The Ziffer was famous. He had escaped from a Russian prison in the heart of Russia. His prison, called “Hell” was surrounded by forest. The forest was larger than all of Germany and the temperature in winter would drop to -11 Celsius. The nearest city was over 7 miles away. Word had it that The Ziffer had simply walked out after killing two guards. This is how he got his name - “the unhuman one”. He lived for a while in Prague and Warsaw doing business for the drug lords. They called him nelidské, in polish nieludzki, but most called him Ziffer, which could have come from Czech or polish and meant , in effect, animal. He knew that Germans thought his name meant “Number.” It was not so.
He was the non-human. Ne chelovek in Russian, and they called him nechel. There are only murderers in Hell . And the guards are as hard or harder than the prisoners. In fact most of the guards are prisoners from other prisons, trading a shorter sentence with the possibility of life and freedom for guard-duty in Hell. It was freezing in Hell. Frozen, stone walls. No heating. Just woollen blankets. Frost on the inside when you woke up in the morning. The guards check everything. Maybe the few visitors have sneaked something in. The prisoners don’t be cheeky, or give lip. In here the guard is king. You cross a guard and it is not good. Better you stay quiet in your tiny cell. Walk back and forwards. Hardly room to turn . Everywhere the sound of metal. Chains and keys. Here the prisoners prefer solitary. If you are in for life you don’t care how many more you kill. It makes no difference. After the punishment. And after a while you don’t care about that. You know you will survive. Solitary is safer. Nobody will try to kill you when you are in there. Everyone tries to get into solitary. Most succeed. Most have not seen or spoken to another human being in years. Most are not human any more.
Everyone has tattoos. Animals and knives. Male symbols of strength. A man with no tattoos has not lived. A man with no tattoos is not to be feared. Unless you were him. The one with no tattoos. The Ziffer. Everyone was scared of him. If not, you were dead.
Sometimes The Ziffer remembered the small exercise yard. Eight foot tall walls going up the yard. He would walk back and forwards in the basement. Back and forward. Once per week - a 30 minute walk in the park. Guards watched from up top. Guards watched through cameras, every moment of every day in your cell. Dogs barked all night. There was no escape. Until the night he walked free.
The Ziffer had a beautiful mind. He was extremely intelligent and knew the secret. The secret of quantum physics. He knew that he could make his universe, control it. Of course, he knew that all the prison guards were just as dumb as most of the prisoners.
The only thing he did not want to know was that he must also be dumb. To be there in the first case. That is, until he decided not to be.
For those not yet in solitary there are a maximum of 2 prisoners per cell. That way everyone knows who killed who. If your cellmate is dead it can only be you.
The Ziffer escaped by luck and chance. He had seen one day how the heavy snow had bent a branch near to the wall. He had watched the tree grow over the years. Had watched the branch grow longer. He wondered if they would cut it. But is seemed as if nobody noticed. The tree had become part of the landscape. But he had noticed, and wondered. He watched as it flowered in spring and froze in winter. Longer each year.
So he had made a rope out of parts of his clothes. He wore the rope always. Wrapped it around his body as it grew in length. It helped to keep him warm and protect his body from blows from the guards.
He had struck late at night. He had feigned illness and was taken to the infirmary.
Soap had him foaming at the mouth. Acting crazy was easy. They were all crazy here.
It was so simple. He killed his guards, ran to the outside to the wall, threw up the rope and pulled down the branch. It did not quite reach but a few jumps and he had his hands around the branch. Freezing snow. Pulling himself up was easy. He was strong. Five minutes later he was 200 yards away from the prison. Heavy snow covered his tracks. Seven miles to the nearest town. He would do it this night and hide on an early freight-train going to the border. There he would disappear. They would never find him and he would never go back there.
During daylight in Hell there is no lying down. He got on his train by smashing the frozen lock with a stone. Climbed into the wagon and then he just lay down, a bottle of vodka in his hand. Another unknown Russian drunk who had stolen a bottle of vodka from another Russian drunk.
