"You're welcome to chip yourself some off the lake."
"Never mind." Mustafa took a sip.
Bleeker stared at the rum Mustafa had handed him. Badly wanted to unscrew it, drink it straight from the bottle. Let the heat of it warm his breath, his lungs, his blood. But he couldn't do it. Instead, he tightened up, sniffed back tears.
Mustafa didn't say anything. Shifted in his chair.
Bleeker set the bottle on the floor. "How are you doing?"
"Better than you. I went home. I went to bed. I didn't get up for a week, wife yelling at me about my job. Sure enough, I got fired. So I've been praying. Crossing my fingers." Cleared his throat. "I owe you. For making me leave, you know."
Bleeker wanted to say "It was nothing" or something like that. Didn't want to open the flood gates. But they began to crack.
"Look, I know I made a promise to you, but when I see Cindy in my dreams, alive again except she's always in her uniform, it's like she's telling me to call down fire. I'm sorry, man, but I still might. I know how much you love Adem and all, but, goddamn it. It's not fair. War or no war, as long as they're alive, they're laughing in my face."
Mustafa nodded. Sniffed. Bleeker noticed the banger's eyes were a little moist. He rubbed them out with thumb and index finger. "You up for a ride? There's something I want to show you."
*
Bleeker drove, Mustafa riding shotgun with a laptop. The closest real town was twenty miles north, so they drove on with the talk radio bubbling low so that they couldn't make out the words, just the anger. The sky threatened snow. An inch or two a day for the last eight days, more on the way. Bleeker wouldn't have minded being buried in it. But a switch in his head wouldn't let him go that easily. No headshot, no pills, no drunken forays into the snow. If he was going to kill himself, it would be a long torturous fade, and there was nothing he could do about it.
He should've taken a shot at Mustafa back at the shack. A miss, of course. Wide right. But something to get the gangsta shooting back at him. End it like that. Because he already knew the script-the police were going to find a soft way to retire him off the force, and his few friends might come help him move out of the house, and he'd have enough of a pension to cover a studio apartment and several hours a day at the bar.
Day after day. Years. Maybe one day someone would find him, tell him Jibriil got his guts cut out and his corpse dragged through the streets of Mogadishu. He'd lift his Bacardi and Coke in salute and down it, then go right back to numb.
Once in town, Mustafa asked Bleeker to find a place with a good wireless signal. They pulled into a hotel parking lot. The signal wasn't strong enough. They tried another, closer to the front door. Better, but not enough for whatever it was Mustafa was trying to show him.
"Can't you just tell me?"
"You need to see it to understand."
Bleeker sighed, reversed out of the spot and got back on the road. "I'll buy you some coffee."
"Decaf."
"Shut up."
Bleeker took them to a bagel shop with free wi-fi. They got inside as the snow started falling. Bleeker bought them coffee, some rolls, and sat at a booth by the window while Mustafa tried to get the page up. The place was mostly empty, but Mustafa got a few hard looks from the other patrons, like they expected him to pull out a sawed-off and steal everyone's wallets. Right. Even in Mustafa's gang days, robbing a bagel shop would've been baby stuff. Not even on his radar screen.
It was taking a long time. Mustafa hadn't touched his coffee. Bleeker said, "What are you doing, looking at porn?"
"It takes time to download. But…wait…here it comes."
He turned the screen around. Bleeker pulled the computer closer. The language wasn't English, wasn't Arabic or Somali. Looked like some sort of news site.
"This is Dutch?"
"Yeah. Someone sent it to me yesterday. I've watched it a hundred times."
A video clip below a headline that Bleeker was able to figure out from one word: "Piraat".
Bleeker hit play.
Obviously from some sort of television broadcast. A woman newsreader. A picture over her shoulder of a freighter, "Piraat" across it. Bleeker picked up a few words that sounded like English, but it was all too fast for him. Then, they cut to the man on the scene, standing on a street with plenty of Somalis walking past on either side. They all looked pretty content, the town around them bustling, intact, not like what Bleeker had seen on TV about the capital. A word across the bottom of the screen.
"Bosaso."
"It's a big city on the Northern Coast. Lots of ships in and out. More like, you know, Duluth."
"Like Duluth?"
"Sunnier."
Bleeker looked back at the screen. Footage of happy Somali pirates, footage of a Dutch freighter, some of its relieved crewmen.
"So, the Dutch paid a ransom?"
"Watch."
"I don't…It's in Dutch."
"Okay, easy. Not the Dutch, but the owner of the ship. The corporation. But, you're missing it. Go back about ten seconds."
Bleeker pretended like he was going to do something with the touchpad. Shit, he could do e-mail, play Minesweeper, find some dirty pictures, but he didn't know how to roll back a video. Said, "How do you…Is that…Shit, Mustafa, I can't-"
Mustafa took it back, did something that took all of five seconds, then turned it back. "Hit play again. Watch this time, no questions."
He had to watch the man on the scene again, shirt-sleeves rolled up, extra button undone. Then the pirates, the ship, the crew. And then back to the man on the scene. And then…a familiar Somali face, young with a freshly shaved head, dressed up in an expensive suit, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, speaking in really good English: "We are pleased with the outcome, the safe return of the vessel to the rightful owners, and the good health of the crew. As always this-" And then the Dutch translation, which obscured the rest. So familiar.
"Show me that picture from your wallet again-"
Mustafa already had it out, holding it up to the screen. Adem. With hair, no glasses.
"Did he wear glasses? Contacts?"
Mustafa shook his head. "But it's him."
"That's a big problem, though. He's got glasses."
Mustafa pushed the photo closer. "You know how many times I asked myself that? I know my own son, damn it! It has to be. His voice, his eyes, his mouth, his nose. That's him."
"The fuck is he doing in Bosaso? What's that have to do with the war? Is he working for the Dutch?"
Mustafa took the computer back, started working on something else. "No, no, not that. I tried to find other stories about this, finally got one in English. He's calling himself Mr. Mohammed. What he does, he's an interpreter."
"Okay."
"But also like an agent. He can help with negotiations because he can speak English and Somali, all the different dialects. He's a smart kid, you know his grades. They tell him what they want, and he tries to get it for them like a businessman. No blood, no threats."
"He's been doing this the whole time?"
"He's suddenly shown up the past couple of weeks. This Dutch thing was his first, but he's moved on to a Canadian ship. He must be doing well. They're letting him negotiate on his own sometimes."
"This in the news?"
"Some, but not here. Americans don't realize how many ships are taken. Only when it's a cruise ship does it make the news."
"Jesus." Bleeker shook his head.
Mustafa turned the computer around again. This time it was a story in English through the BBC website. Another mention of Mr. Mohammed, translator for the pirates. He dressed in nice Western suits and held meetings in hotels. He always had bodyguards and a secretary with him.
"Why don't they arrest him?"
"No, man, they're not going to do that. In almost every case, the pirates release the ship once the ransom is paid. No harm to the hostages. So, you know, better to pay and keep the law out. Let the navy do their job once the boat's in the clear."