No Safe Place (5 page)

“We should row,” Rosalia said.

The sea was calm enough now that rowing might actually get them somewhere.

“Which way?”

The sky was a little lighter on one side of the horizon, under the clouds.

“That way is east,” said Abdul. “England is west. We row toward England.”

The boat had two oars. Abdul took the first shift, turning the boat with some difficulty. He had never rowed before, and he did a great deal of pulling without seeming to get anywhere.

“Oh, this is much better,” Cheslav said. “We are really moving now.”

“Shut up,” said Rosalia.

“We will row and we will row and maybe in a month we will reach England. Maybe we are off-course and we'll row right by England, right into the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.”

Abdul kept pulling on the oars. It felt like he was moving the boat along, but how could he say for sure? Maybe for every meter he moved them, the waves and currents moved them two, and in a direction they didn't want to go.

“How big is the Channel?” he asked Jonah. “How long does it usually take you to cross it?”

“We leave when it's dark and get there when it's light. If the motor is working.”

“Where do you land?”

“Different places. Sometimes a bigger boat comes out to meet us and takes away the cargo.”

“The cargo? You mean us?”

“No. The bundles under the floorboards.”

Abdul, Cheslav and Rosalia looked at each other.

“Are there any bundles on this trip?” Cheslav asked.

“Sure.”

“Where?”

Jonah pointed to places around the hull. “Under the boards.”

Cheslav tried to pry up the boards with his fingers.

“Hey. Gypsy, got a nail file?”

Rosalia ignored him.

Abdul secured the oars, reached into his shirt and unwrapped the knife.

“You're going to kill me for my words?”

Abdul didn't answer. He bent to one of the floorboards and started attacking it with the knife.

“You've never used a knife before, have you?” Cheslav taunted. “The boat is made of wood, not cake.”

Abdul swung his arms up so the knife point was at Cheslav's throat.

“I stabbed a security officer. I'm not afraid to stab you.”

“Go ahead and try,” Cheslav urged. “You want to be king of the boat? Try. You don't know me.”

Abdul lowered the knife and went back to attacking the board. It started to loosen. The boat tipped precariously as they all leaned in to look.

Jonah was the one who reached in and grabbed the two packets.

Wrapped in heavy, clear plastic, each was about the size of a deck of cards.

“Heroin?” Abdul asked. “Cocaine?”

“It's heroin,” Jonah said. “I heard them saying.”

“How many are there?”

Jonah showed them the spots. “Three hiding places.”

Abdul didn't know how much money was involved, but he knew it was a lot. “We should throw it away.”

“Are you crazy?” Cheslav asked. “Before this, we had nothing. Now we are rich. And, if we're caught, we have something to bargain with.”

“If we're caught with drugs, we'll go to prison,” said Abdul.

“I will not get caught,” Cheslav said. “I will turn this into money. When I have money, it will be easy to do what I want to do.”

“What's that?”

“None of your business.”

Abdul was already tired of the Russian. He handed Cheslav his knife. “You want to work instead of talk?”

Cheslav took the knife and chopped at the places Jonah showed him. One by one, six heroin packets were uncovered.

“Any more?” Cheslav asked.

Jonah shook his head.

Abdul took the knife back.

“So we have heroin,” he said. “So what? It's not food, it's not water. It won't fix the motor or keep us dry. It's useless.”

“I'll take your share, then,” Cheslav said.

“You can have it,” Abdul said. “I want nothing to do with it.”

Cheslav grabbed Abdul's share and tucked it along with his own into his waistband behind his back.

Rosalia picked up one packet and put it down again.

“I don't like trouble,” she said.

Jonah reached for a packet but Abdul stopped him.

“Leave it in the boat. It's not going anywhere.”

“Why should the boy get a share?” Cheslav asked. “His country will take care of him.”

“It belongs to him as much as to you,” Rosalia said, as she took up the oars and got them moving again.

The sun climbed higher and the clouds began to drift away. The day warmed up. Abdul allowed his body to relax and his mind to drift.

