Nuruddin Farah - Crossbones

What a pleasant surprise that Bile joins them, his complexion healthier and his appetite robust. Malik observes how Bile and Cambara take pleasure in touching, whenever a pretext permits it. Bile asks Malik how he is doing, and insists on feeling the bump on his forehead, which has gone down enough to satisfy him.

Bile says, “Have you heard about the predator attack on a human target in the town of Dhuusa Marreeb at dawn?” He tells Malik about a report on the BBC Somali service, that a Tomahawk cruise missile launched from a U.S. submarine off the coast of Somalia has killed several innocent civilians in addition to their target, a killer and one of the desecrators of the Italian burial sites in Mogadiscio. “Now my fear is that the U.S. action may lead to further protraction of the war, with more foreign jihadis volunteering to join Shabaab.”

“Same old thing, dressed differently,” Malik says. “Attacks by America, which are meant to tame terrorists, embolden them.”

Cambara says, “You don’t sound bothered by it.”

He replies, “Not so much bothered as disturbed. As I said before, one must know what to expect from poorly thought-out attacks — by Ethiopians doing it at the behest of America or by America herself.”

Bile picks up a cherry tomato and eats it.

Cambara says, “I’d probably be stretching it if I say that by their very nature, suicide bombers are remote-controlled. For me, however, there is no difference between the imam remote-controlling the suicide bomber and the guy orchestrating the Tomahawk launch from the safety of his Colorado base. One could be having his coffee and joking with his pals, the other could be crouched on his rug, allegedly praying.”

Bile says, “It’s the mindless killing of noncombatant civilians that annoys me about distance killing of any sort.” Then he turns to Malik and asks, “Will you write about it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Malik pretends not to hear the question, because he doesn’t see any point in answering, and Bile doesn’t press him.

Cambara asks what his plans are today.

“I have an appointment with two subjects whom I’ll be interviewing in a suite I’ve booked in a hotel for the day.”

“Who are you interviewing?” Bile asks.

And before he has answered the question, Cambara urges him to use the annex, reasoning that it is easier to monitor the movements of who is entering the compound and who is exiting. “With a hotel, it is always impossible to keep track of people’s goings and comings.”

When he insists on keeping the arrangements as he has made them, however, neither puts any pressure on him to reconsider.

Eating his breakfast, Malik cannot help but contrast their reaction to Jeebleh’s, who said that interviewing these “criminals” was a gamble “not worth a candle.” Probably because he hasn’t named his interviewees or mentioned how they make their living — he doesn’t actually know what Il-Qayaxan does for a living beyond being an associate of Fidno. He attributes Bile’s understanding to his own obstinate loyalty to Somalia by staying on, despite all the drawbacks.

Once again, Qasiir takes Malik to his appointment. As they enter the hotel grounds, his eyes fall on BigBeard, still clean-shaven and dressed in a suit, sitting in a car with the window down and speaking on his mobile. Two unknown men sit in the car with him. Malik stops dead in his tracks, exchanges a knowing look with Qasiir, and then resumes walking into the hotel foyer. Before he gains the reception, Qasiir says, “Maybe we should consider canceling the appointment.”

“Have you the requisite security in place?”

“Of course.”

“Can they cope with any eventuality?”

“I can get backup, if you like.”

“Do that, and let the arrangements stay.”

Before he takes another step in the direction of the reception, which is farther off than he has pictured, Malik remembers Hilowleh telling him that he was lucky to be alive. Turning, he receives comfort from knowing that Qasiir is near. “Who are the two men in the car with him?”

Qasiir replies, “One of them is called Al-Xaqq.”

“What deadly business is he in?”

“Explosives.”

“And the other?”

“Dableh, a former colonel in the National Army,” Qasiir says. “All three are suspected of being active members of Shabaab.”

Malik finds it astonishing that three men known to be leading the insurgency can be sitting in a car in the parking lot of a four-star hotel, and the intelligence of the so-called Transitional Federal Government hasn’t the wherewithal to apprehend them, let alone take them into detention.

“I wonder what brings all three together.”

Qasiir says, “Maybe you.”

“Are you trying to scare me into canceling the appointment?” Malik says.

“I want to make sure I am able to save you.”

“They don’t scare me. I’ve seen worse.”

“You remind me of Grandpa — and he is dead.”

Malik’s insides are home to butterflies, thousands of them turning his guts into a battle zone. He is perspiring heavily as well, and continuously wipes his forehead to no avail. How sweet of Qasiir to look away, pretending not to notice.

“Maybe they are here for some other business, and not because of you,” Qasiir says. “Let’s hope that is the case.”

“I doubt that I am that important,” Malik says.

“Your security is in place anyhow.”

“That’ll provide me with needed comfort.”

Qasiir adds. “And I’ll be here, too.”

“Brilliant,” Malik says.

While Malik is at the reception filling in the forms and supplying the receptionist with his credit-card details, Qasiir sees two of his men in the foyer. Then he goes ahead of Malik, taking the elevator to the fourth floor, and also makes sure that the guard detail he hired are in their places. Malik crosses paths with Qasiir as he is going up, and says, “I’ll call when I am done.”

The suite has two rooms separated by a sitting place, in all probability meant for qaat chewers, as evidenced by the carpets and the cushions pushed against the wall. The entrance is through the middle door. It is expensively furnished, the walls embellished with photographs of Mecca and with brief Koranic verses, framed. The arrangement included plenty of Coca-Cola and bottled juices and bundles of qaat sufficient for three, although Malik has no intention of taking part in the chewing of the stuff, and packets of cigarettes. The air conditioner is blasting.

Il-Qayaxan, also known as Isha, is the first to arrive, right on time. He knocks on the lounge door so gently it takes Malik a long time to hear the tapping under the roar of the air conditioner. He lets him in. They shake hands, each speaks his name and mutters at the other, “My pleasure.” All the while, Malik’s heart is beating against his rib cage in panic, his vision fogged with fear. What a foolhardy man I’ve been, he tells himself, that I’ve allowed myself to be talked into this.

He points to where he has placed his recording devices and says to Isha, “Please take a seat.” He takes his time, the better to make sense of the man at whom he now smiles. “And go ahead and help yourself to a beverage and some qaat .”

Isha has a worry-hardened face and the muddled grin of a man awakening from a nightmare. One minute he strikes Malik as ill-humored, the next instant his expression suggests that of a guilty man. Malik’s conjecture is based on his nervous, shifty body language. He is also obnoxiously smelly, and he carries a black polyethylene bag.