The Hunters (8 page)

“Oh, hell.”

“Bastards,” Stewart said.

“Did you know him?” Parson asked.

“No,” Stewart said, “but I knew of him. Good man, from what I've read.” As she spoke, the actress wiped her eyes.

So, what had actually happened here? The bad guys would have used a bigger IED if they'd just wanted Kalinga dead, Parson figured. They stopped his car, then drilled through the glass with rifle fire, only to kill him with a knife? That didn't make sense.

“A botched kidnapping,” Gold said.

“You're reading my mind,” Parson said.

Yeah, Parson thought, they'd shot through the glass and ordered him to open the door. But some of the bullets had probably hit him. Maybe they saw he was mortally wounded. No point abducting somebody who has about ten minutes to live. So instead of putting a living Dr. Kalinga on camera as a hostage, they did what they'd consider the next best thing: take his head and put that on video. Dear God.

“I want the world to know what they did to him,” Stewart said. “Do you mind if we stay a few more minutes?”

Parson shrugged. Stewart put away her still camera and retrieved a video recorder from her backpack. She aimed the camcorder and began shooting. She panned along the street, adjusted the zoom, took a long shot of the wrecked SUV.

“Based on initial reports,” she said as she continued recording, “this is the murder scene of an official with the African Union Mission in Somalia. Dr. Maurice Kalinga worked with an organization trying to bring order to chaos, to help some of the most victimized people on this continent. And he paid with his life.”

Stewart turned the video camera toward Parson and Gold.

“These are my hosts, Sophia Gold and Michael Parson,” the actress narrated. “Both are highly decorated veterans of the war in Afghanistan, now using their skills to fight a different kind of war. But, sadly, today looks all too similar to the sort of conflict they've seen before.”

At the moment, Stewart sounded more like a TV reporter doing a standup than an actress making a movie. Maybe she was serious about shooting the documentary she mentioned. Parson just wished he didn't have to star in it.

“Carolyn,” Gold said, “go ahead and take all the video you need. But don't post anything online while we're still in Africa.”

Stewart stopped the camera and nodded. Then she took more footage of the murder scene. People began to emerge from nearby buildings; workers at a Mobil station across the street went about their tasks. A man walked past, leading a donkey burdened with crates of fruits and vegetables. Static crackled through the air, and the amplified words of a muezzin called the faithful to pray.

I
n a Djibouti slum, Hussein and the other soldiers of God hid and waited for darkness. They huddled in a makeshift home built of discarded cinder blocks and tarps. Apparently, heaven had blessed their mission, just as the Sheikh had promised. None of them had died or suffered an injury; Hussein and the five other boys, commanded by Abdullahi, had stolen away to this safe house. A brother in jihad had scouted the abandoned dwelling days before.

The orange tarp that made up part of the roof gave a copper glow to the room as the sunlight filtered through. Hussein thought the glow looked like firelight without a fire. The dirt floor felt cool. A dead rat lay in a corner, and the rat smelled bad.

“I wish we could have taken him alive,” Abdullahi said. “But we took him, all right.”

Abdullahi hefted a bloody canvas bag. It contained the head of the
kafir
the al-Shabaab squad had come to capture. One of the boys giggled.

“Quiet,” Abdullahi hissed.

The boy put his hand over his mouth but continued to snicker. The weird laughter went on for so long Hussein wondered if something was wrong with the boy. Hussein found this mission glorious, to be sure, but not funny. Worth a lot of fruit, he hoped, and maybe even some meat later on. Too bad that rat was too rotted to cook. Hussein had eaten rats before.

At the very least, he felt the satisfaction of having done his job well. As instructed, he'd taken a position at the rear of the infidel's vehicle. He'd chosen a spot where the back glass touched the metal. Aimed carefully and fired.

The first bullet gouged a white hole and ricocheted off the glass. The next shot dug its own little trench and sang off into the distance. So did the third and fourth rounds.

Other boys fired at other spots. They peppered the vehicle, scalloped the windows and pricked the metal. Chips flew with each bullet strike to the glass. But no one else could manage to put two shots close together. In their excitement, the other boys seemed to forget the special way to shoot.

Not Hussein. He could follow simple instructions.

In the safe house, he remembered how he'd moved a little closer to the vehicle and pulled the trigger a fifth time. The fifth bullet hit near enough where another bullet had struck that it deepened the furrow in the glass. White flakes flew. Hussein fired again and again until he opened a hole in the supposedly bulletproof rear window. Nothing could stop holy bullets. He widened the hole with more shots.

“Out of the car,” Abdullahi had shouted to the
kafir
.

The man inside did not obey. Abdullahi motioned for Hussein to keep shooting. One of the bullets hit the man inside. The
kafir
cried out in pain.

“Open the door or we will shoot you again,” Abdullahi screamed.

The infidel opened the door and slumped halfway out of the car. Abdullahi ran over, grabbed him by the collar, and held him up to examine him. Hussein could not see what damage his bullet had done, but apparently the infidel was too wounded to take hostage. Abdullahi unsheathed his machete.