Djamila was in Sana’a, in Yemen. She knew that sooner or later Ax would turn up and she knew more or less where he would go. She would be waiting for him. That had been her plan and now she was was watching TV in a coffee shop.She was sitting outside, in the woman’s area, but she could still see the T.V.
Arab T.V in certain places was not like American T.V where they shat, farted, swore, fucked and killed yet blacked out the nipple of a T.V star having a “slip-up.”
In places like this, in Sana’a, they showed you what was. The way it was. The western girl was nailed to a table. Her legs were spread wide, as were her arms. She was nailed wide apart. Blood pooled beneath the nails. She was naked, blood was streaming from her ankles and wrists. Ten men, was it ten? Were raping her. Brutally. They took turns. The camera showed the men from the back the girl from the feet up. Only the girl’s face was visible, not the faces of the rapists. But the girl, her cunt was there for all to see. By the time the men were finished with their raping, including sticking iron bars up inside the girl she was bleeding freely. All was captured on film.
Djamila was disgusted. This, this shit had nothing to do with Islam. She had heard the woman scream. “Ax, Ax, kill them!!” She had heard the screams die into sobs. She had heard the sobs die into whimpers. And had had heard the whimpers die into silence. This was not the work of her prophet, she thought. Those men did not deserve to be called people. This had nothing to do with Allah. She had heard the stories, all the stories growing up. All the stories of all the women. The women who talked with other women. Never with men. Talking about their own rapes. Brothers, uncles, even in some cases sons who had the “right” under Sharia to take whatever they wanted from women. Any woman. After all, had not Mohamed, their prophet, put women on earth to satisfy men?
Djamila’s eyes filled with tears and her heart filled with hate. How could this man, this Rainbow man, see this and not want to kill every Arab he met? She shook her head. She shook the tears left and right. No, No! she screamed silently to herself. No. This, this, was not right. She had shot this woman, yes. It was supposed to bring the man to them. But watching this video she realized one thing. They did not care. And she had shot the woman. This woman now nailed to a table. She was being raped and abused by fellow Arabs. And why? Why? Why? She let her head fall into her hands and she wept and wept, for what had she done.
Then she saw the face. The face that struck terror into anyone who knew it. It was the face of The Ziffer. She knew this man. Or knew of him. Bakr Nadir had hired him as a personal bodyguard. This was part of the reason why Bakr Nadir was still free. Nobody dared to challenge The Ziffer. They called him the “un-human-one.” A monster among monsters. Suddenly she knew - if the American, Ax, was going up against Bakr Nadir and The Ziffer he would lose. It was that simple. She wiped her tears, picked up her bag and walked out of the village. She must find Ax.
The bus left Dubai heading for Muscat in Oman . It was run by the Oman National Transport Co. And it was half full. They had not seen Ax at the airport but they had found out that he had booked tickets on the Dubai to Muscat bus. It was hot and sticky. The air-conditioning was either broken or not working very well. When the bus broke down the American swore under his breath. “Sir’s, we will take a nice break in the sunshine for you! The replacement bus will arrive in a few hours. Please, make yourselves comfortable and do not go too far from the bus. Please if you remain in sight at all times. Soon I shall serve you some mint-tea to keep you fresh!“ The American took out his mobile phone. He had to try to call central again. Ax was not on the bus. Something was far, far wrong. He had tried several times already and there was still no signal. Angrily he stomped his way through the sand and camel shit to the bus driver. “Do you have a phone, please? I need, really need to make a call,” The voice sounded like it was used to giving orders. “So, sorry, Sir, smiled the driver. Out here, no signal, but be assured, you can phone when we get to Muscadet!” The driver noted how the American was sweating. He looked nervous, irritated. He smiled, what did the American think! They were in the middle of the desert! “Fuck, fuck fuck, “ said the American as he turned and stomped off.
