"Let them go." Mustafa, disarmed, standing like a dead tree.
"The police are on the way." Bleeker chased Al Jones, who escorted the Rockstar like he was James Brown. Hand on Jones' shoulder. A sentry stepped up, shoved the Glock against the side of Bleeker's nose. He blinked, looked away. Finally held up his hands. "All right, all right."
Up the stairs, into the night. Jones and Rockstar were gone. One by one, the sentries backed up the stairs, the seriously injured man helped out first. Bleeker was sure they were going to fire. Last two witnesses, no need to keep them alive. But then…nothing. Mustafa and Bleeker stood alone except for the bodies of the Hassan's wife crumpled over the husband, his expression even more alarming when Bleeker took a second look.
Mustafa let out a long breath, looked at Bleeker's arm. "How bad?"
"Flesh wound. I couldn't even get shot in Iraq, but here, Jesus."
Mustafa shook his head, sat on the couch. Knees wide, held his head in his hands. "Damn it, Ray. Listen, when they get here-"
"How about I take care of that?"
"No, you don't see it at all. You can't tell them about Jones. Not a word about Rockstar."
"This isn't a game, man. What happened is what happened, and that's what we've got to tell the cops."
"Then they'll die!" Mustafa's head lifted. Face bright with tears. "If you tell them what really happened, Jones is going to make a call, and Adem and Jibriil will die. Their own guys will cut their heads off, and they'll send me the videotape. But you'd like that. You want to see them dead. Justice, right? What they deserve, right?"
Sirens, closing.
"That's what he told you?"
"I didn't make it up! He said…he can't tell me exactly where they are, whose command they're under, but he knows they made it. Alive. And they're still alive. He's alive. One call, and that's it."
"Shit." Bleeker closed his eyes. True, if Mustafa was telling the truth about Jibriil, then watching him die would be sweet justice. Dying in the worst possible way, having his head sawed off in some godforsaken alien landscape. But if Adem was innocent, even if there was the tiniest whiff of doubt about his part in Cindy's murder, was it worth it?
Less than a few minutes to decide.
"You swear to me Adem didn't take any shots that night. Didn't egg on Jibriil, didn't have any idea the son of a bitch would do it, right?"
Mustafa, exhausted and limp, swiveled his head. The heel of his hands press into his eyes. "I'd stake my life on it. I'm already done. When these police arrive, I'm in big trouble here no matter what. My whole family. And the best we can hope for is that Adem finds a way to survive without his own men killing him because of something I said."
"You're giving up."
"It's the only way to make sure he's safe."
Bleeker knelt beside Mustafa, but then fell off his knees to the floor. Grabbed the Somali's knee to steady himself. Weak from blood loss, shock, fear, whatever. About to piss himself, but too tired to stand again and stumble around looking for a toilet.
Sirens louder still. Fever pitch, then they stopped. Then voices, chatter, footsteps above them in the house.
Shit.
Bleeker tightened his grip on Mustafa's knee. "Hey?"
Mustafa looked up.
"Get lost. Go." Bleeker nodded. "Okay? You were never here."
Shook his head. "I can't. I… you can't."
"I'm a fucking cop. I sure as hell can. Get out of here. Now."
When Mustafa didn't move, Bleeker got up and grabbed Mustafa's shirt, dragged him to his feet, and threw him towards the stairs. " Now. Forget about me. Get out of here."
Another moment of hesitation, then there were footsteps on the basement stairs. Bleeker huffed and bit his lip, and he was gone. Up and out.
Radio noise. The footsteps stopped, a cop at the bottom of the stairs saying, "Uffda! Look at this shit."
Bleeker thought, Yeah, fucking uffda indeed.
FIFTEEN
The baby eventually stopped crying. Adem wasn't sure if it had gotten well or if it had died. Didn't know if it was a he or a she. He didn't ask. Otherwise, day and night came and he stayed in bed and then day and night would come again. When he first awoke, he'd thought he was only a day or two away from a full recovery. But as the drugs ebbed and flowed and he tried to get out of bed when no one was paying attention-but it seemed someone always was, like the ever-present guard outside his tented bed-Adem discovered that the beating had been almost as bad as stepping on a mine. He hadn't lost his limbs or his eyes or his genitals, but another minute of boot stompings would've done the trick.
Legs, bruised up and down, his left fibula broken in two places, some bones in his feet crushed. Broken right arm. Broken fingers on both hands. Possible bone spurs along his spine. One testicle, badly swollen. Broken nose. Lacerations all over his face and scalp. A few cracked ribs. And a knife wound across his neck.
He had his eyes, his mouth, despite split lips, and his mind. Enough to survive. Enough to keep him afraid that at any moment, someone would come and pass more judgment on him, finish where his would-be executioner had failed. He slept lightly through the nights, only relaxing once the morning came and Sufia arrived to take care of him.
He'd asked Jibriil more about her on his next visit. Was she a nurse? A soldier's wife? A visiting crusader like they were? His friend had smiled. "Are you getting ahead of yourself a little? Falling in love?"
"I just…it's nice to have someone to talk to."
"Someone who looks that good, too."
"Come on, not like that." But it was and they both knew it.
Jibriil had lowered his voice. "Adem, be careful, though. It's different here. Talk to her, but keep it casual. You want to rub one out thinking of her, fine. Don't let the guard find out. Be careful. Don't lose yourself."
"I wasn't going to-"
"Yes, I know you say that but then feelings get complicated. What if she really does like you? You going to take her out? A nice Italian joint? Sure, a night on the town. I'm sure her fathers and brothers and all of these teenage boys around here who hate you and can't fuck her will be fine with it."
Adem promised nothing would happen. Nothing. He wouldn't risk her like that. But he asked that Jibriil make sure she would keep taking care of him. It was helping him grow stronger every day. With a wink, Jibriil left. Sufia kept coming around, maybe a little more shy than before. She was harder to engage in conversation. Kept flicking her eyes around as if someone was always watching. But Adem kept trying, anything to keep his mind off the pain. And sometimes he would hit a subject-books, music, cooking-that would open her eyes wider, make her spill more animated giggles, show her teeth. And that was reason enough for Adem to keep fighting the depression, the boredom, and the fear. He would do it. He would build his strength and go back to his patrol, standing tall amongst the men who had beaten him and wanted his head on a pike.
He'd be fine. All he had to do was think of Sufia.
*
Seven, eight days in bed. Nine, ten. He wondered how far away from the camp he was. If this wasn't the hospital proper, then where had they set this up? Hidden from government troops, what few there were anymore. The building didn't shake so much when the artillery shells exploded. Like thunder and lightning, counting between the flash and the rumble.
Another boring afternoon. Adem had a Quran and a four month old South African newspaper that Jibriil sneaked to him, which Adem then had to hide under his mattress. The leaders found so much to be "un-Islamic", like football, music, movies, books, newspapers, a list that grew longer everyday, including the rules for how men and women should and shouldn't interact-mostly, how they shouldn't interact at all. The boys in the army seemed to have a problem with women especially, as if blaming them for the lack of Islamic discipline amongst the citizens.