The victim screamed for only a few seconds, but the bleeding went on forever. More blood than when Hussein used his machete on the
kafirs
at the crossroads. Worse than slaughtering a goat. He almost wished Abdullahi would stop. But now Hussein felt ashamed of that thought. Wasn't this Allah's work? Who was he to think it should stop?

When Abdullahi finished sawing, he picked up the head by the ear. The
kafir
's eyes remained open, oddly calm. Despite the calm appearance, surely the man was in hell by then.

Hussein thought in silence until distant sirens and shouts brought him to the present.

“The police are looking for us,” Hussein said.

“As we said they would,” Abdullahi said. “Everyone stay quiet. They will not find us. But if they do, you will all fire your rifles until you have achieved martyrdom.”

Hussein sat with his back to the wall, AK-47 at the ready. He still had half a magazine of bullets. The weapon smelled of burned gunpowder. The weapon made him a man.

His service for al-Shabaab gave him new purpose. Earlier, in his sinful life outside the ways of God, he had not expected to live long. He had seen so many other children die in so many ways: His playmate Fatima, part of her head blown off by a stray bullet. His friend Kaahiye, torn nearly in half by a speeding truck. Seven-year-old Saad, drowned after falling off a fishing boat.

But now Hussein thought of the future. As he grew older, what great things might he do? He might even learn to read. Then he could read the Quran. He could read for himself the passages the older men had told him about. The words that said kill all the infidels. That said women must remain hidden and must not seek learning. That said girls must be cut a certain way or they will become harlots. All these words were in the book; the older men said so.

The sound of sirens faded away. The hand of God must be pushing the police to look in the wrong places, Hussein thought.

Abdullahi crept around the house until he found a plastic water bottle. He opened it and drank, then handed it to one of the boys.

“Drink and pass it around,” Abdullahi ordered. “Save some for everyone else.”

When Hussein's turn came, he took two swallows and passed the bottle back to Abdullahi. At that moment, footsteps sounded outside. Had the police arrived? Hussein clicked the lever to make his rifle shoot one bullet at a time.

“Shhhh,” Abdullahi said.

Hussein held his breath. Everyone remained silent. All the boys raised their weapons. The giggler put his hand over his mouth to stifle more laughter. What was wrong with that boy? Hussein tried to remember the strange boy's name. Dawo. Yes, Dawo the giggler.

Voices sounded from outside. Not those of police.

“Who lives here?” a female voice said in Somali.

“No one,” a male voice answered.

“Come on, there's nothing any good in there.”

“I found some khat leaves once. They were too wilted, though.”

The footsteps sounded closer.

“We will get in trouble,” the girl said.

“No, we won't. Nobody lives here.”

Abdullahi put down his rifle and crouched near the canvas flap that served as an entrance. He motioned for Dawo, who was one of the bigger boys, to join him.

“If they come in,” Abdullahi whispered, “everybody help me grab them. Do not let them cry out. Do not fire a weapon.”

“Do we hack them?” Dawo asked.

“No. They might scream. Just keep them quiet.”

The footsteps sounded closer.

Go away, Hussein thought. You will make us get caught. Go away.

A shadow fell across the canvas flap. A sandaled foot appeared beneath it. Dawo's eyes grew wide. A hand moved the flap aside.

Abdullahi and Dawo sprang. Abdullahi grabbed the figure at the flap entrance. Turned out to be a thin teenage boy about Hussein's age. Dawo seized the girl, another teenager.

The girl tried to scream, but Dawo put a hand over her mouth. Abdullahi wrestled the boy to the ground, and they dragged both of them inside. The boy kicked and struggled. He made a grunting sound when Abdullahi punched him in the stomach. Hussein grabbed his feet to help hold him down. Another of the al-Shabaab fighters put a hand over the boy's mouth.

“Quiet,” Abdullahi said. “If you speak above a whisper, we will kill you.”

The captives' eyes darted around at the soldiers of God. To Hussein, their eyes looked like those of a pigeon he once captured, right before he wrung its neck to pluck and cook it. Abdullahi drew his machete, held it up, and said to the male captive, “Listen. Are you listening to me? Nod your head if you are paying attention.”

The boy nodded.

“We only want you to be quiet. We will tie gags in your mouths. If you scream, you will die. If you stay quiet, you will live. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded.

“And you?” Abdullahi pointed his machete at the girl.

She nodded.

“Gag them,” Abdullahi ordered. “Use rags. Tear your shirts if you have to. Find something.”

Hussein looked around the hovel. He found remnants of a dirty sheet, and with his machete, cut two strips. Handed them to Abdullahi, who forced the captives to open their mouths and let him tie the cloth strips as gags.

“Cut more of that cloth,” Abdullahi said.

