Harry turned his head to Idris. "Tell me."
"He said, 'Is the pope Catholic?'"
He saw Harry squinting. Or was he frowning? "It's a saying among that Christian sect," Idris said. "He's telling me yes, he would die for Qasim, not give it another thought."
"I know, but why bring up their pope?"
"Jama is known in the American language," Idris said, "as a smart-ass. Perhaps the Brits don't use the expression." He saw Harry still frowning or squinting and Idris said, "Why are you so serious about it? He was being funny."
Harry had taken a turn with Qasim during the morning drive, asking if he had ever been to America. Asking if he was looking forward to life in an American prison, or perhaps Guantanamo in Cuba. Asking if any of his mates were there, and getting no response.
"The trouble is," Harry said, "he's been questioned countless times, tortured, urged in various ways to speak. Qasim bends over, he has trouble straightening himself again. He wears kid gloves to cover his broken hands, hit with mallets. I can't get him to say one fucking word to me."
"Why do you bother?"
"I want to know how Jama's called in the U.S."
"He won't tell you." Idris was silent for a moment and said, "If there was a way to bribe him, offer something he'd want desperately in exchange for the name…"
Harry said, "You might have something." HARRY WAS WITH QASIM again later that evening, the Toyota rumbling, bumping along, night inside behind dark-tinted windows, Qasim close beside him. Harry turned his head to him and caught the odor of the Arab's breath, spaghetti and spiced camel, and said to him, "I understand you know Jama's American name."
Qasim stared at him.
Harry held his breath waiting, counting almost to ten.
Qasim said, "Yes…?"
It felt good to be talking again.
"Can I ask, why you want to know?"
He won't tell you, Qasim thought. He has to set you up first. Finally get around to the reason he's talking to you. Then he'll tell you.
"Let me point out," Harry said and took a breath, "you haven't performed much in the past seven years. Let's see, an embassy-"
"Two embassies and a consulate."
"Most of the past decade, though, you've been a Qaeda fundraiser. The American Rewards people are going to say, 'That's all he's done lately?' I'll bet if they don't drop your reward they reduce it considerably." Harry lighted a cigarette.
Qasim took his time, staring in Harry's face before he said, "You have to give me up to find out what I'm worth. Take my word, the Americans can't wait to get hold of me, show me off to the world. They can make what I did two decades ago seem like yesterday."
"Yes, they will," Harry said, "display you to their hearts' content, congratulate themselves and throw you in prison."
Qasim said to this fellow Arab who wanted to be an Englishman, "For what exactly, acts of war or what you call terrorism?"
"For being you, you idiot. Do you know how many you've killed?"
"Tell me."
"And mutilated? Many of your own people, Saudis?"
"Some became blind," Qasim said.
"You sound like you don't believe you're going to prison."
"You have me, that's all."
"You'll be our gift to the Americans." Harry dropped the cigarette between his legs to the floor and placed his boot on it. "But your partner, Jama the Amriki? I'm betting the Americans will pay more than 'up to a million,' once they discover he's a traitor. What do you think?"
"Why do you say I'm going to prison," Qasim said, "and not be executed?"
"You'll get life for crimes against humanity," Harry said. "Federal courts in America rarely decide on the death penalty. You'll spend the rest of your years in a prison cell by yourself. One hour a day of recreation, rain or shine. They allow you to walk about in an enclosure about the size of a decent hotel room. Then back to the cell. You know what you'll look forward to each day? Eating the dog food they give you on a tin plate and evacuating your bowels in a bucket. Ahhhh," Harry said, "until one day you die of old age, finally a happy man."
"You say they won't pay anything for me," Qasim said. "Then why turn me in?"
"I like to think of you as a lifer."
Harry opened his window to inhale fresh air rushing past-a bit cool-and closed it again.
"Or," he said, "I decide not to hand you over."
Qasim waited. He said, "Why?"
"We know Jama's an American."
"Tell me how you know."
"You call him Amriki, don't you, for Christ sake? We both heard him speak English in Eyl the time I shot the first officer. Quit fucking with me, please. We both know he's American."
"All right," Qasim said. "Tell me what you want."
"His real name."
"Oh, is that all?"
"And we let you go," Harry said.
Qasim listened to the sound of the car following its headlights on a road that came to no end.
"If I had a match," Qasim said. "I would strike it and look at your eyes."
Harry took his lighter from a shirt pocket and flicked it on. "You'd like to know," Harry said, "if you can trust me. Look in my eyes, you bugger, and tell me. Can you?"
What did they call this kind? So confident he believed you could see truth in his eyes. Or what would pass for it. Qasim saw nothing to encourage him. He said, "I walk away, you could track me in the desert and shoot me."
"It would be far better than prison, wouldn't it? I'm kidding with you," Harry said. "I give you my word as a gentleman, tell me his name and I'll set you free."
"You'll give up five million dollars?"
"To get at least ten," Harry said. "My offer for the name of a traitor they can look up in five minutes and know who he is, where he went to school or prison and got mixed up with Muslims. Without their knowing his name, he could speak Arabic to them, say he's a former shepherd boy from the Holy Land. Crewed on the LNG tanker to raise money for his family, they're lepers and can't find employment."
You want to listen to him talk? Qasim thought. What difference is it, they have Jama, you tell his name or not? He said, "All right. When we reach Djibouti you will release me?"
Harry waited a bit staring at the endless road in the headlights. He said, "That's fine with me. What's his name?"
"I told you," Qasim said, "when we reach Djibouti."
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE FIRST THING XAVIER did, he got to Djibouti, was rent a Toyota, a white one.
Dara was already back at the Kempinski, Dara in the same suite she had a month ago, with her clothes now, Xavier having cleaned out the Buster and had the boy bring up the bags and cases on his gold luggage cart. It was like the last time they'd seen each other was an hour ago, so used to being with each other. Xavier said, "I come off Buster, tied her up where we got her and was given back our security deposit, so we can give it to the Kempinski."
Dara, in her shorts and a bra, was lying across the settee with a flute of champagne and a cigarette, barefoot. She said, "We're taking a time-out," looking at her slim buddy Xavier across the room. "It's too bad you're an old man."
Xavier had to grin coming over to her.
"Girl, you either cheeky or horny talkin to me like that, wantin me to prove the state of my manhood. Find out can I give you pleasure at my age or not. Want to put up some money?"
"I was kidding," Dara said.
"Unh-unh, you feelin horny. You have time now to entertain the idea. On the Buster you horny once in a while but never remarked about it to me. I'll tell you what," Xavier said, "I'll put up all the back pay you owe me for two months, add to it expenses I've paid out of my pocket. It comes to ten thousand and somethin. You catch your breath and realize I won-sittin up now havin a cigarette-you owe me double, twenty thousand and somethin."
"I've never in my life," Dara said, "heard of a bet like that." She took a moment to say, "What happens when you lose?"