CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THIS TIME DARA AND Xavier came to Idris’s apartment on rue de Marseille. Idris had Harry staying with him, the shutters closed tight.
“You haven’t been here before?” Idris said. “I thought you had. I leased this place when we were paid for the Faina, the Ukrainian ship with the Russian tanks. I took home, as you say, two hundred thousand. I’ll tell you the truth, I never got less than a hundred thousand as my cut on any ship we hijacked. One three hundred thousand, that giant tanker sat out in the water with a price tag we kept knocking down. The Sirius Star was a serious pain in the ass. Dara, excuse the nasty reference, but that’s where the pain was, the anxiety giving me the trots.”
“Too bad you’re out of it,” Dara said. “Pirates are still working. I think they’ve taken over seventy ships by now, the gulf full of the world’s navies trying to find them.”
“The boys in the skiffs,” Idris said. “Oh, it was a time. Being half drunk to hijack a ship and earn a hundred thousand dollars, often dropped from a plane. I had friends among the men in the middle, lawyers, fellows doing nothing for their money, making a few phone calls. They took care of me because they knew I could provide them with ships.”
Dara said, “You wish you were still at it?”
“No, I’ve had enough. Fourteen ships.” He said to Dara, “You like another glass?”
“Maybe half,” Dara said.
“Lemme do it,” Xavier said, picking up the martini pitcher. “I know what Miss Dara means she say a half.” He had the reach to top off their stem glasses without getting up. He said to Dara, “You recognize the stone slab cocktail table and the bamboo furniture? Same as down at Eyl.”
“I’m selling that house,” Idris said. “Why would I want to go to Eyl? I have offers. Booyah Abdulahi, you remember him? He’s still doing quite well. Booyah will give me two hundred thousand for the house. Everything in it, I told him it’s worth three times that. We’ll see.”
Dara said, “You couldn’t need money.”
“No, I have it in banks I don’t worry about.”
“Then why are you and Harry still together?”
“He’s a good friend.”
“No, he isn’t.”
They heard a toilet flush.
Idris said, “He’s always in the bathroom grooming himself. Always takes a pistol with him. All right, I thought he was a good friend at one time. I bought four hundred machine guns from him, Uzis, and sold them to warlords for twice what I paid. One of them pompous, I charged three times Harry’s price. Harry comes out of the bathroom he’s calm, almost himself, but I don’t know what he’s thinking.”
“He has a home here,” Dara said, “doesn’t he, in the quarter?”
“He’s afraid to go home and find Jama waiting for him. He doesn’t say it, it’s how he acts.”
“How does Jama know where either of you lives?”
“Ask and find out. People always watching to see what we do, where we go. They’re curious.” Idris produced an eight-shot Sig auto from his clothes. “Jama comes, I’ll be waiting to shoot him.”
“Harry has money?”
“Of course he does. From the sale of arms.”
“Then why don’t the two of you get out of town?”
“We talk about it. Decide it’s better to see it end here. Jama’s a fugitive, he can’t simply go about as he wants.”
They looked up to see Harry come out of the hallway from the bathroom with a Webley revolver, the 1915 British Army model, held in his right hand. He looked quite himself in his starched shirt with epaulets, smiling at Dara, and came over saying, “Our lovely friend Dara,” to give her a kiss on the cheek. “I must say we’re in dire need of all the friends we can gather.” He said, “My friend Xavier,” and reached out to take his hand. “By any chance have you a notion of what we might do?”
Xavier said, “You look like you know what you doin.”
Dara said, “Why don’t you call the cops?”
“Have them sitting around the apartment,” Harry said, “drinking tea? We had paid guardians before and they proved worthless.”
“Well, let’s keep in touch,” Dara said, “all right? Call if you think Jama’s around and you’d like Xavier to give you a hand.”
It got Xavier looking at her.
“We ready to go?”
“As soon as I visit the facility,” Dara said.
Xavier watched her walk off toward the bathroom while Harry poured himself a martini in Dara’s empty glass and topped off Idris’s drink.