Hussein did as ordered, and Abdullahi used the strips to tie the captives' hands and feet. When he finished, the two looked like goats trussed for market. Dawo laughed at them, and Abdullahi slapped him and told him to keep quiet.

Never before had Hussein handled prisoners. He had killed with fury, because the men told him those he killed were enemies of God. But never had he taken hostages like a pirate.

“Are we going to sell them for money?” Hussein whispered.

“No, idiot,” Abdullahi hissed. “They are worthless.”

The insult stung, but Hussein knew Abdullahi was right. The pirates took crewmen from foreign ships. Rich infidels working for rich countries. Probably no one would or could pay ransom for two poor teenagers. Just as no one would pay ransom for Hussein.

Abdullahi sat back and looked at the prisoners. He had a worried look on his face. Sometimes the older men appeared worried and even fought among themselves. These things troubled Hussein. The older men were supposed to lead the jihad, to know all things.

“When we try to go back to the boat in the dark,” one of the boys said, “they will tell on us.”

“We must kill them,” Dawo said.

Through the gags, the young prisoners made pleading sounds. The girl shook her head from side to side. Tears streamed from her eyes.

A fine punishment, Hussein thought, for
kafirs
to sit and listen to their fates decided. But were these
kafirs
? They had mistakenly wandered to the hiding place of the soldiers of God.

“But if someone hears us killing them, we will still get caught,” another boy said.

“Silence,” Abdullahi said. “I will decide.”

The girl kept looking around, crying through her gag. She looked at Hussein.

Hussein looked away. He looked at the dead rat. When he looked back up, the girl was still staring at him.

Hussein looked away again. The girl might have been his sister, though Hussein could not remember his sister's face clearly.

“What if they are faithful?” Hussein said. “Then they will help us.”

“Faithful?” Abdullahi said. “This girl is walking around uncovered with a male. She is a whore, and the boy consorts with whores.”

“But—”

“Did I not call for silence?” Abdullahi said.

“Maybe if we leave them tied—”

Abdullahi's face flashed with anger. He got to his knees—he could not stand erect without ruffling the tarp roof—and leaned toward Hussein. Clamped his fingers over Hussein's cheeks so that his mouth twisted into a foolish-looking shape. Hussein pressed his lips closed to look more like a man.

“I said
quiet
,” Abdullahi said. Spit flew from his mouth.

Hussein wanted to hit Abdullahi with his rifle. He wanted to shoot Abdullahi with his rifle. Yet he could not. Abdullahi was a leader of the jihad.

Abdullahi let him go, sat down again across from the prisoners. Hussein rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth and glared at Abdullahi.

When I lead the jihad, Hussein thought, I will say you are a
kafir
.

Hussein wanted to leave the captives tied. Maybe they were good Muslims, despite what Abdullahi had said about the girl. Hussein's mother had been a good woman; he knew that for sure, and she did not always cover her head. Even if the boy and girl were infidels, they could not untie themselves before the soldiers of God reached the boat at nightfall. If the prisoners were good, God would send someone by morning to untie them.

Mercy did not enter Hussein's thinking. No one had ever shown him any mercy. The best thing, the quietest thing, he believed, would be to leave the prisoners tied. We are lions of jihad, Hussein thought, but a lion does not kill everything it sees. A lion kills only when it must.

As a man who would someday read the Quran and lead the jihad, Hussein knew he must think about such things. The aim here was to keep them quiet. The giggling fool Dawo did not think about things.

The sun began to set. Hussein watched the copper glow under the orange tarp darken to bronze. Soon the al-Shabaab fighters would make their dash for the sea and get back home.

Abdullahi stared at the prisoners. Then he announced, “We will silence them for good.”

The boy and the girl started their muffled wailing again. This time they wailed louder. Maybe their gags had worked loose.

“Let me do the girl,” Dawo said. “Let me do the girl.”

Abdullahi nodded, and Dawo grabbed at the girl. Held her down on the dirt floor. The girl kicked, and he hit her on the head. Then he began to choke her.

Dawo started giggling like a mad jinn. Abdullahi slapped him. Dawo let go of the girl's throat long enough for her to let out a dampened shriek. Dawo stopped giggling but kept his wild grin. Put his hands back onto the girl's neck and choked harder. The girl flailed and struggled.

The boy sat trembling and silent. Abdullahi put away his machete and drew his other knife. A fearsome thing, with a blade as long as a dog's front leg. Notches along the top of the blade for sawing. Hussein had seen this knife take the hand off a thief.

“Hold him still,” Abdullahi ordered.

Two of the other al-Shabaab boys pulled him down.

Hussein did not help. His idea would have been better, he knew. He sat and glared with his arms folded.

The girl stopped struggling. Dawo let go of her. He breathed in and out hard. The girl's dead eyes stared up at him.

“She thinks I am handsome,” Dawo said.

Hussein picked up the dead rat and threw it at Dawo. Missed. The rat thudded against the cinder-block wall. No one else saw Hussein throw the rat. They were all looking at the other captive.