Garaad had turned out to be less awful to live with as time went on. He seemed to enjoy his new wardrobe, especially the straw fedora. As both bodyguard and their own private eye, Garaad was finding his niche. Still had no manners, still thought Adem was a pussy, but he was becoming, well, civilized. Adem hated to use the word, but what else was there? Whichever of Garaad's Muslim beliefs had caused him to sign up to fight for Sharia, they were taking a backseat as he relished his new role.
The driver pulled up in front of the doors. "Sir?"
"Take the block, park somewhere. I'll call you when we're ready."
They got out of the SUV, Garaad already looking conspicuous to the doorman and porter. Like the bulges weren't obvious. Adem had forgotten to take one of the guns, so there was Garaad like a Wild West gunslinger, sure to get them confiscated. While on the way over, Garaad had told him who this Iles guy really was. Took nearly an entire day of digging into it.
"Private security."
"What, like, bodyguards?"
"No, bigger than that. Have you heard about the American mercenaries in Iraq? An entire company hired by the government to be soldiers, but not playing by the rules. Iles is one of those. He runs a company you can hire if you want a private army."
It made sense then. This was worse than if the Americans got involved. In a sense they already were, just with Iles instead of the official armed forces. A private army, accountable to no one, preparing to raid the Canadian ship.
It had sent Adem reeling, trying to sit there quietly and hide the panic. Would they blame him if this went bad? What would happen to the three of them, sent off to do a mission and end up causing a secret war? Garaad kept talking, details about who Iles met, how many men were at his disposal, how much he was getting paid, and how he had this entire city under his thumb. Throw a little money around here and there, and everyone was on Iles's side.
"It is not as bad as it sounds." Garaad, that wicked grin. "They shoot under cover of darkness, yes, but not if it costs them money."
"Good to know."
Adem walked several feet behind Garaad as they approached the big double doors, surrounded on all sides by landscaped tropical plants, palm trees, like the Garden of Eden. If the doorman grabbed Garaad for the guns, Adem wanted to be able to slip inside anyway, act like he didn't know this thug. Instead, the doorman smiled as they both approached, even said, "We've been expecting you, Mr. Mohammed."
Great.
He opened his door with a flourish, and the cool air from inside brushed over them like an ocean wave, instantly chilling, even a little painful. A white man stood inside, hands clasped in front of him. Definitely bodyguard material, wearing a golf shirt that squeezed tightly against his upper arms and chest, but was loose at his waistband. He nodded at Adem. "Would you gentlemen come with me, please?"
The lobby was immaculate, like a theme park version of Africa but with lots of wasted water-fountains everywhere. Tile, stone. A recreation of a grand and stately culture, one for kings. And weren't all of the visitors royalty? Wasn't their need to be pampered the way they were back home the reason the people of Bosaso had these new, less backbreaking jobs? Adem caught touches of gold trim, marble, and ivory. Only the best and the rarest, damn the elephants.
There were only three stories, no real need for an elevator, but here it was, gleaming steel, with a TV monitor inside showing scenes of the tropical shore, the wild animals, the sand, the jungle, whatever else a tourist hopes Africa is supposed to be. Tribal music, cleaned up and digitized, cliche. It was only once they were in the elevator that the guard, so cordial up until then, whipped out his pistol and held it like a pro, not far from Garaad's nose. Garaad's hands went up. Up up up. Like a dance.
"Sir, I ask that you hand over your firearms while guests of Mr. Iles."
Garaad was trying the little bit of English he knew. "Please, I don't do anything. Don't kill me. It's good, eh? Eh? No kill?"
Adem translated, calmly, and the wicked grin slid up Garaad's face again. In Somali, he said, "Sure, sure. Tell him I'll hand them over. Just tools. We've got plenty of tools back at the flat."
Garaad reached for his waistband. The guard pushed the gun into his face, stepped forward. "I'll do it! Tell him I'll do it! Keep his hands up."
The guard yanked the first gun out of Garaad's pants. Then turned him around, grabbed the second. Garaad winced. The guard shoved the guns into his own waistband, front and back. He looked at Adem. "Two guns?"
"One was for me."
"When we get up top, someone will check you."
A digital chime rang, and the doors slid open. A couple of similarly dressed men were waiting. The one in the elevator kept the pistol on Garaad while he handed out the other two guns. Said to his partners, "I'll finish with this one. You guys take the negotiator."
It wasn't so much that Garaad got rough treatment. These were the same as any American cops Adem had ever run into-and they were Americans, which was weird enough-but exceptionally polite. It was that when it came to Adem, they were even more polite. They brought him off the elevator with a guiding hand on his arm, and that was it for contact.
"Would you mind holding up your jacket? I do apologize. It'll only take a second."
So he did, and he rotated left and right, and they told him it was alright. They asked if he was comfortable seeing Mr. Iles alone. "He would prefer it. We can keep your friend company."
Splitting them up. Could they do this? Make the negotiator disappear? At least until after the raid.
"Garaad is sworn to protect me. He can't do that from outside the room."
"Scout's honor, you won't need protecting. Neither will he. A nice friendly talk is all."
Garaad looked pissed, like it was Adem's fault he couldn't come along. He wasn't afraid of these men like he was of the Ethiopians, though. It was a sign. Or an omen. Whatever. Adem had to go it alone.
One of the guards, hardly able to tell them apart in their golf shirts and slacks, led Adem down the hall to a hotel room door, partially open. A couple of quick knocks, and the guard announced "Mr. Mohammed."
A cheery voice inside. "Great, great, send him in."
The guard motioned towards the door and stepped back. Adem waited a moment. "This is Mr. Iles?"
The guard motioned again. "Please." Turned and walked back towards the checkpoint at the elevator. Garaad and two of the guards were already going in the other direction, maybe to his room, maybe to the stairwell, no idea. Adem flexed his fingers a few times. He'd had them balled tightly without noticing. Aching.
He pushed into the room, a suite. The front room was dim, a couple of amber-tinted safari-themed lamps glowing. A couch. A couple of chairs. A television, a wet bar, a coffee table full of papers next to a laptop. Derrick Iles was on his feet, closing his cell phone. Confident steps, pocketed the phone, reached out to shake Adem's hand. All smiles. "Good to see you, so good. Glad you could make it."
"Sure, sure." Adem started to close the door.
"Whoa, leave that open, okay? I've got a thing about closed doors. Like a cat. Ever had a cat do that? Open a door just to make sure it's open. They hate closed doors."
Adem left it open. Even better for him, so no problem. "I've never had a cat. Some fish, though."
"Hey, good English. Where'd you pick up the American accent?"
"America." Mess with him some. "I've been there a time or two."
Iles let go of Adem's hand, said, "Please, sit. Sit." Offered one of the chairs as he sat on the edge of the couch, knees bouncing. He wore cargo shorts and a green pullover Polo. A trim guy, clothes fit snugly. Boat shoes, no socks. Some kind of preppie.
Adem crossed one leg over the other, the way he'd seen other important men in suits do. Wrapped his fingers around his knee. "I have to say, I was surprised to receive the invitation. I'm not sure we've met before." Keep playing along. Act as if he was a minor player in the room, unnoticed.