Nuruddin Farah - Crossbones

Fidno takes off in the direction of Bosaso, driving even faster than before and appearing agitated. He wants to hear Ahl’s impression of No-Name. Ahl thinks that extortionists, like whores attempting to collect up front the fee for services not yet rendered, and then to render them speedily, are prone to presenting their bills much too fast.

“I don’t know what answer to give,” he says.

Fidno says, “No-Name has extensive connections among top people in Puntland and beyond — insurgents, pirates, the lot.”

Ahl feels a little reassured by this, but he is not at all certain that he is any closer to locating Taxliil than before. Partners in crime: Fidno, No-Name, and all their associates! Then he adds, “Let’s say I am more optimistic than before.”

“All will work out well, you’ll see.”

Ahl senses that Fidno is now softening him for a hit; he can’t wait to hear it.

Fidno says, “Please ring Malik and let him know.”

“Don’t worry. I will. Later.”

“ Now , please. Ring him now .”

“What do I tell him?”

“Ask him if he’ll see me, when and where.”

“I’ll call him later.”

Fidno’s voice takes on a threatening tone. “Please call him. Now.”

Ahl opens his window to a blast of wind and sand. The land they are driving through is more desolate than he remembers from the journey down. The truth is, he has been hesitant to call Malik since they disagreed about the wisdom of his interviewing TheSheikh, with Ahl insisting that family trumps career. Given the choice, Ahl would prefer to make the call in the privacy of his hotel room, alone, but he feels he has no choice but to telephone Malik now.

He dials and lets it ring. The line is busy and he disconnects, promising Fidno that he’ll try again shortly. Then he switches on the car radio, and they catch the tail end of a news bulletin. There has been fierce fighting between the Ethiopian occupying army and the insurgents, with high civilian casualties. He tries again, and this time Malik answers on the fourth ring. Ahl puts him on speakerphone so that Fidno can hear the exchange. He tells his brother about the meeting with No-Name and assures him that it has made him feel optimistic. Then he asks, “Have you thought when you might have time to meet up with Fidno? You could interview him here in Puntland. If you are unable to fly out here, he is willing to come down to Mogadiscio.”

But Malik is in no mood at the moment. He’s just learned about the death of yet another journalist, thanks to yet another roadside bomb. “Why don’t we speak later in the evening,” he says, “and we’ll figure it out then? Looks like he’ll have to come to Mogadiscio, as I won’t be able to come to Puntland.”

“Good.”

“I’m delighted things are working out.”

“But tell me about yourself, Malik,” Ahl says anxiously. “Are you hurt or anything?”

“Just shocked, traumatized — out of sync.”

They agree to talk more in the evening, and say good-bye.

After he hangs up, there is silence for long enough that Ahl assumes Fidno isn’t going to speak. But just then Fidno says, “It’ll give me joy to go to Mogadiscio. Because I am so eager, maybe I’ll take the first available flight. But I won’t book it until I hear from you. And there is a small possibility I’ll want to bring along a friend to the interview.”

“That’s the first I’ve heard of a friend going with you.”

“We’ll talk, you and I,” Fidno promises. “There is time yet.”

Ahl stares at Fidno in anger and mistrust. Of course, Malik will be upset at this development. But Malik is family, and he will do what is best for Taxliil in the end. Or, at least, Ahl hopes he will.

At the hotel, Ahl alights, bones aching, eyes smarting from the day’s heat and exhaustion. He is about to bid Fidno farewell when a young woman, demurely dressed, head covered, face veiled, but only cursorily, comes out of the reception. She makes a beeline for Fidno, whispers to him, and stands to the side, waiting.

Fidno says, “If you have a moment, let me introduce you to Wiila.” I believe you met her on your flight. And then you’ll remember we saw her together at the qaat stall, with Warsame.”

Tired, but thinking it too impolite to walk away, Ahl takes the hand Wiila is holding out for him to shake. But even decked out in traditional garb, her bearing takes him back to the nightclub in Djibouti, when the prostitute tried to chat him up. Wiila has the same knowingness. And, given that she is a friend to Fidno, Ahl decides to be wary.

Ahl says, “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. As Fidno said the other day, some of us make the world smaller than it is in reality.”

But when he makes as if to leave, Fidno grips his hand. “Come and buy us some coffee, some tea. We’re your guests. Where are your manners?”

Aware that it won’t do the business of locating Taxliil any good to decline, yet conscious, too, that he will be courting unnecessary danger by putting too much trust in them, Ahl opts for a middle way: cooperation and vigilance.

They sit in the gazebo. Fidno and Ahl order coffee, Wiila a soft drink. While they are waiting for their order, Wiila explains why she was tearful on the day she and Ahl met. “My younger brother had been killed by Shabaab earlier that day. I am still mourning him.”

Ahl recalls that brief encounter and wonders why Fidno has the look of someone who has unearthed a gem to present to him.

He asks, “What do I have to do with any of this?”

“You don’t.”

Fidno nods his head in Wiila’s direction, dismissing her. Ahl catches the slightest trace of a smile that makes her lips twitch and her eyes brighten slightly, like someone who has fulfilled her part of a contract and is now free. She gets to her feet, bows her head a little to both men, and with her soft drink untouched, she walks away.

“What game are you playing?” Ahl asks Fidno when she is gone.

Fidno says, “This is simple as home cooking, labor intensive but worth it, worth every pound in the mortar, every grain of salt.”

Ahl presumes he is being duped the moment Fidno resorts to fancy words. But still, the man has him in a corner. So he lets himself sound only mildly annoyed when he asks, “Where are you going with all this?”

Fidno says, “My intention isn’t to involve you. But I want to bring in Malik. Dangerous, yes, but worth the effort.”

Ahl’s voice strains under the weight of his worry. He says, “Do you want him to talk to Wiila?”

Fidno can’t help putting on airs, like a student straining to be more clever than his mentor. “There is her older brother, Muusa Ibraahim, a former pirate, who worked with me. I’d like Malik to interview him. Muusa comes as part of a package. Malik will have spoken to a funder of piracy, and he has agreed to speak to me — I, being all things to pirates and piracy, Muusa is the real article, and he has a lot to say about Shabaab.”

This has been a day of emotional chaos, in which Ahl’s hope of locating Taxliil has been raised, then jeopardized unless he caters to Fidno’s extortionate greed. When will it all end?

“I’ll talk to Malik later today,” he says.

Then Fidno brings out his mobile phone, turns it on, and searches for a number, which Ahl presumes to be Muusa Ibraahim’s. Ahl takes down the number as Fidno dictates it.

The day’s business done, as if he and Ahl are jolly companions deep in their cups, Fidno says, with a mischievous grin spreading down to his chin, “Wiila has told me that she won’t be averse to be of service to you, if you are in the mood to be entertained in this dreadful hotel. Say the word and I’ll send her over.”