This would be the dangerous part. The Americans, as usual, where here with a huge military presence, even if it was more or less “hidden.” USCOMSET and AFRICOM, in one or other guise, would be patrolling the Red Sea. If Ax was caught he would have an awful lot of explaining to do. Probably he would end up in an American-Rendered-Hell-Hole in Morocco and would disappear from the earth like so many others. This made him worried, more worried than the crossing itself. Normally the crossing would be easy, after all, the Arabs had been doing it their little Dhow for centuries. But Ax knew, if he ran into a US patrol boat and they decided to take him it would all be over. If they did not shoot first and ask questions later then he would wish that they had. Everyone knew this. Americans answered to no-one ,and nobody would ever find out about it, anyway. Justice and fairness played no role here. What the Americans said, went, and they killed with impunity. This he knew. He would plan very carefully. He would have to. He would become an Arab fisherman.
There was, however, one advantage and that was the war plans of Saudi Arabia. The Saudis were bombing Yemen daily with American bought bombs but it was mostly over the border, in the north of Yemen. Ax would cross in the far south where the huge tankers entered and exited the Red Sea. American patrol boats safeguarded the oil transport. The Saudis had bought billions of dollars worth of weapons, planes, rockets, drones, from the British and Americans. They bombed daily across the border into Yemen. Many fishermen around the area of Al Hudaydah had lost their boats and therefore their livelihood. Ordinary Yemenis were being massacred every day yet Britain and America continued to supply nearly all of the weapons to Saudi Arabia. That and American drone information. Ax wondered if anyone, looking at a map of the area, could think that the Saudis had a long term plan: of which America was surely a part. Bomb Yemen to pieces using Predator Drones, then move in and extend Saudi Arabia to the Gulf of Aden. One could only imagine the tax levies they would implement for tankers to use “their” territory. America would, of course, be guaranteed a lions share of the oil. Black for Bombs.
It had been tried before but no one had ever succeeded. But with British and American bombs everything was possible. To Ax, it seemed logical. The Saudis were afraid of Shia Islam. If the rebels in Yemen succeeded then Saudi Arabia would have an openly hostile neighbour to the south. Better to invade and take it over once and for all. They had a blockade in place for years. Women and children were dying every day. In time this would decimate the population allowing the takeover. Ax knew this would protect him from some of the terrorists. The Bedouin for the most part kept out of the wars, despite being killed by American and British drones. They would be sympathetic to a stranger crossing their land and fighting the Americans and British.
Ax knew the sea lanes in the Red Sea would be busy. This route had been used since the days of the Phoenicians but now was home to huge oil tankers. It was not uncommon to see a huge oil tanker well over a thousand feet long sailing next to a dhow searching for fish as the Arabs had been doing for centuries in these waters. But Ax knew the American navy would be not far away, observing, looking for anything suspicious, arresting, rendering, taking lives. Killing for oil. What Americans did these days.
The good thing, Ax knew, is that the sea lanes were narrow. There would be almost no large traffic until he got to the centre of the Red Sea. Further up there would be ferries going across to and from Saudi Arabia carrying pilgrims to and from Mecca. Jeddah would be busy, but Ax was not going up that far, where traffic was more or less controlled. The huge tankers took miles to stop and so they were forced to keep their distance from one another. They would be slow going in and out of the Red Sea channel. This was good for Ax and he would easily be able to slip over between tankers. No. The tankers were not his problem. The American Navel ships, were, however. He would go at night, in a Dhow, with the usual small lantern for light, signalling to the navy that he was a simple Arab fisherman. He would spend a day and a night fishing in advance of his crossing. The Americans would see him, maybe even check him out. They would find nothing and become used to him very, very quickly. He was only an Arab fisherman, after all, a rag-head looking for fish.
He would have about twenty miles to cross at it’s closest point between Djibouti and Yemen allowing for drift and currents. Perim island divided the strait into two shipping lanes. On the eastern side was Bab Iskender, Alexander’s Strait. It is 2 miles wide. On the western side he had to cross the larger Dact-el-Mayun, about 16 miles across. He knew it would take longer than planned as there is a surface current flowing inward on the eastern lane but a strong outward undercurrent that would drag him out in the western lane if he got caught, so, he would be careful.
