Let's Go Swimming on Doomsday, page 23
He’ll do it. Bashir seemed sure of it. I just need to give him a little more time. We told him not to be too early, after all.
When we make it to the hotel, Muhumed checks the phone he’s been given. We’re supposed to wait at the cafe across the street until 11:47. Nur is already sitting at a table when we get there. The Doctor has told us we’re exempt from fasting while on the mission—he wants us sharp and ready—but no one orders anything. We don’t want to attract attention. I check out the hotel. It’s nothing fancy. There are scads of them just like it all over Mog. Six stories high, but finished only through the first three. The roof is a skeleton of concrete and rebar, waiting for the next time someone scrapes together enough money to give it another floor. It looks like it’s been a while; one whole corner of the third floor has been blasted away in the meantime, like some giant has been gnawing on it. It’s hard to find a building in Mogadishu that doesn’t have scars. Plaster on top of bullet holes on top of mortar holes. For a second I’m reminded of the old mason from Merka who was taken prisoner. I never found out what happened to him.
I crack my knuckles and force myself not to jiggle my knee. From the hotel it’s about a ten-minute walk to the Ocean View Resort. Close enough to get there fast if we need to, far enough away that we can fall back here if something goes wrong. Could I sneak away somehow and go look for the posters? If Jones doesn’t put them up, alerting anyone and everyone that Khalid’s with Al Shabaab, how am I supposed to convince him he can’t show his face in the Ocean View Resort tomorrow?
Nur jabs me in the arm. “What’s up with you? You look like someone shit in your porridge.” He brays a donkey laugh. Muhumed gives him a disapproving look.
My first instinct is to tell Nur exactly where he can stick his questions, but I don’t need to piss him off right now. “Nothing—just thinking about the job.”
Nur gets serious. “Yeah, man. Me too. I can’t wait to see the look on the faces of all those—”
“It’s time,” Muhumed interrupts.
We stand up, leave a sprinkling of coins on the table to pay for loitering and make our way to the hotel. Inside, it’s musty and dark. The walls might once have been painted to match the bright blue of the national flag, but now they’re faded and peeling. The front desk is empty, and the only guests in the lobby are a couple of sleeping cats. It looks like it’s been years since anyone actually stayed here.
We take the stairs to the fifth floor, like we’ve been told to do. The other landings open onto dim corridors, but on the unfinished fifth there’s a new-looking metal door blocking us from seeing down the hall. Muhumed knocks quietly, and a panel slides back. A single eye peers out at us as we repeat the passwords, giving the signal that everything is fine. Finally, the door creaks open and Bashir lets us into an even darker room. There are few interior walls, mostly just columns sketching the idea of where walls might one day be. All the windows have been shuttered or covered in heavy, dark fabric. It’s stiflingly hot. The only light comes from a computer in an adjoining room.
Commander Rashid and my brother come out to greet us.
“Welcome to the operation,” Rashid says. “Make yourselves comfortable. Get a little sleep if you can. It might be your last opportunity for a long time.”
FORTY-THREE
THEN: OCTOBER 17
MOGADISHU, SOMALIA
Rashid comes to the doorway and looks at the five of us sitting in the dark. “We need supplies.” He holds up a list on a crumpled piece of paper.
“I’ll go,” Khalid says quickly before anyone else can stir.
After hours without anything to do but check and recheck our weapons, everyone is both drowsy and on edge. Bad combo. Sleeping, like Rashid instructed, would be smart, but it’s impossible. Bashir is busy doing something with the vest, and Muhumed’s on lookout at one of the windows, but Nur, Khalid and I have been sitting around with our fingers in our ears for too long. We’ve been warned to keep the talk to a minimum. I’ve had way too much time to stare at the walls and think of all the many ways all of this could go horribly wrong.
Rashid looks past Khalid at the rest of us. “You should stay here, brother, out of sight.”
“I’ll be fine,” Khalid says, standing up. “Besides, I need to stretch my legs; I’m getting stiff.” He reaches for the list. “I’ll go the opposite direction from the resort, north to Bakara Market.”
