Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) Read Online Free Page B

and the terrorists and the soldiers. He had faced down the infidels and the corrupt and escaped intact, waiting for the day he could return safely and resume his work. Hundreds of pleas from pirates in chatrooms—"Please help us, Mr. Mohammed. We will give you sixty percent." "We are weary, two years on this ship. Please come and give us our freedom!" "We need you! We pray every day for your wisdom!" And on and on.
    Adem could only hold back for so long. A few months, but then no longer. While there were plenty of frauds out there purporting to be the "real" Mr. Mohammed, the fans always found them out, debunked them. Adem created a handle—"MrMohammedWaits"—and said he had been contacted by the great man himself, who had authorized him to consider some of these requests in turn for information about his former assistant, Sufia.
    No one believed him. They bombarded him with questions.
    Every one of which he answered correctly.
    It was then he began to save his money and rethink his future.
    *
    H e de-planed in Sana'a, Yemen's capital, and was surprised to find the mood to be business-as-usual all around. He'd heard that protests and government pushbacks had everyone tense, fearing a possible airport shutdown. Adem wouldn't have known from what he was seeing. The shops were open, the lights on, and plenty of businessmen, both in western suits and Arab bishts and keffye , engaged in casual conversations. Or reading newspapers. Or checking their phones for emails and texts. Echoing announcements. Adem had to adjust his ear. He'd kept up his Arabic much better recently, planning for this trip, but to have so much come at him at once knocked him off his game for a little while. Reading it was easier, and he found the signs pointing to the Exit. He was prepared for the heat this time, had changed clothes in Cairo, now wearing a long, white, thin shirt, lightweight pants, and sandals. He rolled his one barely-packed suitcase behind him. He remembered the last time, when his bags had been scavenged by young soldiers, eager for American brand-name sneakers and jeans while at the same time cursing the country they were most associated with.
    At the doors near baggage claim, a young Arab man waved at him. He wore a thin beard. Shorter than Adem, wearing similar clothes, a little darker shade, green. Online he called himself Hasan. He was the first, from all the chat rooms and forums Adem had combed through meticulously, that had a solid lead on Sufia. Described her affliction as Adem had remembered the last time he saw her—screaming at him, bleeding from the throat where her skin had been shredded in the acid attack, the way some of these soldiers punished "bossy" or "modern" women. Took away their faces, forced them to hide behind thick burkas.
    Hasan responded to Adem's call, the "girl with wire-rimmed glasses (he hoped she still wore them) and a jaw like a zombie." Yes, he had seen her. And yes, she was in Yemen. A half-blurred cell phone pic got Adem's hopes up, and he started planning the trip.
    They greeted each other with an embrace, smiles, everything the last trip had lacked. Hasan took the handle of Adem's bag and rolled it past the tinted glass doors into the sun, not as hot as it was in Somalia, but brighter, maybe. Adem slipped on a pair of sunglasses. Yes, much better prepared this time.
    Hasan was hyper, chirping and polite. He walked a few steps ahead of Adem, but always looked back, nodding, saying, "Yes, yes, good trip?" in English. "Yes, yes, so good, eh, to see you. Good flight?"
    "Fine, fine, thanks so much," back at him in English before Adem switched to Arabic. "My brother, please, you've been way too kind. Let me—"
    He reached for his bag, but Hasan pulled away, waved him off. "No no no no no. My guest. Please, my pleasure."
    They wheeled towards a dusty sports sedan, fine German engineering. Sharp reflective black beneath the dust. Hasan popped the trunk and loaded the bag. It was like they were college