Cheslav was fooling himself if he thought the heroin would save him. Abdul would throw Jonah's share overboard before he allowed the boy to leave the boat with it.

Stop worrying about him, he told himself. He reminded himself that he had something to do. He had to get to England, and then he had to get to Liverpool. And he couldn't let anything get in his way.

Abdul woke up, and for a moment he didn't know where he was.

He'd been dreaming he was a small boy, visiting his grandparents in the Kurdistan countryside. He was chasing a baby goat, running over the rocky hills and laughing in the sunshine.

But when he opened his eyes, the little farm was gone, the goat was gone, and the sun was gone. Everything was dark, and he was cold once again.

He'd slept slumped over, and his back and neck ached. He yawned and stretched, then rubbed his eyes.

He was looking at another boat. They had drifted right into it.

It was a cabin cruiser, a yacht, four times longer than their little boat and many times higher.

Even in the dark, Abdul could see it was expensive. Tiny lights twinkled here and there along its sides.

Abdul nudged Cheslav and Rosalia awake and motioned to them to be quiet. Jonah stirred but didn't quite awaken. Abdul could tell from his fever and labored breathing that the boy was really sick.

“Should we shout out for help?” he wondered.

“Why would they help us?” whispered Rosalia.

“They're all asleep up there,” said Cheslav. “We go up, we get blankets, water and food. We take what we need, and then we get back on our own boat and row away.”

“I'll go,” said Abdul. “One of us is enough.”

“Why would I trust you? I'll go.” Cheslav was already on his feet, securing their boat to the yacht.

“I'm going,” said Rosalia. “I won't waste time, and why would I trust you?”

“Someone should stay with Jonah,” Abdul said.

“You think he'll run away?” Cheslav was already pulling himself onto the yacht after Rosalia. Abdul followed him.

Empty liquor bottles littered the deck.

On one of the cushioned benches they saw a man, passed out and snoring.

“I'm going below. You go round the back,” Cheslav whispered to Rosalia. He told Abdul to check out the wheelhouse.

Abdul didn't like to be ordered around by Cheslav, but this was no time to argue. He went to the little covered deck that held the ship's wheel and control panel.

There were more bottles and paper plates with the remains of a meal. Abdul picked up a half-eaten chicken leg and finished it off in two bites. There was a roll, and some kind of cold potatoes in sauce. It felt great to eat, but then he felt bad when he remembered the goal was to get things they needed and get away.

He spied some large bottles of drinking water. There were four unopened bottles and one that was still half-full. On the back of one of the chairs was a sweater, and two towels were bunched up on the floor. He used the larger towel to bundle up what he found.

Abdul looked around carefully for anything else they might use. Whoever owned this boat had a lot of money. The console was full of fancy electrical equipment. He thought he recognized a radio and gears, but most of it was a mystery.

They needed to find out where they were, and how far away they were from England.

We could get there quickly in this, Abdul thought. The man who owned the yacht could take them to England easily, but Abdul knew he never would.

He figured he'd taken all that was useful, and he was just turning to go back to the others when he heard a shout from below.

He froze.

There was another shout, then another. At first they were just shouts of surprise. Then they were shouts of anger.

Up from below came Cheslav, and right behind him was a man with white hair and a thick body, wearing an open bathrobe over his boxer shorts. The man held a pistol pointed at Cheslav's back.

“We have a thief,” the man said, in English with an American accent. “Came right up onto our boat, Harry. Right into my bedroom! Trying to steal my wallet!”

“I was after your blanket,” Cheslav said. “It was on the floor. You didn't even need it.”

“Are you all right, Frank?”

“I caught me a baby pirate,” said the man with the gun.

Harry grabbed Cheslav and spun him around so that he leaned against the yacht's railing, looking out at the black sea. The man kicked his legs apart and started to pat him down, searching him. It took no time at all to find the heroin packed away in Cheslav's clothes.

“You worked narcotics, Frank,” said Harry, bending down to pick up the packets that fell out of Cheslav's shirt. “How much do you think this is worth?”

“On the streets of Detroit? It would sure pad out my pension.”

“You still have your old contacts?”

