“Why do you think he hasn’t quit, retired on his millions?”
“He’s past the stage when he can just walk away,” Seamus speculated. “I presume he gets a kick out of courting danger on a daily basis. Sure as eggs is eggs, he’s his own story now, and too big a man to lose himself in other people’s fibs, or to care about them. My guess is that he’ll eventually tempt Caloosha’s wrath, and he’ll end up dead.”
Jeebleh looked disconcerted: “And the AIC?”
“What about him?”
“Did he become part of the story too?”
“Fools are famous for the gaffes they make,” Seamus said. “We weren’t on first-name terms, the AIC and I, but we got on reasonably well until he lost his way in the complex plot of Somalia’s story. He may have meant to do ‘good,’ but his methods were highly questionable. In the process, he ended up behaving very much like StrongmanSouth, whom he meant to expose.”
“He too became his own story?”
“And he compounded the problem by misinforming the American militariat and the UN too. I don’t wish to be unfair to him, but I think that in the end he mislaid his marbles.”
“Would you say he was evil?”
Seamus’s worries made him look more careworn, and a little paler. “I would say he was banal.”
“No one’s going to think of anything else when ‘banal’ comes this close to ‘evil.’”
“He was true to type, and American.”
Not knowing what to make of this, Jeebleh let it be. He concentrated his stare on a gecko at the bottom of the wall, within reach of his hand, and a fly washing its head reflectively, as though tempting the gecko.
SEAMUS’S EYES CLOSED VERY, VERY SLOWLY, LIKE THOSE OF A CHILD RESISTING sleep. Then the phone rang, and Jeebleh answered it. Shanta was at the other end. There was a life-or-death urgency to her voice. She wanted Jeebleh at her place right away, but wouldn’t tell him why. Assuming the worst, he got in touch with Dajaal, who promised he would take him there at once.
22
NO SOONER HAD JEEBLEH PUT ON HIS SEAT BELT THAN HE APPROACHED Dajaal about joining his cause. He broached the subject with the timidity of someone who had no wish to spend another day behind bars in a detention cell.
“Supposing that I set my sights on destroying a man who’s wrought havoc on my life and done irreparable damage to others close to me,” he said, “and supposing I were to ask you to help, would you give me a hand?”
Sounding as if he had given the subject some thought, and had been expecting the request to come for some time, Dajaal answered, “Of course I would.”
Jeebleh mulled this over and then said noncommittally, “You realize I haven’t a clear idea of what’s involved?”
“Nor have I much of an idea what you’re talking about, come to think of it,” Dajaal said, “but there’s time to develop these plans, plot and fine-tune them. In my previous experience as an army man, and as a long associate of Bile — I’m eternally devoted to him — I have undertaken tough jobs. My training has prepared me, and I am always willing to accept risky tasks in the line of duty.”
Jeebleh assured him that he hadn’t discussed the topic with anyone else, and that it was too soon to come up with a blueprint. In any case, they wouldn’t make any moves until they were clear in their heads about the fate of the girls. Till then, Jeebleh said, mum’s the word!
Dajaal told Jeebleh that as an army officer he was trained to share secret information on a “no-name, no-packdrill” basis. He, Dajaal, would honor that.
“What about Bile?”
“What about him?” Dajaal asked.
They had arrived at Shanta’s gate. “How will he take it?” Jeebleh said.
“He’s aware of your plans?”
“I haven’t spoken to him at all about my plans.”
“When I met him at the clinic this morning,” Dajaal explained, “Bile alluded to how a female bee mates with any drone she meets in the course of her honey-making business.”
“Have you any idea what he was saying to you?”
“Not really,” Dajaal replied. “But he explained it this way: that for his self-fulfillment, a torturer will be content to torture a victim wherever he may come across one.”
When Jeebleh said, “Thank you,” he did not know whether he was thanking Dajaal for the lift or for the details of what Bile had said, or simply bringing their conversation to an abrupt end because he was feeling uncomfortable.
Jeebleh got out of the car. Dajaal chose not to accompany him, but to wait outside until he was sure that his presence was no longer needed.
JEEBLEH WAS SURPRISED THAT SHANTA DIDN’T EVEN BOTHER TO WELCOME him or thank him for coming promptly. As soon as she saw him, she cursed: “The son of a bitch has called.”
He was tempted to say, “Where are your manners?” but decided to make an allowance for Shanta. Of course, he could guess whom she meant, and he waited for her to say more. There was rage in her voice, old rage mixed with new.
“Did he say where he was calling from?”
“He sounded so close that it could’ve been from the house next door,” she said. Then she turned her back on Jeebleh and, again cursing like a drill sergeant—“The son of a bitch”—walked away. He didn’t follow her inside immediately.
He averted is gaze, finding no pleasure in seeing her curves through the diaphanous dress she wore, a garment adorned with fluttering birds. He thought of his wife, to whom he had spoken the day before.
Shanta made him even more uncomfortable with her abusive language. “The son of a donkey has rung, but doesn’t want to speak to me. Can you believe it?”
He entered the house and shut the door. He reminded himself how he had been reared in a venerable tradition in which you pretended that nothing untoward had taken place if a respectable person misbehaved in your presence.
“Would you like a cup of tea, while we’re waiting?” she asked.
He wondered whether it was wise to have tea with her or even to wait, when he didn’t know why he was waiting, precisely for whom or for what, or for how long. That she continued to swear irritated him greatly, he had no idea why. He spoke slowly: “Tell me if I’m right. Faahiye, your husband, called between the time I was here last and the time you called me at the apartment, and he said he’d call again, but didn’t give a definite time or reason. Did he name the person he wanted to talk to?”
“He wants to speak to you.” She nearly flew into a fresh rage. “‘I want to speak to Jeebleh.’ That’s how he put it. ‘I want to talk to that man and no one else, and I want you to ring him and get him, and I’ll call!’”
“I hope you’re not blaming me.”
“Have you been talking to him behind our backs?” She looked like a floor cloth, untidy in her moment of sheer rage. “Tell me the truth!”
“No, I haven’t.”
“So why has he rung you, if you haven’t?”
“I wish I knew.”
“It doesn’t make sense, does it?”
“If Faahiye and I had spoken, as you say,” Jeebleh challenged her, “would he not have a better way of reaching me?”
“I suppose you are right.” She settled into the sofa, shifting in it. She rubbed her forehead with her hand, as though this might help reduce her pain. The minutes passed slowly. He thought of trying to assure her that he was not offended by her insinuation, but chose not to, certain that it would be of no use.