance at Khalid. Everyone knows Lido. It’s the most popular place in Mogadishu. A stretch of gold sand and turquoise water, it’s always crowded with families.
“Here,” the General says, “is the Ocean View Resort, where Mogadishu’s finest citizens—businessmen, politicians, the rich and famous—all rub elbows. It is where army generals meet and plot our deaths. It is also our target.”
I try to keep perfectly still so my mounting fear won’t show.
“In two weeks’ time you will deploy to the city. On the eighteenth, which will be the third or fourth night of Ramadan, a feast is planned. All the most prominent politicians and religious leaders loyal to the government will break their fast together in a show of solidarity. It will be a huge affair, with hundreds of invited guests, and security will be extremely tight. The entire area will be cordoned off days in advance, and everyone coming and going will be searched.”
The General brings out another map, a satellite image of Lido Beach and the Ocean View Resort magnified. “This is as close as our tunnels come,” he says, pointing to a side street about two hundred meters away from the resort. “Our men have been working on digging to reach a dry well below the resort laundry facilities for the past week. They’ll complete the tunnel on the morning of the eighteenth, after the resort has been swept by security for a final time. That will be our entry point.” He looks to Bashir. “You and I will talk separately about the vest you will design and make.”
“Y-yes, sir,” Bashir says, eyes wide.
I feel Khalid shift next to me. Vest? A suicide vest?
“Bashir will go with Soldier Zero to help him get ready. They’ll enter here and end up here, in the basement. Bashir will exit the same way, and Soldier Zero will be on his own from that point. This veranda overlooking the ocean will be where all the politicians and their families will be seated and served. Soldier Zero will complete his mission at sundown, after prayers, when all are assembled for the meal.
“We will show our nation that these so-called leaders cannot rape and pillage without consequence,” the Doctor says. “The price of their greed will be taken in flesh. No one will be spared.”
Slowly, what he’s saying comes into focus. A suicide vest, made by Bashir, delivered to a room full of people. So that’s the plan? Soldier Zero will go in and blow himself up, killing everyone as they eat? Families? Kids? While they break fast during what should be the most peaceful time of the year? How many people did the General say will be there? Hundreds?
It’s hard to concentrate on the rest of the plan. My head swims. Sure, there are suicide bombings every few months in Mogadishu, but I can’t remember the last time more than a dozen died. This is going to be on a whole other scale.
We’re sitting here planning mass murder.
“And you, Soldier Zero, you’ll be ready when the time comes?”
I almost miss who the General is directing the question to.
But then I hear my brother answer in a clear, steady voice, “Yes, sir. I will be ready.”
FORTY
THEN: OCTOBER 3
THE FORT, SOMALIA
When I leave the General’s room, I can’t speak. I move like I’m sleepwalking. All I want to do is get out of A-block. I pass Bashir, who is finally looking at me, but I don’t stop. I stumble down the stairs as fast as I can without running and, once I’m out of view, throw myself around the corner of the building.
Alone, next to the garbage pile, I collapse against the wall.
Khalid . . .
Dahir . . . is going to . . .
I can’t even think the rest. All I can do is stare at the sand between my feet, his name running over and over in my head. Dahir Mohamed Abdullahi Kulane . . . Like I can change what I just heard by saying his old name enough times.
I feel a touch on my shoulder and jerk my head up. I suck down a gasp when I find the Doctor standing over me. I start to scramble to my feet, wiping my nose, but he puts a hand on my arm.
“No, no, it’s okay, sit.” He lowers himself to the ground too, like he’s just another one of the Boys, not the leader of this entire movement.
“But it’s dirty, and . . .”
“Never mind.” He looks directly at me, until I have no choice but to meet his eye. “Are you all right, Da’ud? It’s a lot to take in.”
I have no idea how to respond. What do you say when you find out your brother wants to die? To die in order to kill people? Hundreds of people. And that this man sitting next to you is the person he’s doing it for? Finally I choke, “Whoever kills one man, it is as if—”
“—He has killed all of humanity. Yes, I know, Da’ud,” the Doctor says, finishing the ayah with a sigh. “I know. I wish there were some other way to do this. I wish the men in power now were godly men. I wish they cared that they were leading us all down a long path of servitude and poverty. But they’re lost, Da’ud, and they don’t want to be found.” He looks out at the shadows created by the branches of the acacia trees. “I have tried the way of talking. I’ve tried reasoning with these sorts of men, and I’ve realized, after years of frustration, that there are simply those who will never change their minds and hearts, no matter what truth you tell them.”
I know I’m risking everything by arguing, but I can’t seem to stop myself. “But killing all those people . . . and there will be children there too.”
The lines across his brow grow deep. “That is my heart’s burden to bear,” he says. “Not yours. Yes, there will be bloodshed, but the innocent who die will be martyrs to a larger cause. I know in my heart that this is what must happen to bring God’s kingdom to earth. Remember what I said about the diseased plant in your field? There’s no cure for it in these men. And we can’t allow the disease to spread, Da’ud. This is the only way.”
I do remember. The plant has to be pulled out by the roots, burned. And its ashes will fertilize new crops.
“Do you understand?” he asks.
I press my nails into the inside of my palm. I press so hard that later I find four little crescents of blood there.
“Yes, Doctor,” I say.
And inside I am screaming.
Screaming as loud as a hurricane. And what I’m screaming is this:
My brother is not a match.
He isn’t a piece of cardboard and sulfur to scratch into brilliant flame, use and toss to the ground. He isn’t disposable, replaceable, twenty to a pack.
And people aren’t plants.