I spring up too. “Can I go with him, Commander? Sir?”
This is almost too perfect. I had figured someone would have to go out eventually and whoever it was would discover the posters, but didn’t think it would be Khalid volunteering. By now, surely Mr. Jones has had enough time to put them up. If Khalid sees them himself, he’ll understand that he won’t be able to get into the resort unnoticed. It’s risky, Khalid going out at all if posters of him are up, but I’ll be there to make sure he sees them, gets out of sight, and gets back to the hotel as soon as possible. I’m already practicing the way I’ll amp up the drama, what I’ll say to really drive it home that his cover’s been blown. The police will have the posters, I’ll tell him. And all the security guards at the resort.
Rashid narrows his eyes at the two of us. I wonder what he’s worried about. I’m sure he trusts Khalid, but maybe he thinks I’ll try to talk my brother out of his mission? Or it could just be what he’s said, that Khalid should be staying here out of sight. But finally he hands Khalid the list and a wad of cash. “Be back in an hour.”
Khalid doesn’t look at me as Nur lets us out the metal door and we start down the stairs. My brother probably doesn’t want me coming with him either. Maybe he’s the one worried I’ll try talking sense into him.
I follow Khalid through the alleys. It’s the first chance I’ve had to speak to him alone since the day I cornered him in the latrines. I know I shouldn’t, that I should wait until all of this is over to talk about that day, but I can’t seem to stop the words from spilling out of my mouth. “I’m sorry, Khalid.”
He glances back. “For what?”
“You know what.”
He’s quiet for a minute. I wonder if he’s going to tell me again that he’s glad he ended up where he is now. But finally he just says, “It doesn’t matter now.”
“Why didn’t you ever come back home?” I blurt, unable to keep it in. “Just to let us know you weren’t dead, at least?”
His shoulders tighten. “It wasn’t allowed.” After a brief silence he adds, “Besides, Hooyo wouldn’t have let me leave again.”
A ghost of a smile finds its way onto my face. “No, she would have chained you to the wall if you’d tried.”
I’m shocked to hear him snort a laugh. Blood pulses in my ears. Maybe there is some small part of the brother I once knew left. The part that misses his mother, his home.
The part that saved my life.
He glances back at me, and something in my face must remind him that he isn’t supposed to laugh at stuff like that. He goes stony again. As he turns away, I can feel my chest cracking, like it’s some dried-up and brittle shell. My big brother. Dahir. He’s right there. I could reach out and touch his arm. I force down the urge to grab him and tell him we could run, right now. Be done with all of this.
“You know why I have to do it, right?” he asks, not turning around.
No, I want to say. Not at all. There is not one part of his dying that makes any sense to me. How can he think killing all those people is somehow what God wants him to do? Can’t he imagine our parents’ faces if they knew what he was planning? Doesn’t he know that if he blows himself up, he’ll shatter all the rest of us too?
But I don’t say any of that. Those are the things that Abdi would say, not Da’ud. And I feel like I’d rather eat the sand beneath my shoes than be Da’ud right now, but I manage to find his voice in me, because I have to. I have to keep up the facade. Because I know I can’t talk him out of it, and keeping up the lie is the only way to make sure he lives.
So while Abdi is shouting No! inside, Da’ud quietly says, “Yes.”
We keep walking. Just a little bit longer, I tell myself. Be patient. We’ll see the posters. The Doctor won’t let him risk being recognized. He’ll want to replace him. If you’re really lucky, maybe he’ll even call the mission off. You’ll get your brother out of this. He won’t die. I swallow once, twice, force myself to keep breathing normally. If Khalid sees me getting nervous, he’ll suspect something. At the very least, he’ll think I’m soft, and that’s the last thing I need right now.
We’re approaching Howlwadag Street. The noise swells. Traffic, music, the voices of shopkeepers advertising their wares. And then we’re there, and it washes over us like a tide.
