Her Eyes Were
Filled With Tears
a novel by
Frederick Harrison
Copyright 2010 by
Frederick Harrison
Jamal Free was
nervous as he prepared to go aft to board the
helicopter that would take him into Mogadishu for a
long anticipated meeting with the internationally
recognized President of Somalia, who rarely left his
fortified compound, principally because he had
little reason to do so. The call to Jamal Free for
a meeting with President Ahmad Bashir was a
significant development, inasmuch as it meant
acceptance of his status as a player in the civil
war gripping Somalia. It also signified that his
strategy for organizing and conducting military
operations was achieving success and could no longer
be ignored by his opponents. However, as he
prepared to enter this new phase of his campaign for
a new Somalia, Free was experiencing the same
feelings of dread that had overtaken him after the
abortive attack on his limousine in Sana’a.
Awareness of his greatly increased visibility
unnerved him, as much because it was contrary to his
nature as it was due to fear of newly inspired
enemies. He did not wish to be the one going to
confront the President of Somalia or anyone else,
for that matter. In his fantasies of success, he
stayed aboard the Spear of Islam, armed with
nothing more than a laptop computer and a satellite
mobile phone, leading his forces from afar by astute
management and patriotic inspiration. He strongly
resented the increasing number of journalists, none
of whom he had ever met, who referred to him as
Jamal Free, the pirate warlord.
Hannah Crossman
walked with Free to the ship’s helicopter platform,
noting his visible nervousness. Brian Vanowen was
waiting to accompany him, dressed in khakis with
Free’s Spear of Islam device on his shirt collar.
Hannah would remain behind, her cover as a
journalist too fragile to be risked. In addition,
Admiral Bergen had once again forbidden Hannah to go
ashore in Somalia.
The helicopter
could take its passengers only to a former parking
lot on the city’s waterfront, approaching low over
the water to avoid providing a fat target for
snipers hidden in the buildings. A convoy of
vehicles, including three identical armored cars,
waited to carry the visitors to their destination,
part of a shell game of sorts designed to discourage
would be attackers by requiring them to guess which
of the vehicles held their high value target. The
convoy proceeded slowly through the littered
streets, guarded at some intersections by militiamen
carrying Kalashnikovs who saluted perfunctorily as
the vehicles passed. Leaving the waterfront, the
air grew noticeably hotter, although it was still
only ten in the morning, and dust filtered through
the open gunports of the armored cars. Just as
the temperature inside became unbearable, the
vehicles zigged and zagged around concrete barriers
and passed through the security gates of Villa
Somalia, the Presidential compound. An aide met
Free at the door to the palace and escorted the
party through the building to the presidential
offices, which proved to be the only rooms that were
air conditioned. There were already ten people
present, sitting quietly staring at one another,
when Free and Vanowen were shown in. President
Bashir signaled an aide to make introductions, since
he apparently had no idea who some of the attendees
were or what they represented. Judging by their
reaction, or lack thereof, the young man got it
right, his job and perhaps his life depending on
it. Except for the President’s two deputies, all
present were leaders or senior members of the most
extreme factions struggling for control of Somalia
or at least to prevent any of their rivals from
gaining control. They had come principally for
the opportunity to get a look at the upstart Jamal
Free. The latter had expected to meet President
Bashir alone.
“I
have asked you here to meet Jamal Free, a new member
of our society,” Bashir began. Only two of those
present found his words humorous or ironic enough to
exhibit even a half smile.
“You
have all had recent encounters with his fighters on
the streets of Mogadishu (nod to Vanowen), and I
considered it useful that we meet with him to hear
his plans and objectives.” As all in the room
focused their eyes and attention on Jamal Free, he
felt once again in his gut the thrust of fear.
“This
is a very great surprise, gentlemen,” Free
responded. “I had expected to meet only with
President Bashir. I have been wondering whether
it would be possible somehow for all of us to meet
to discuss our mutual situation and relationships,
that we might find ways to avoid needless killing
and waste of resources.”
