The First End (9 page)

“
Hijab
,
hijab!
”

Startled, the young girl immediately put her
hand on her head holding the scarf and ran off, leaving the
Americans looking after her in bemusement.

Bol sauntered over, smiling menacingly and spoke
dryly, "You are not supposed to take pictures of our women here."
Lorna ignored Bol and continued enjoying her new activity. Their
next two customers were older children, and the next three were
teenagers that came out of the landfill. They came slowly, eyes
drifting more often than not to the lounging soldiers off to one
side. Only the powerful click of the camera kept them coming.

"Can you take a picture of the three of us?" one
asked.
"Sure."

The boys immediately shifted into different
poses, laughing at each other as they tried to outdo each
exaggerated pose. One of the youths pulled out a gun from the waist
of his pants and waved it in the air. Pretending nothing was wrong,
Lorna took several pictures.

While she was printing them off, Bill asked the
youths, “Why carry a weapon?"

"We pirates!" responded proudly one of them.

"Hope you have no intention of kidnapping us,"
Lorna said slyly.

"Worry no, ma'am! We job at sea, not land. Land,
Al-Shabab takes care."

"But you probably know everything that happens
in town, don’t you?"

"You bet. Merca is home town.”

Bill said, “We’re here to find out who killed
those two boys over there.” He nodded towards where the bodies of
the boys had been buried under the refuse of the landfill.

The three teenage boys glanced at each other and
darted away like spooked animals, not even getting their
pictures.

“Oh, very well done,” Lorna muttered
sarcastically. “You should volunteer to be a diplomat.”

“Hey, they’ll be back.” He looked towards where
they had disappeared. “I think.”

“Aren’t you the cynical optimist.”

He threw her a mock glare. “Well, we know one
thing, anyway.”

“What’s that?”

“They did see something.”

She turned to look around. “I suppose you’re
right. But are you sure their deaths have to do with the reason
we’re here?”

He glanced her way. She had not been told the
specifics of the mission since it was need to know. “I have no
idea. But the timing, the location, and the circumstances fit.
Actually, I’m hoping it is nothing, and that this is just some
random killing.”

“If it is?”

“Then we get to go home.”

It took all day. They took hundreds of pictures,
all the while asking short questions about the deaths of the
children. No one gave them anything. Some shrugged, some ran away,
and some just shook their heads. Bill got the feeling that everyone
knew what had happened, but they weren’t about to tell the white
strangers.

But along towards sundown, having stored their
equipment, Bill spotted the same trio of teenagers that had run
away at the beginning of the day. They all looked nervous and
approached in a manner that allowed them the greatest distance from
the soldiers—who still lounged around the jeeps.

Lorna saw them coming and had their pictures
ready to go by the time they stepped near. Before taking the
pictures, Bill asked, “We’re looking for those who killed the
children. Do you know anything?”

One scrawny boy of around fifteen years old,
nodded slowly. “See Korfa.”

“Korfa? Who is he?”

“He knows,” the other one said. They snatched
their pictures and ran off.

“Well,” Lorna said watching them run away. “I
guess we have our first lead. This is so exciting,” she finished
without a trace of emotion.

Bill laughed. “Isn’t this why you signed up for
the army? To hand out pictures?”

“Naw. I signed up to hang around stupid
men.”

“I’m insulted.”

“You can’t be,” she replied seriously. “You’re
not smart enough.”

He laughed again. “Come on. We need to find this
Korfa character.

“Okay, first we need to figure out who Korfa is
before we go looking for him,” Bill said. “There must be hundreds
of Korfas in this city.”

“It’ll take forever,” Lorna said. She sat back
in the seat of their jeep, filing her nails. It was such a feminine
thing to do that it looked completely out of place in their
surroundings. At the same time, it helped to put him at ease. She
had wrapped a Hijab around her head some time ago, least someone
take offence in the predominately Muslim nation.

“Perhaps,” he agreed. “Still, these scavengers
wouldn’t have dealings with just anyone. My guess is they would
only deal with someone in two categories.”

“Yeah? What two?”