“Jama comes by,” Xavier said, “you fellas gonna be able to shoot him?”
IN THE LIFT DESCENDING to the main floor Dara said, “Those guys kill me, sitting around drinking martinis with their guns out.”
“You had two,” Xavier said. “You all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“I never heard you call the toilet a facility before.”
“It’s a gun room,” Dara said, “AKs in the shower stall, one for each of them.”
“The boys have their own style of doin things,” Xavier said. They stood on the sidewalk along rue de Marseille, Dara getting a cigarette now from her bag and lighting it.
She said, “I noticed Djibouti Airlines down the street when we drove past.”
“It’s local flights,” Xavier said. “Won’t get us home if that’s what you have in mind.”
She said, “I don’t know, maybe. We could give Billy a call, find out what he’s up to.”
“We done here, but you don’t want to leave, do you?” He said, “Think about it while I go get the car.”
SHE SAW THE BLACK guy in the T-shirt coming along Marseille, the shirt hanging out, too large for him, the guy and his shirt shades of brown. A black flight bag hung from his shoulder.
Dara turned on her spy camera clipped to her shirt pocket and shot him coming straight on with her head turned, not looking at him, the guy in no hurry. Closer now he seemed to hesitate, break his step as he looked at her and said, “You makin it today?” She turned to him.
Passing her his hand went to his sunglasses to slide them down and up, like tipping a hat, and walked past.
Now Dara was shooting him from the rear.
The guy walking toward the Djibouti Airlines office, that direction, about twenty meters past her when she called out:
“James…?”
He stopped. Two, three…six beats before he turned around. Now he came back, almost to her, Dara saying, “I mean Jama. I don’t know why I said James, you never told me your name. You know what? I think I started to say Jama and it came out James because I know you’re American, you tell everybody.”
“Yeah, but you recognize me.”
“I’ve photographed you, I know what you look like,” Dara said. “You’re a much younger Jama—I almost said James again—without the beard.”
“I don’t recognize myself. I been al Qaeda gunhand too long.”
“I doubt anyone else would recognize you. You have to remember, I shoot faces.” She said, “What’s the story that goes with Brown University?”
“That was a while ago.”
“What hall were you in? I bet Harambee, with the black radicals. I had a friend went to Brown. He said the school motto was ‘In God We Trust’ because it’s printed on money.”
“Oh, you looking at my shirt. It’s a friend of mine’s.”
“A classmate?” Dara said. “I can’t believe you’re still around, being on the dodge. I’ve got quite a few shots of you I’d like to use, with your permission. List your name among the credits. I would say you have the confidence of a movie star, walking around with police after you.”
“You were filming me, weren’t you, with that bitty thing? I recognize it, from you shooting us on the ship.”
Dara said, “I would love to hear how you killed five people at the same time, one of them your leader.” She kept talking, giving Xavier time to arrive on the scene. “I’d like to hear abo
ut that, too, why you felt you had to shoot him. I could film you telling about it, telling anything you want, your adventures with bin Laden…You’d get a credit up front.”
“You saying this to me,” Jama said, “you don’t think you’re taking a risk?”
Dara was shaking her head saying no—Jama heard that much before raising his eyes to Xavier appearing behind her, Xavier coming to stand a foot above her head.
He said, “Jama, how you doin? You stayin out of jail?”
Dara said, “It doesn’t look like he’s giving himself up.”
Xavier said, “No, he’s got a new thing. Gone college boy on us.”
Jama, standing as erect as he could make himself, said, “You want to let it be or take some kind of action?”
Xavier said, “There wasn’t a lady present I’d have your neck broke by now. Have it done before you pull the piece you done those people with. Gun you stuck in your jeans but didn’t feel right, so you put it in your bag.” Xavier said, “On second thought, I don’t need to shoot you. We gonna give you to the police.”
“You want, we can let it be,” Jama said. “Couple of brothers run into each other—why not? And I’m on my way. Tell your grandkids you met me one time.”
