Jama said to them, "Where is my friend Idris?"
The one at the end of the table said, "They left, both of them. But they coming back very soon. They should walk in at any moment."
"It's time for tea," Qasim said. "They will be gone two hours or more."
Jama looked at him.
"It's who they are," Qasim said, "being gentlemen."
The man sounding like himself again, knowing what was going on: at Riyadh telling him about Americans running the Saudi companies, telling him to find them and shoot them. Qasim cool in those days.
The one at the end pushed up from the table and spread out his arms. He said in Arabic, "I am not armed, our weapons are over there. You want to escape? Please, go ahead."
The kitchen table was no more than twenty feet from Jama. He moved to Datuk's side raising the Walther and shot the one standing at the end of the table. Jama put the Walther on the other one, still seated, staring at him, and told himself no, turned the Walther on Datuk raising his arm in defense and shot him through the heart. Now the one at the table-but Ibrahim was taking the AK from Qasim, twisting it from his hands, and Jama shot him in the face, turned to the guard who was finally up from the table and shot him as he started to run. He turned to Qasim now holding the AK. Qasim watching him. He said, "You don't have to do it."
Jama said, "You know my name."
"I have always known it."
"But it's different now." Jama wasn't sure what the difference was but could feel it looking at Qasim. He raised the Walther. Qasim turned his head and Jama shot him where you would shoot yourself if you saw it was that time, in the temple.
He still had three rounds. Two for Harry and Idris.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
HARRY HAD FINISHED SEVERAL gins by the time Idris caught up with him in an African market that stocked canned goods and olive oil and-what do you know-khat, left over from yesterday. Harry sipping and chewing in a pleasant frame of mind, said the khat had lost much of its potency, somewhat dry but it still wasn't bad.
"Have a chew."
Idris said, "There is no sense in arguing with you, is there?"
"None," Harry said. "What's bothering you?"
"You leave people worth millions of dollars in the care of boys."
"No," Harry said, "you did. They were securely handcuffed when I left. Were they still handcuffed when you left? Were they eating their spaghetti like good boys? Tell me," Harry said, "what would you do if they tried to escape while you were in the house?"
"How could they?"
"But say they did."
"If I had to, I'd shoot them," Idris said. "You would too, you'd have no choice."
"Very possibly," Harry said, "and it would break my heart."
Idris said, "Giving up all that money."
He had a gin and in a while they became tired of talking, wondering, Harry feeling like himself again, somewhat buzzed-the first time since leaving Eyl. He was thinking he might be a bit stoned and high at the same time. No, the confident feeling would be the work of the gin. The khat made you think of pleasant moments you might experience, but never urged you to make them happen.
They walked back to the fading town house on the African street and stood a moment before Idris said, "Oh, I have a key. I forgot." He looked at his ring of keys, reached in his pocket and brought out the door key.
Harry said, "Are you going to stare at the fucking key? You had only one drink."
"Two," Idris said. "But I haven't eaten today." Idris slipped the key into the keyhole and said, "It's not locked," and turned the knob and pushed the door open.
Harry brushed past him, the PPK in his hand, the one he had used on the first officer in Idris's garage, Idris remembering how surprised he was when Harry shot the young man, but not surprised now by his behavior. He followed Harry to the staircase expecting him to call out, see who was here.
"Datuk, where the devil are you?" Not loud. Harry still with some control. He looked up the staircase now to tell Datuk, "You left the fucking door open. Is everything," Harry said, "as it should be?"
Idris motioned to him and Harry followed along the hall to the kitchen. Idris stopped in the doorway. Harry looked in past him to see Qasim-with absolute certainty their five-million-dollar reward-lying dead on the floor, the four Somalis lying about, and their twenty-five-million-dollar chance of a lifetime nowhere, gone.
"I'm not going to scold you," Harry said to Idris, "for leaving the house."
"You left too," Idris said.
"Yes, but the main thing is Jama's loose. It's no one's fault but the Somalis, the buggers were just not up to it." Harry said, "I suppose I could call the embassy, see if they'll take Qasim as is. They could stuff him, glue his eyes open and photograph him."
Idris said, "You want to carry him down the street?"
"We'll call the embassy, have him picked up. That fucking Qasim…At least, thank Allah, we still have Jama."
"Where?" Idris said, "I don't see him."
"You don't suppose," Harry said, "he's still here. Let's take a look," and started up the stairway with his pistol.
Idris called, "Harry," loud enough to stop him. "What are you doing? The man killed five people. He's gone."
Harry turned on the stairs. "Yes, you're right."
Idris could see he was still buzzed, not sure of what he was doing. "There are al Qaeda around here," Idris said, "who can help him."
Harry came down one step at a time saying, "Have you ever looked at Qasim and wondered if he's homosexual?"
Yes, Harry was still buzzed.
"It's always a woman," Idris said, "tells me some man is gay. But Qasim is al Qaeda."
"They're fellows with fellows," Harry said, "nearly all the time, aren't they? The only girls they see are whores."
"Some quite lovely," Idris said. "But why would you think this one is gay?"
"Certain mannerisms, the way he touches his hair. The way he looks at other men. Coming from Eyl," Harry said, "talking to him in the car, I would feel his breath on me in the dark. This was the time he consented to tell me Jama's real name. I could feel he wanted to."
"But he didn't. Listen to me," Idris said, "we should leave here, get off the street, people watching us, and go to my apartment. We can rest, decide what to do."
"About what?" Harry said.
Idris told him not to think anymore. THIS TIME-IT WAS THE next afternoon-they turned the corner in the African section and found themselves behind a crowd of people watching police coming out of the house with body bags, two policemen to a sagging bag, one at each end. Police cars, a medical truck, the National Police on the scene. Five bags came out of the house.
Xavier counted four guards, two Qaedas and the Twins, eight in the house. If Harry still hadn't returned, that would be seven. Xavier didn't want Idris to be in one of the bags, so he believed Idris had left. Four guards and one Qaeda. Which one in the bag?
Qasim.
Because Xavier saw Jama thinking up this breakout. He wouldn't be shot escaping, he was the man in this deal, working it. Xavier imagined somebody much later on shooting him. It would be unexpected, Jama with a look of surprise on his face.
Dara was talking to a police officer, the two of them speaking French, both laughing now at something she said. Dara put her hand on his arm, thanking him, and came through the crowd to Xavier, the people in the street turning to look at her.
"Five bodies, but not the Twins. That leaves the four Somali guards and one other. Who is it?"
"Qasim."
"I was pretty sure too," Dara said. "The cops know who he is. Shot through the head, four of them, one through the heart. One shot each. The cops think with a pistol. At suppertime. The guard brings in the spaghetti and is overpowered."