“I could find them. Their lives don't change.”

“That's mine!” yelled Cheslav, taking a swing at Harry.

Shut up, thought Abdul, as Harry punched Cheslav hard in the stomach. The Russian fell to his knees.

Abdul tried to get at his knife. He knew what was coming. These men had no reason to keep Cheslav alive. It would be only moments before they discovered the rest of them. He wondered where Rosalia was, and hoped she was well hidden.

Harry pulled the belt out of the loops of his bathrobe and wound them around Cheslav's wrists, pulled back tight from his shoulders.

“Where did you get this?” Frank demanded, speaking inches from Cheslav's face. “How did you get on my boat? Tell us, and maybe you'll live to get to a police station.”

Cheslav took a deep breath and spat right in Frank's face. Frank cursed, and the two men hit and kicked the boy, Frank using his gun instead of his fist.

Abdul got ready to jump. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rosalia holding an oar, poised to attack.

“There's more!”

Abdul heard Jonah's voice, then saw him on the yacht's deck.

The men stopped beating Cheslav and turned to Jonah.

“What is this — nursery school? Where did you come from?” Frank grabbed Jonah and threw him to the deck beside Cheslav.

“There is more heroin on our boat,” said Jonah, his face flushed from fever and his hair matted with sweat and salt. “Lots more. Go and see for yourselves.”

Frank stood up and kept his gun aimed at the boys.

“Go check it out,” he said to Harry.

Harry, keeping a tight hold on the two packets of heroin he'd found on Cheslav, walked to the other side of the yacht.

“There's a beat-up old motorboat down here. It's empty.”

“The drugs are hidden,” Jonah said. “I can show you.”

“Hold it.” Frank used his free hand to pat down Jonah and check him for weapons. “Show us,” he told Jonah. “From up here, and no tricks!”

Jonah went to the side of the yacht and told Harry where to look.

“Frank! You've got to see this!”

“Don't move,” Frank said to Cheslav. He joined Jonah at the side of the boat and leaned over to get a better look.

Abdul moved fast. He ripped the knife from his clothes, ran to the side and pushed Frank over the railing. He heard a thud and a splash as the large man landed half in the skiff and half in the sea. It took just a second to cut through the rope tying the two boats together.

At that same moment, he heard the sound of the yacht's motor starting.

Frank and Harry scrambled to get back onto their boat.

“Let's go!” yelled Cheslav.

“Haul up the anchor!” yelled Rosalia from the wheelhouse.

Abdul stayed at the side with his knife, ready to fight the men if they managed to climb up. The yacht slowly started to move, creating a three-foot gap, then a six-foot gap, then a ten-foot gap. The men might have made it if they'd acted immediately, instead of trying to pick up all the heroin first.

They could still swim, Abdul thought. They'd have to leave the drugs, but they could still make it.

“Help me!”

Jonah was struggling to haul up the anchor by hand. Abdul quickly sliced through Cheslav's bindings. Cheslav, his face bloodied from the beating, stumbled over to help Jonah with the anchor, and Abdul ran back to the side of the boat.

The extra person on the anchor was helping. The yacht was moving a little faster. Rosalia was having some trouble with the controls. Their getaway wasn't smooth, but every moment put more distance between them and the men.

“You damn kids!” Harry yelled. “You damn, worthless, good-for-nothing…kids!!” He spat out the last word as if it was the worst curse ever.

Frank fired his gun at them but his shots were wide. The yacht picked up speed.

Within moments, their fortunes had changed.

Abdul yelled back. “Yes, we are kids. We are unwanted, worthless, useless children. But,” he laughed, “we have your boat!”

He felt the adrenalin rush through his body. He felt in control of his life for the first time in a long, long time. And he also felt something else, something he hadn't felt in years.

It may have been joy.

“Open the door!”

Abdul heard hard banging and the sound of the front door being smashed in.

His head thick with sleep, he tried to jump to his feet, but the soldiers were already upon him. They swarmed into the front room that was now his bedroom, ripped him off the mat and shone a flashlight in his face, blinding him.

“Don't move!”