“Let you go?” Xavier said. “You too scary. First thing, I want you to slip the bag from your shoulder and hand it to me.” Xavier took a step to stand in Jama’s face. “Try to run, I’ll bust your head on the pavement. Mess up your nice haircut.” They stared in each other’s faces till Xavier pulled the bag from Jama’s shoulder and handed it to Dara.
She zipped it open and brought out the Walther first, held it as she looked in the bag. “T-shirts,” Dara said, “and girls’ panties,” bringing out a pair and going into the bag again.
Xavier didn’t look at the panties, he was watching Jama, Jama going for the gun, had hold of it as Xavier stepped in to hit him with his big left hand balled up, threw it hard against Jama’s clean-shaved face to turn him around stumbling, almost going down. Now he was running away from them, glancing around once, but not running as fast, Xavier judged, as he could.
Xavier said, “Gimme it,” took the Walther from Dara, aimed at Jama sprinting up the rue de Marseille, fired three rounds at him, the gunshots loud in the street of buildings, and the Walther clicked empty.
A half block away Jama the college boy stopped and yelled something at them Xavier couldn’t make out. He started to run off again, stopped and yelled something else and took off past the Djibouti Airlines office.
“Isn’t flyin anyplace today,” Xavier said, “is he? I missed some of what he was tellin us.”
“He pointed at us and said, ‘You two are next.’ Like he has an agenda,” Dara said, “for killing people. Why do bad guys take themselves so seriously?”
“’Cause they dumb.”
“Jama’s not dumb. Sometimes he sounds street, but I think he’s putting it on.”
“What else he say?”
“Before, when he walked past me, I said, ‘James…?’ I don’t know why. Because he’s American? I don’t know. He hesitated then and we started talking, but pretty soon it got edgy and you showed up.”
“James,” Xavier said. “We know that much. He made Jama out of James when he went Arab. Have to figure what name Raisuli came from.” He stepped out to the street where Dara was looking up at Harry and Idris in separate third-floor windows, shutters wide open.
Harry’s voice came to them. “Did you get him?”
“I ran out of ammo,” Xavier said. “I should’ve had one of your machine guns.”
“Do you want to come up for a drink?”
“I think we gonna wait for the police,” Xavier said. “Somebody must’ve called them.”
“I did,” Harry said. “The chief happens to be a friend of mine. They should be here shortly. They’ll want to ask you about Jama,” Harry said, “since you were shooting at him. That was Jama, wasn’t it?”
Xavier looked at Dara.
“How’d he know that?”
“HIS AMERICAN NEGRO ACCENT,” Harry said.
They were in the Twins’ apartment again.
“I could hear it clearly. That ‘Yessuh boss’ way they have. But he didn’t call you boss, did he? I said to Idris—we went to the window—‘Who is that guy?’ Idris didn’t hesitate, he said, ‘Jama?’ We both knew he would try to disguise himself. It’s curious, when he speaks Arabic you don’t hear the American Negro sound.”
The police arrived. The police chief in a suit and tie, a big man, heavy, said, “Yes, I will have one of your cocktails.” His aide in uniform stayed with him to listen to Miss Dara Barr’s story and take notes. The police chief said, “So this is the one murdered five people a few days ago. Now has us believe he’s the student of a university.”
“There’s a reward if he’s taken alive,” Harry said, “and I deliver him to the American embassy.”
“I catch him,” the police chief said, “I can deliver this one.”
Harry said, “Yes, but I’ve already spoken to them about it. He’s on their list.”
“If I don’t have to shoot him,” the police chief said. “This is a desperate man we looking for.”
Idris mixed cocktails, raising his eyes to Dara, and seemed to shake his head. Dara would have one drink, that’s all, as Harry explained that Jama was not wanted dead or alive. “They made it clear he has to be taken alive if we expect to collect a reward, possibly in the neighborhood of a million dollars.”
“You told me before,” the police chief said, accepting the cocktail from Idris, “it would be something less than that.”
“Dara Barr, in the meantime,” Harry said, “has had meetings with the embassy’s regional security officer. Ms. Schmidt has agreed to our delivering Jama into their custody.”