For a
long moment there was dead silence, as though Free’s
listeners had not anticipated his ability to
speak. Finally, one responded in a surprised and
insulted tone:
“Why
should you think that we would wish to deal with
you? You are not one of us just because you were
born in our country. The wealth you bring is
obtained from crimes forbidden by God. You claim
to dedicate your efforts and money to creation of a
new Islamic Somalia, but you are not a pious man.
The imams speak against you in the mosques, and we
are told that you are a tool of the American CIA.
I myself have heard that you have a beautiful woman
sent by the CIA living with you on your ship.”
There
was a general muttering of agreement in the room as
the speaker (Free could not remember his or the
others’ names) recited his objections, tinged
certainly with envy at the end. However, Jamal
Free was now angry, and had forgotten his fear. He
stood up and turned to face the others, who no doubt
noticed that he was at least six inches taller (and
much leaner) than they were.
“If
what we are fighting with one another about is the
honor of speaking for God, I shall withdraw. I am
not interested in speaking for God. All of you
seem to believe that what our country needs is
someone to bring its people the true word of God,
after which all will be well. But, I must tell you
that, by the time that happens, all of them are
likely to be dead. There is an old saying that
God helps those who help themselves. We are
supposed to be helping our people help themselves to
build more peaceful and prosperous lives. Instead,
you are trying only to teach them, at their expense,
to worship God as you would have them do it. And,
because you cannot agree among yourselves who would
do that best, the people suffer even more while you
destroy their homes and kill their children fighting
over it.”
The
muttering from Free’s audience was now anger and
growing stronger. Brian Vanowen reached
surreptitiously to remove the safety from the pistol
at the small of his back, but he knew that everyone
else in the room, except Jamal Free, also had
weapons. He did not understand Somali and could
only guess what was happening, but the situation
appeared to be deteriorating into a shootout.
Free, however, appeared oblivious of the danger.
“You
have perhaps wondered, as you should, why my
fighters have been so successful and why their
numbers are increasing so rapidly. It is true that
part of it is due to my providing them the best and
latest equipment, as well as competent military
advisors, such as Mr. Vanowen here.” Brian smiled
at the mention of his name, but didn’t care for the
way the others then looked at him.
“But,
the principal reason they are winning is that they
realize they are fighting for themselves and their
families and not for what someone thinks that God
wants. The people are tired of being told that God
wants them to be poor, to mistreat their women, and
to chop off the hands or legs of their brothers and
sisters accused of straying even slightly from the
path of true righteousness.”
At
this point, the mutterings of anger became shouts,
and the President’s guards standing against the
walls looked to their weapons. Jamal Free,
seemingly unperturbed, turned to President Bashir.
“Please understand, Mr. President, that I am not
seeking to replace these gentlemen or their
organizations. People are calling me a new
warlord, but I am not looking for power. Rather,
I am looking for a way to bring this endless civil
conflict to a close, and have become convinced that,
unfortunately, it cannot be done by negotiation.
One faction will need to be strong enough to defeat
and dominate the others and that, God willing, will
be mine. You and your government are the
legitimate secular authority in Somalia, and I am
willing to direct my organization’s efforts and
resources to your support, if we can reach an
understanding.”
Free’s
proposal caught President Bashir by surprise, as did
the explosive reaction of the other attendees. As
hands reached for pistols, he signaled the guards
who rushed forward to surround the unruly group.
At the same time, more guards with submachineguns
rushed into the room. The President himself
hustled Free and Vanowen out of the room and down to
the vehicle convoy waiting in front of the building.
“Goodbye, Mr. Free. We shall talk soon!”
The
line of vehicles began to move even before Vanowen
had shut the door of their armored car, and the
convoy raced toward the waterfront, this time with
sirens blaring. Thrown back against his seat,
Vanowen turned to Jamal Free:
“What
the hell was that all about?”
Her Eyes Were Filled With
Tears
Paperback - 298 Pages - $12.95
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