“Show us where the weapons are!”

“Who are you hiding here?”

“You asked those same questions the last time you broke our door,” Abdul said, in English because he knew the Americans didn't understand Arabic. He heard the cries of the small children and the screams of the women from deeper inside the house.

“It's all women back here!”

“Where are the men?”

A soldier pulled Abdul up into a sitting position and got right close to his face.

“Where are they?”

“You killed them all,” Abdul said.

The soldier slapped him so hard he fell over.

“Bag him.”

A hood was yanked down over Abdul's head and his hands were pulled behind him. A soldier kneeled into his back and wrapped plastic handcuffs around his wrists.

Abdul screamed in pain as he was lifted by his arms and dumped outside. He was made to sit with his head bowed against the front wall of the house. He tried to get to his feet but a heavy hand on his shoulder made it impossible for him to rise.

“If there's anything in there, we'll find it, Ali.”

“My name is Abdul.”

“Whatever. How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

“Tell me now where the weapons are and there will be a reward in it for you. What would you like?”

“We have no weapons.”

“There's only women in there,” another voice said.

“Some kind of brothel?”

“They're all widows,” Abdul told them. “And their children. My mother took them in so they'd be safe.”

“What about your father?”

“My father is dead. My older brothers are dead.”

“So you're the man, then.”

Abdul didn't respond. He felt like a small boy. He was in his pajamas, shivering in the cold Baghdad night, and he could do nothing to help his mother or himself.

He could hear the women, less afraid and more angry now that they were fully awake.

“Where's my son?” his mother yelled. “What have you done with Abdul?”

There was more yelling, then the voices of the women and children became muted. Abdul guessed that they had all been locked in the kitchen. That's what usually happened during these night raids. He had never been tied up like this, though. He tried to calm himself the way his father had taught his theater students who were nervous before a performance.

“Curl your toes and breathe deeply,” his father had told them. “Be aware of your surroundings. Try to own the moment.”

It was hard to breathe deeply with the hood covering his face. The cloth stank. How many others had tried to catch their breath inside it?

The Song of the Hood, he thought. He could write a song about a hood that goes from prisoner to prisoner. Maybe he'd give it a happy ending, and the hood could land on one of the soldiers who was now breaking whatever unbroken furniture was left in his house.

The exercise was working. Writing songs always made him feel better. A melody started working its way into his head — a melody that began dark and sad but became triumphant at the end when the tormentor became the prisoner.

Then Abdul heard music coming from a guitar.

His guitar! The soldiers were going to steal his guitar!

“That's mine!” he yelled. “The guitar is mine. Get your hands off it!”

“What's an Arab kid want with a guitar? Don't they play camel bones or something?”

“This your guitar, kid? Untie his hands.”

Abdul, his hands freed, was turned around so his back was against the wall. He felt the guitar land in his lap.

“Play us a song, kid. Brighten up our humdrum lives.”

Abdul's left hand curved around the neck of the guitar and his right hand found the strings. He was trembling, too frightened to remember anything he knew. Then he got angry, and he started to play.

“All we are saying,” he sang through his hood, “is give peace a chance.”

Over and over. He didn't bother with the verses, just kept on with the chorus until the guitar was yanked out of his hands.

“Enough of that hippy stuff. Let's have some heavy metal!” The soldier, who couldn't play, plucked the strings so harshly Abdul was afraid they would break. He had no idea how he would get new ones.

“What's going on here? Stop that noise!”

Abdul heard the guitar being snatched from the rough soldier's hands.

“Any weapons found? Why is this boy wearing a hood?”

The hood was lifted off.

“He was slow to obey orders, Sergeant.”

“So are you, Private. Go join the others.”

The sergeant squatted down in front of Abdul and lightly strummed the strings, slipping into a bit of a melodic riff.

“You a Beatles fan?”

Abdul didn't answer.

“George Harrison was just about the best guitar player there ever was.” The sergeant played the opening to “Here Comes the Sun.” He smiled at Abdul. “It hurt me when he died.” He thumped his chest where his heart was covered by his uniform, his bulletproof vest and his ammo belt.