As Ax planned out his route he thought of the long history of this Red Sea. One thousand two hundred miles of water bordering Saudi Arabia and Yemen on the east and from the Suez canal Egypt, Ethiopia and Sudan on the west. Even the Queen of Sheba had come from Ethiopia and used the Red Sea as a trading route. But Ax would not be trading - he would be bringing death.
Ax asked the driver to stop. They were approaching Moulhoulé. "But, Sir, there is nothing here!” said the driver. “I know,” said Ax, “it is perfect for my photographs. The night birds, you see?” The driver said nothing. He pulled in to the side of the road and watched his passenger get out. “Good bye, and thank you!”, said Ax. “May Allah watch over you, Sir,” said the driver through the window as he drove off. “Stupid American,” he thought. This was not a safe place for an American to be walking around alone at night. Ax could see the sea in the distance to his right. It was maybe a mile, he thought. This is where he would need to be very, very careful. These Arabs did not see foreigners. Ever. Ax turned and started to walk across the dunes to the sea. He had timed his journey perfectly. It was getting very dark, but he could see the lights of Perim Island across the short distance of the Red Sea. Behind that was Yemen. He would do his journey in two stages, perhaps, with a short stop in Perim Island if he had to. Ax could see the boats on the sand as he approached. Lying on their sides. Twenty minutes later he was in the sea. He had no lights. This was the shortest distance between the two mainlands and previously had been a much overused smuggling route. These days it was too heavily patrolled. Almost no one in their right mind would try to smuggle anything across here these days. Before is was bad, with American army boats protecting oil tankers, but these days there were pirates, too. Ax had stolen a fishing boat, and dressed in his Arab clothing he flung out his nets and started to fish. If they were watching him with infrared they would see only a fisherman. It was twelve miles across. Ax reckoned it would be around eight or nine miles to Perim Island, and he would be arriving in total darkness. Nobody would see him. If he was stopped on the first part, he was a fisherman from Moulhoulé, if he was stopped on the second half, he was a fisherman from the mainland, Yemen. In both cases he was a grieving father who had just lost his baby. They would make the correct noises and leave him alone.
The best thing was that this sea route was one of the busiest in the area, and one of the most important. The patrol boats these days did not normally sail here. It was just too dangerous. It was all too easy for one of their small patrol boats to capsize in the wake of a huge tanker making it’s way up or down the Red Sea. Only the local fishermen knew how to avoid these huge tankers in their tiny, but highly manoeuvrable Dhow.
He would fish his way around the almost uninhabited west of the island and sail back down to the mainland of Yemen.
Ax was alone in his boat. He knew the God’s were on his side.
Ax had studied the sea-maps. Tankers going up first would be on his right. Tankers coming down would be on his left. In the middle there was a safe zone that no ship was supposed to enter. Unless injured. Ax knew that Perim Island had American radars. He also knew that the radars had been taught to ignore the footprint of a Dhow. There were just too many. The greatest danger would be from the huge tankers going up and down the sea-lanes. They needed miles to stop and would certainly not stop for a simple Arab boat. He would have to be quick.
It all went very well until he left the safe-zone. He had spent an hour there, watching the stars and the huge tankers glide past. Silent until the rear engine came past. Huge. Impersonal hulks carrying goods from China made for the American and European markets. If only they knew, thought Ax.
He thought he had judged it well. He set sail immediately after a huge Chinese tanker passed,. His Dhow bobbing up and down wildly in the wake. Then he set off. Quickly so as to avoid the next tanker. And then, right there, what could not be, was. Another huge tanker bearing down on him, right behind the first. Perhaps they were a team? He laughed madly at his own joke. Like a bad driver on the roads, an arse-hugging fucker, he thought! It did not change the situation. He had to get out of there and get out fast. The only question was forward or retreat into the safe-lane again. Ax made a decision and powered up his small boat. The way he figured it any noise from his engine would be covered by the noise of the tanker. If he could only make it past in time. Some of these tankers could be nearly a quarter of a mile wide. It might not seem much on paper but on a tiny Arab Dhow and trying to get out of it’s way the thing was fucking huge. His motor coughed into life and he took off. The way he figured it was this. If he avoided the tanker he would be past. If he got hit, well, he would not be hit because the swell coming off the tanker would move him around. It would just be very, very touch and go if he sank or not due to the high waves. So, fuck it. He gunned his little engine and took off.