“Food and junk.”

She frowned, thinking. “Makes sense. They would
scrounge up things dumped in the landfill and then try to pawn it
off on a junk dealer, who would then try to pawn it off on some
ignorant sod looking for souvenirs.”

“I doubt there is much of a tourist industry
here. But that is a possibility. The other one is food. They would
know all the places where they could scrounge for food,
restaurants, hotels…things like that.”

“But as you just pointed out, there probably
isn’t much of a tourist industry here. Just how difficult would a
restaurant or hotel have it here in this town?”

“Pretty rough I would imagine.”

“No matter what, we should help this
country.”

“I guess that leaves the junk dealers.” She
pointed towards the city. “Driver! Tallyho!”

Bill smirked. “You’re the driver.”

She glanced at the steering wheel in front of
her. “So I am. Imagine that.” She threw him a distressed look.
“Chivalry is dead. Where is a gentleman to chauffer me around?”

He shrugged, and settled more solidly in his
seat as if he intended to stay there forever. “Not so easy to find,
preciosa. Just drive, please!”

She shook her head. “Isn’t that the truth.”
Starting up the jeep, they began driving towards the center part of
the city. Behind them, Luk Bol and his men piled into their own
jeeps and followed. So far the mercenary captain had been content
to leave them alone and let the two Americans conduct their
investigation. Whatever he may have thought about the entire thing
was beyond Bill, but he did notice that the man took care to report
to his superiors—whoever they may be—only out of earshot of either
American.

Bill wanted to wrap this entire thing up
quickly. He had a bad feeling. Over the last couple of days, Lorna
and Bill had taken to sharing a hotel room—perfectly platonic, of
course—solely for safety reasons. Both slept with loaded side-arms
they had managed to smuggle in with their luggage.

As the three jeep convey snaked through the
city, he noted that their surroundings didn’t get much better. In
fact, the main city looked and smelled better than the landfill
only if you were generous. Trash still littered the roads and
walkways, but here and there someone made an effort to either
organize the trash or remove it. The street gutters were open
sewers. Chickens wandered freely throughout the main street and
couple of goats even trying to climb trees to snatch the few
remaining leaves. Difficult for all to live in such hostile place
ravaged by nature and war.

Any working vehicles were owned by armed men,
and at several junctions in the pock-marked road they had tense
moments where their convey had been intercepted by another band of
armed mercenaries. Each time Luk Bol had roughly pushed his way to
the front and ordered the men to stand down. Every time, they
listened. Bill didn’t know who Bol really was, but it was becoming
obvious that the pirates and mercenaries in the country were afraid
of him.

Lorna tuned a corner, and without warning, a
throng of people dancing, laughing, and clapping their hands surged
across the road. Lorna slammed on the breaks, barely able to avoid
running over a pair of grinning men. They slapped the hood of the
jeep and laughed before moving along with the crowd.

“What in the world?” Bill muttered. He stood up
and tried to peer over the crowd. “We’ll never get through this.
What’s going on do you think?”

Lorna leaned out carefully. “A party?”

Bill listened, and suddenly his eyes grew wide
in wonder. “It sounds as if Merca has a new Mayor.”

“A Mayor? When did this happen?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was he elected, or did the provisional
government send him down?”

“I don’t know.”

“I mean, isn’t it dangerous to be a government
official down here? Who is this guy?”

“I don’t know.”

She threw him an irritated look. “What do you
know?”

“About this?” he gestured with his chin to the
crowd of happy people. “It looks like Merca has a new Mayor.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Well so is this crowd. We’ll never get anywhere
and I don’t want to turn our pic commandos loose on this crowd.
Someone will wind up dead if we try to force our way through.”

As if verbalizing the possibility conjured the
actual, Luk Bol seemed to materialize next to their jeep. Four of
his men lingered behind, fingering their weapons. “Why you stop?”
he demanded.

Bill pointed to the crowd. “That. What’s going
on? Seems like their celebrating something.”

Bol studied the crowd of people, listening to
the cheers and chants. Suddenly his eyes tightened noticeably.
“Come,” he ordered. “Follow me.”