Abdul just watched him.

The sergeant sighed and handed the guitar back. He helped Abdul to his feet.

“Your mother's inside, son. Try to get some sleep.”

Abdul watched as the soldiers moved on to torment the people in the next house. Then he went inside to help his mother calm the children and put their house back together.

No one got any more sleep that night.

A few days later, Abdul was driving with his mother in a borrowed car. Fatima sat between them in the front seat. She was now seven years old, and Abdul's mother couldn't go anywhere without her. She'd stopped talking after the rocket attack that killed Abdul's father and brothers, and she was so quiet that Abdul sometimes forgot she was there — until she got more than a few feet from his mother. Then she'd wail like a siren.

His mother now wore hijab, which she had never done before, because women with their hair uncovered were being threatened.

“With it or without it, I am still who I am,” she told Abdul when he asked her about it. “With it, I can do my work. What else is there to think about?”

“You've got to watch your mouth,” she said to him now as she slowed down at an army checkpoint. The soldiers peered into the car before waving them along. “You make smart remarks, you're going to get into trouble.”

“I get into trouble anyway,” Abdul said.

“Do you want me to have another thing to worry about?”

“I'm not a child.”

“You are my child, and I am going to protect you until we are both old and gray.”

“You're already old and gray,” Abdul said. His mother laughed and gave him a little swat on the head.

“My son is a bad boy,” she said to Fatima, who looked up at her with big eyes. “But we have to love him anyway.”

She eased the car through traffic to the curb in front of a restaurant.

“Mr. Hassan has a bag of onions for us,” she said.

Abdul got out of the car. The onions would be chopped up by the widows living in his house, added to other donated food and made into cheap meals for a few of Baghdad's hungry.

“We won't get rich,” his mother often said, “but we're staying alive. In Iraq today, that is a victory.”

Abdul got the onions and discreetly checked them to make sure they weren't rotten. He was effusive in his praise for Mr. Hassan's generosity.

“Everyone will give more when they feel appreciated,” his mother often said.

It worked with Mr. Hassan. He added a bag of hard lemon candies.

“To make the children happy,” he said.

Abdul thanked him again and left when he saw that no other treats were being offered. He put the onions into the back of the car and climbed into the front seat.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said to Fatima. He handed her a candy. She smiled.

“Mr. Hassan said the candy would make the children happy,” Abdul told his mother.

“If only that's all it took,” his mother replied. She checked the road, then drove away from the curb.

They had not gone very far when they were stopped by a car driving across the road in front of them. Abdul's mother leaned on the car horn but the car in front didn't move.

Another car pulled up close to Abdul's door, so close that his door could not open. The men inside were staring at him.

“Mama…”

His mother tried to turn the car to get them out of there, but she was stopped by a car that pulled up on her side.

She threw the car into reverse and stepped on the gas, smashing into the car that was now tight in behind them.

Two men in black ski masks came out of the car by his mother's side. They each held a machine gun. They pointed their guns at Abdul's mother.

“Only whores drive!” one of the men shouted.

Then they opened fire.

Abdul flung himself down on the seat, over top of Fatima. He clawed the air, trying to grab his mother to pull her down out of the range of the bullets.

There was shattered glass everywhere. The guns were loud and seemed to go on and on.

And then there was silence. The guns stopped shooting. Abdul heard car doors slam, tires squeal and cars drive away.

“Mama? Mama!”

His mother's face was a mass of blood and pulp.

Little Fatima, leaning against his mother, was silent and still. There was a bullet hole in her head.

Abdul began to scream. He screamed and screamed and tried to shake his mother back to life.

His car door opened and hands reached for him. He fought them off but they pulled him out anyway and dragged him onto the sidewalk.

Abdul was blind with fear and sorrow. He curled up into a ball and cried. He felt himself being lifted gently and held by a stranger whose arms wrapped around him and held him close.

He cried and cried.

When he finally stopped crying long enough to look at who was holding him, he realized it was a boy not much older than himself.

“I'm Kalil,” the boy said. “Cry all you want. My mother is dead, too.”