The police chief of Djibouti said, “Yes, Miss Suzanne Schmidt? Yes, I know her well. I see her from time to time at the Racquet Club.”
Dara said in her pleasant voice, “You play tennis?”
“Why?” the police chief said. “You think I’m too heavy?”
Xavier said, “Chief, you got the size to play anythin you want.” Xavier got up from his chair and produced the Walther from the back of his waist.
“What you lookin at here is the murder weapon, the one Jama used on the five people.” He held the pistol by the barrel offering it to the police chief, who took the grip in his hand. “It had my prints on it,” Xavier said. “Now it has yours on top of mine. But me and you never killed anybody with it, have we?”
ON THE WAY TO the Kempinski Dara said, “Poor Harry, he wanted to scream at the cop, ‘He’s mine. Keep your fucking hands off him.’ While he’s trying to maintain his Brit cool.”
They were following the Avenue Admiral Bernard now in the dusk, the blanket of Djibouti’s lights behind them.
“What we’d like to know,” Xavier said, “is Jama gonna hang around or go on home, tired of this Arab shit.”
“I don’t know,” Dara said, “he’s been shooting anybody he wants for the past seven years. I think he’s the kind keeps score. He told Idris he shot a man for selling cans of soda the man kept on shaved ice. You know why? They didn’t have shaved ice in Mohammed’s time. It was Qasim told him to do it. Jama said to him, ‘There weren’t any AKs around in Mohammed’s time either.’ Qasim told him the AKs were Allah’s gift to them to cleanse the world of nonbelievers, and Jama said okay then. But I don’t think he’s going home, not just yet.”
“How about us,” Xavier said, “we goin or stayin?”
Dara said, “If I’d been shooting what’s going on…”
At the hotel desk a phone message was waiting.
“From Billy,” Dara said. “He wants us to call him tomorrow.”
Xavier said, “One thing after another, huh?”
Dara said, “Let’s stop in the bar and talk about it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
BILLY KEPT PEGASO TRAILING the gas ship by a mile, followin
g its lights at night, the thousand-foot tanker making ten knots all day and through the night. The wind would stir up behind Pegaso and Billy would tack to hold the distance between them, Billy searching his memory for the time an LNG accident happened in the U.S. A major disaster. He believed it was in Cleveland.
Helene, with him in the cockpit, sat perched in a tall director’s chair, so far this morning wearing shorts and a T-shirt. She was looking at an issue of Architectural Digest from two years ago that featured the pages of Billy Wynn’s home on Galveston Island overlooking miles of gasworks. The spread opened with: “Billy Wynn, the whirlwind Texas entrepreneur with countless commercial irons in the fire—” Helene stopped.
“I thought you were an oil man.”
“Basically,” Billy said. “I keep my hand in for the family, bunch of old farts—God bless ’em—still living in the past. My decorator, Anne Bonfiglio, calls the house Texas Tudor. Has a bowling alley and two swimming pools, one inside.” Billy said, “How come it took you so long to find the magazine?”
“I don’t usually look at Architectural Digest unless I’m waiting like to get a Pap smear, at a doctor’s office. I didn’t have to find it, you’ve got at least thirty copies.”
Billy said, “The most destructive LNG accident I think was at Cleveland in ’44. Look it up for me, okay? Blow up an LNG tanker I imagine would be a terrorist’s wet dream.”
Helene opened her notebook and turned pages, looking at headings over transcripts and handwritten notes. MISSING SHIP LOCATED, only one page. HOW RANSOM IS DIVIDED, three pages.
Billy was watching the gas ship again, dead ahead, not more than a mile. A man on the fantail was looking at Billy through binoculars.
DETAINEE WENT FROM GITMO TO AL QAEDA, three pages.
Billy picked up his glasses and was eye to eye with the man on the fantail. “He’s a Mohammedan,” Billy said.
EXPLOSION DEVASTATES A SQUARE MILE OF CLEVELAND.
“I’ve got it,” Helene said, “LNG blast in Cleveland. You’re right, 1944. What do you want to know?”