The famous Bakara Market. Always packed, it’s exactly the sort of place to advertise hefty rewards. As we bump shoulders and make our way through, I scan for posters. Ayeyo used to say you could get anything from a camel to a coffeepot here. It’s even busier than usual, with Ramadan having just started. The shoppers are a teeming sea of people making their way through aisles stacked high with shiny new goods. Rows of buildings with shops on their ground floors surround the market and keep the crowd packed in tight. Everything is stacked in careful pyramids: suitcases, melons, spices, candies, fabric. Electric wires crisscross above, dipping precariously like a net, adding to the hemmed-in feeling of the place.
People are buying special treats to break fast with: dates and xalwa and sweet biscuits, putting their orders in for meat and canjeero. Brightly colored paper lanterns are strung up to tempt shoppers. I am momentarily dazzled by the frenzy of color and noise; my eyes and ears almost hurt after so much time at the Fort.
I glance at Khalid. Does he feel anything, looking at the decorations and smelling the familiar Ramadan smells? Does he miss those nights of breaking fast by lamplight? The singing, the laughter, Hooyo and Aabo letting us stay up way too late until we would fall asleep where we sat, our faces sticky with sweets? Where are Hooyo and the others this year? Somewhere locked up, wondering if they’ll even be kept alive until Eid? They could be just around the corner, or a million miles away.
Khalid pulls the list out of his pocket and glances at it. “Let’s go. We should be quick.”
I swallow it all down, all my anger, my heartsickness. I follow him into the throngs. Focus, Abdi. Look for the posters. We do need to be quick. Those times will come again. But right now, push it all down, lock it up, hide the key.
Khalid buys food for our team’s dinner and breakfast: fruit, bread and dried meat at three different stalls. He buys rope and a utility knife. We’re deep in the market by this time. I keep trying to glance at the list to see how long it is, how much longer I have before Khalid tells me it’s time to go, but he stays a step ahead of me. Panic is starting to swell in my chest. I haven’t seen any “Wanted” posters yet, just advertisements for Coca-Cola, mobile phones, Ramadan specials. What if we don’t see them? What if Jones never put them up? We can’t go back to the hotel without Khalid seeing himself in black and white, plastered to the city walls.
“Just a couple more things,” Khalid says. “Come on.” He makes for a table selling electronic parts, twisted gobs of wire like a robot spilled its guts. As he’s frowning over the mess, I walk a little farther, still searching. Sweet shop, butchery, bakery . . . Wait. There.
The post office. Of course. Official-looking notices flutter on the side of its wall. In all my trips to the market, I’d never noticed them, but they must have always been here.
I glance over my shoulder. Khalid is haggling with a shopkeeper. I slouch toward the notice boards, trying to get a better look. And then I see them: Faces drawn in rough pencil. Faces blown up from tiny photos, muddy and ambiguous. So many faces. But there, plastered over all of them, he’s unmistakable.
The face of my brother.
A grin escapes me before I can catch myself and swallow it. I can’t look ecstatic to see Khalid’s scowling face on a half-million-dollar “Reward” advertisement. Dead or alive. I hurry over and rip one from the wall. Before I turn back, I rub my hand over my mouth, forcing it into a twist of worry. When I’m sure I’ve got my expression right, I look back at Khalid. He’s walking toward me, brow furrowed. He makes a shrugging, where-the-hell-did-you-go? motion and waves at me to come back.
I widen my eyes, shake my head and gesture furtively for him to come to me. Khalid frowns harder, but keeps walking. My spirits buoy as my brother edges his way past the shoppers. I’ll show him the poster, all of them on the post office wall, and we’ll get out of here. It’ll be the beginning of the end.
There’s a break in the crowd, and Khalid pushes forward. “What are you doing? This is no time to go wandering—”
A rapid series of earsplitting cracks shatters the air. Everyone ducks automatically, myself included. We’re all well trained. It’s a familiar sound. Gunshots. Close range. The dust in the street before me explodes with the impact. That was close. I swivel in a crouch, looking for where the bullets came from. Shoppers shout, start to push and scatter, raising more dust, seeking shelter. The building windows and rooftops are clear. I scan once more. Is that someone behind that curtain? It is. I can see the silhouette of a rifle in his hands, three stories up, across from the post office. I look around, trying to see who the man was firing at. I haven’t seen any soldiers, so maybe it’s a turf war between rival gangs. That’s just as common as anything.
