Nuruddin Farah - Crossbones

“To what purpose?”

“So he would know.”

“Grandpa wouldn’t change his lifestyle, no matter what,” Qasiir says. “He is the loveliest, the kindest, but also the most obstinate man I know.”

“Do you know of any of your former comrades in the militia groups who carried out their assignments and who may be willing to talk to a journalist?”

“A Shabaab member wouldn’t dare talk to a journalist.”

“What would happen if he did?”

“Someone would follow him as he left the mosque,” Qasiir say, “and would use a silencer to kill him. A passerby would stumble on the corpse nearby. The victim would be buried, no questions asked.”

A sense of deliverance is evident in Qasiir’s body language, which strikes Malik as that of an honest man speaking the honest truth.

Qasiir says, “It will be difficult to find an active member of Shabaab ready to talk on record. It’s easier to find a disillusioned former member who will say his piece; or someone who’s lost a family member to Shabaab. A new recruit or an active member won’t want to talk. A talent spotter might. I hear rumors that Robleh, who stays at Uncle Bile’s, is one. I can’t tell if this is true or untrue. All I know is that he is very chummy with Shabaab. So why not speak to him?”

Malik feels a tug in his viscera when he hears this. Who knows, Qasiir may prove successful in tracking down Taxliil. He is the sort that can come up with the goods, if he puts his mind to it.

“Why would they want to kill Grandpa Dajaal?”

“Why have they killed the journalists? Or assassinated senior military officers, former colleagues of Grandpa Dajaal? Why have they murdered the peace activists? Shabaab view them as a threat.”

“What kind of threat do these people pose?”

Qasiir says, “Why do tyrants do what they do?”

Malik can’t think of an immediate answer.

When Qasiir says that he can do nothing to salvage the deleted files or restore the screen saver, Malik steps out to prepare a snack for them both. Meanwhile, he makes a detour to his room and brings along Taxliil’s photograph. He intends to show it to Qasiir only if he agrees to take the assignment.

Malik watches as Qasiir hungrily tucks into the warmed-up lamb dish, his fork knocking against his knife, with neither touching the salad. As they eat, they talk in greater depth about the recruitment stratagems of the various secular and religious groups vying for power in Somalia. Then Malik tells Qasiir, little by little, what is known and suspected about Taxliil’s disappearance, and about the difficult mission that Ahl has embarked on in Puntland. The family, he says, would appreciate whatever assistance Qasiir can offer.

“In what way can I be of use?” Qasiir asks.

“What I have in mind is cloak-and-dagger stuff.”

Qasiir says, “How very exciting.”

“I am thinking the real clandestine article.”

“Please explain.”

“You could get hurt,” Malik says. “Someone else may get hurt or blown up, badly maimed in the fragmentation blast of a roadside device.”

For a brief moment, Qasiir looks at Malik with a mix of shock and curiosity that gives way to an expectant thrill. He says he is up for his share in this “cloak-and-dagger stuff, the real clandestine article,” like in the movies. Clint Eastwood locating a runaway boy. As if to reassure himself that he can play the part, he touches the holster strapped to his shoulder.

“You still haven’t told me what I would have to do.”

“I’ll give you all the details you need,” Malik says. “When he was last seen and where — I’ll provide you with his particulars.”

“And a photograph. Photographs are important.”

Malik says, “That goes without saying.”

“OK.” Qasiir nods. “Where and when do I start?”

“Here is what I’ll want you to do,” Malik explains. “Seek out any information you can get on him. We know that he is in Somalia, supposedly to join Shabaab as a volunteer trainee in explosives.”

Qasiir has a hint of pride hovering around his eyes as he stares at Malik, his body relaxing into the status of a man with a mystery to solve, a runaway youth to locate, fearlessly ready to employ coercion if need be. But, in keeping with what is expected from him, he suppresses any outward show of eagerness.

He says, “I am game.”

“We’ll talk some more,” Malik says. “We’ll also let Dajaal and Jeebleh know, and lay down the terms of our agreement. Until then, mum’s the word.”

The doorbell rings twice, the first time gently; the second time rushed, almost discourteous, and a third time more agitated, with jarring harshness. It is as if someone being chased by a mob wants to gain entry.

Malik thinks. It can’t be Dajaal, because he always telephones ahead; and such behavior is unlike Jeebleh. Who might it be?

He refuses Qasiir’s offer to go and see.

“Be careful,” Qasiir whispers.

Malik tiptoes softly toward the door, Qasiir on his heels. Both stand to the side, away from the spy hole, in order to avoid casting their shadows on it. Then carefully Malik puts his eye to the opening. He spots a figure in khaki trousers and rubber sandals. He gives himself time to get the measure of the person on the other side; he does not move or speak. After a while, he hears a mumbled exchange between the trousered man in rubber sandals and another figure out of view. After several attempts, Malik eventually catches a glimpse of the second figure: a man in a sarong, right hand hidden behind him, and wearing a pair of pink flip-flops. Malik looks around to make sure that the apartment’s fortifications, including the metal sheeting and other security contraptions, are in place. Then, turning, he nods his head with his thumb up when Qasiir removes the pistol from its holster. Speaking in an assumed voice, he asks, “Who is at the door?”

The trousered, sandal-wearing figure that moves into the spy hole says, “It is I, Gumaad. Is that you, Malik? I know Jeebleh is out, because I spoke to Dajaal, but I thought I would bring you some news, the latest from the war front.”

Malik is torn about whether to open the door, but Qasiir signals him not to. Then, improvising, Qasiir says, “Malik is not here at present. Any messages?”

“That can’t be,” insists Gumaad.

Qasiir asks, “What can’t be?”

“He goes nowhere without Dajaal,” Gumaad says.

“I’ve no idea what you are talking about.”

“But who are you, anyway?” Gumaad wants to know.

Qasiir explains, “I am a plumber and am here fixing the hot water tank. I have strict instructions not to admit anyone in their absence.” He waits, then says, “It’s up to you. If you leave a message, I’ll give it to them; if not, not.”

“Tell him I may return later, if I am able.”

When Gumaad and his mate are gone, Qasiir and Malik confer in the workroom. Qasiir, never one to give up easily, resumes feeding the computer a new series of commands and introducing small variants, in the persistent way of computer specialists.

Malik asks, “What do you think Gumaad is up to?”

“He is not always truthful,” Qasiir says. “He boasts too much, claims to be a journalist when he is not trained to be one, but, because he is convinced he can write, he thinks he is a journalist. He has published very little, no more than half a dozen brief articles. I’ve known others like him, others who believe their own lies.”

“But is he dangerous?” Malik asks.

“He is not bright,” Qasiir says.

“I can see that.”

“He is also a name-dropper and a liar.”

“Still, you wouldn’t think he is dangerous?”