Curious to know what was going on, and seeing
few other options, Bill and Lorna hopped off of the jeep. Bol began
shoving his way through the crowds, three of his men fanning out to
assist and one followed close behind the Americans. Bol wasn’t
gentle. He shoved, kicked, and used his rifle like a club to clear
a path. Some tried to protest, but either one look at the
mercenary’s face, or a solid punch sent the objector fleeing in any
direction that would get them away from the cold faced man.

The two Americans followed in his wake. Bill
wanted to protest such treatment and he could tell that Lorna did
too, but they dared not say anything.
Not now, at least
, the
ex-marine vowed silently to himself.

Eventually, they came to a large square jammed
with people cheering. In the center of the square, a wooden
platform had been raised and a man stood atop it, holding an
ancient looking microphone and energetically haranguing the
people.

“The new Mayor, I take it,” Lorna whispered.

“Yeah. Luk Bol doesn’t seem none too pleased,
though.”

Lorna chanced a glance the mercenary’s way and
saw the most vengeful face she had ever seen. “That’s the
truth.”

Bol grabbed one of his men and yanked him near.
He whispered something to the man who nodded, grabbed another of
the armed mercenaries, and then trotted off. The pair of them
cutting through the mass of people much like Bol had done.

“What do you think that was about?” Lorna asked
softly.

“No idea. But, I don’t think the new Mayor will
like what’s about to happen.”

“Think they’ll arrest the man?”

“Don’t know.”

“Stop that,” she muttered.

He grinned tightly at her and turned back to the
situation at hand. Bol didn’t have any room on his face for a grin.
He stared menacingly around him and soon the crowd drew back from
him, leaving the mercenary as the only island of humanity in the
entire square.

The man with the microphone hadn’t noticed the
new arrivals, or if he had, he was choosing to ignore them. From
the limited bit of Arabic Bill understood, he knew the man was
appealing to the people to rise up and fight for their freedom. The
people cheered, but the lawyer wondered if they even knew what the
man was saying. Music was blaring across the square, and the large
number of people were dancing and laughing.

Bill said, “Looks like the people are using the
new Mayor’s arrival as a reason to celebrate.”

“What exactly are they celebrating?” Lorna
asked. “They don’t seem to be paying the Mayor any attention.”

“Noticed that too? I bet they just want to
celebrate. I don’t think this city has much to laugh about
normally.”

“That’s probably true for the entire country,”
Lorna agreed.

“True.”

One of the soldiers left behind with Bol pulled
out a cigarette and a lighter. He quickly grew frustrated when he
couldn’t get the lighter to produce a flame. With a curse, he threw
the lighter into the ground.

Gardner’s attention was instantly riveted to
three children who appeared seemingly from out of nowhere and dived
to the ground in an effort to retrieve it. One girl of around
eleven years of age came up with it. She tried to dart away but ran
face first into one of Bol’s soldiers who cursed, grabbed her by
the hair, and delivered a stunning slap to the side of the girl’s
face. He drew his hand back for another blow when Bill
intervened.

He took two steps and caught the soldier’s wrist
as it descended, stopping it cold in his vice-like grip. The
soldier’s eyes widened in surprise when he discovered he couldn’t
move his arm at all. Bill stepped into the man, his eyes boring
into the black irises of the Somali mercenary. “Try to hit her
again, and I will kill you,” he said calmly.

The man released the girl, who fell heavily to
the ground and lay there blinking in confusion. The soldier used
his free arm to try and draw a pistol, but Bill jabbed a finger
into a nerve cluster at the man’s shoulder and the man lost all
interest in his gun as severe pain shot through his arm and
shoulder. He gasped and fell to his knees, doing his best not to
scream.

Looking around, the lawyer noted that Bol was
observing him with a look of interest. He had not moved to
interfere, or Bill would most likely be dead, but his eyes had lit
up in a way that made Bill uncomfortable. It was the look of a
predator who had caught the smell of another predator in his
territory. Bill said, “I need to talk to the girl. I think she has
information I need. Tell your man to back off.”