“We need to get out of here,” I say. “There’s probably about to be some sort of fight.”
“Abdi . . .”
I turn to Khalid, startled. He hasn’t said my real name since the first day I came to the Boys. His eyes are wide but unseeing. He grips his stomach, like he’s got a cramp. Then he pulls his hand away.
It’s covered in blood.
FORTY-FOUR
THEN: OCTOBER 17
MOGADISHU, SOMALIA
Not part of the plan.
Not part of the plan.
Not part of the plan.
“Just a little farther,” I tell my brother, panic choking me, making it hard to speak. “We’re nearly there.” I glance down at his stomach to make sure he’s still holding tight to the wad of fabric I grabbed from a stall in the chaos. It’s soaked through.
Khalid doesn’t answer. He’s leaning heavily on me, limping as fast as he can. His breathing is rough and wheezy. Shit shit shit. Did the bullet hit a lung? What have I done?
Not part of the plan! No one was supposed to get shot.
He needs a doctor, a hospital. That was my immediate thought, until I remembered the poster still clutched in my hand. I can’t take him there; he’s good for half a million USD, dead or alive. What if someone at the hospital figures that dead is a much easier way to collect?
Dammit!
Who took that shot?
You know who took it, Abdi.
It could only have been Jones. He didn’t want to take any chances. Instead of letting the posters do the work, he decided to take my brother out of the picture entirely. He used my chip to follow me, and I guess having one of his men fire on Khalid was just too much of a temptation. The surge of pure, blinding fury makes me light on my feet, and I shoulder more of Khalid’s weight. He groans under his breath.
“Come on,” I say. “A few more steps.”
Finally we reach the alley across from the hotel, where I pause, looking up and down the street. There are a handful of people around, and we’re going to have to make a dash for it to get inside. I glance back the way we came. We’re trailing blood too. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. Jones knows exactly where you are. If he’s going to try finishing Khalid off, there’s not much you can do about it now.
“Look alive, soldier,” I tell my brother, and he lifts his head a fraction. I can tell that even this small movement causes him pain. I hustle him across the street and bolt into the lobby, praying no one looks too closely at us. Inside, behind the front desk, a paunchy bald guy startles from where he was drowsing. It takes him a second to register that all is not well, by which time we’re halfway across the lobby headed for the stairs.
“Hey!” he says behind us. “Hey, you! What’s wrong with him? You can’t bring him in here like that!”
I ignore him. My brother makes it up two stairs and moans. I can feel his legs trembling.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I tell him, and basically drag him up the stairs. I can tell it hurts, but I don’t have a choice. I have to get him up and seen to. Surely one of the guys on our team will have some idea what to do. I saw medical kits in our supplies. “Help!” I shout up the stairs.
I stagger up and up under my brother’s weight. His head lolls back. I can’t tell whether he’s conscious or not anymore. Oh, God, is he . . . But no, I can see his throat moving.
When I finally reach the door, I pound on it. “Let me in!”
The peephole ricochets open and I hear Nur growl, “What do you think you’re—”
“Open up!” I demand, and his eye swivels down to Khalid. He throws the door wide.
All at once everyone is up and around me.
“What the hell happened?”
“Oh, shit, is he . . . ?”
“Get him over here, soldier!”
Hands go under Khalid, the door clangs shut, and then we’re lifting him up and laying him on a table. His hand starts to fall away from the wound, and I press it, blood squishing under my fingers. He’s not moving; his eyes have rolled back.
“Somebody do something!” I shout.
“Call the Doctor,” Rashid yells, ripping a blanket off the window so light spills into the room. Nur darts for the phone. “Get the medical supplies,” he tells Bashir. “Muhumed, go tell them to boil water in the kitchen!” He lays his fingers on my brother’s neck, checking for a pulse. “He’s still with us.”