Five minutes later and Ax was sure he was going down. The huge tanker was upon him. So close he could not even see the top. And then he was past. Just like that. It’s wake pulled him back and down but his little engine kept going and going and slowly he pulled away to safety.
And he had seen a great many going in both directions. Perim Island had recently been taken back from the ISIS fighters but still he chose to sail around the west side where there was mostly just sand. From there the currents and wind took his Dhow down in the direction of Al Bahiyah. Ax looked at the vast expanse of sand, pure desert. There was nothing here. Nothing grew. Nothing lived, except the people. If you talked to them you found they understood English and German. A sad testament to the world, he thought. They lived from fishing. Which is why they fished. Fish lived. The fish gave life. Not for the first time Ax asked himself how “man” could live in places like this, places with no radio, no T.V. Just the wind, sun and rain, day and night, hot and cold. And barring the seasons every day the same. Did they think of why? Why they were alive? Who, if anyone, had made them? Was a blind belief in Allah the raison d’etre for them all? Surly not. Surly there were those who listened to the land, listened to the sea. Saw the rhythms in the stars as their ancestors had done. People like these, strong and sure of their lives surly had no need for a far away God, he thought. He shook these thoughts out of his head and made a decision. He would stay in the Dhow and let the current float him down until he was nearly in Aden. From there he could be an American tourist again. He would hire a camel for the last part of his journey. He looked far into the desert. “Lucy, I am coming,” he said.
Of course, chance had changed his mind. He had come ashore much sooner, and , he decided, it was good so. Ax was walking. It was hot and dry and sand filled his shoes but there was nothing he could do about that. He had been avoiding villages since arriving but he needed water and had taken the small detour into the village below. It was more a collection of huts in the sand. He heard a cry and thought it must be a goat before before he saw what was happening. A man was beating a little girl with a stick. She was tiny, and could not have been more than 9 or 10 years old. She was about the same age, perhaps a little older than the child he had killed. He could not just stand there and let the man beat her. He was laying into her with a stick and her screams broke his heart. The little girl was lying curled up in the sand, dust flying off the cheap cloth of her clothes with every hit. He thought back to a day many years ago, in Glasgow. Three guys and four girls giving one little girl a hard time. A girl despite the age difference, probably not unlike this one. Then he thought of Jade, and then he thought of Cookie.
He could not let this little girl down, as he had let his Jade down. Ax had felt for years it was all his fault. He had been in a bar when Jade was being tied to a table. It was all his fault. Not this time. Not this time, he thought as he moved towards the girl.
So he knew he would tell this big Arab fucker to stop beating that little girl with his big, bad stick. What was it about these men, he thought, that made them feel strong to beat up on little girls? Ax could not let it happen. He walked up to the man, grabbed the stick as he raised it to strike again, and threw it as far as he could. The man frowned, then without apparently without thinking took a wild swipe at Ax. Ax sidestepped easily and rammed a balled fist straight into the man’s nose. It immediately started to bleed as the man fell backward into the dust. Ax did not speak. His eyes captured those of the man then he pointed at the girl, then at the man. He shook his head pointing back and forth between himself and the man. The meaning was very clear. Leave the girl alone or you deal with me. The man struggled to his feet, wiping he face with his sleeve leaving red lines on the white cotton. Then he actually bowed to Ax. Ax walked over to the little girl and picked her up. She had very blue eyes. “Allahu Akbar,” he said quietly, smiling. Then he put her down very gently. He turned “Maa’,” water, and looked at the crowd that had gathered. An old lady came forward with a cup. Ax took the cup and held it out to the girl without saying a word. Her big blue eyes looked at him, full of intelligence and sadness as she took the cup. Ax took one last, hard look at the man, and walked off.
Nobody said anything. The square had become strangely quiet. Nobody followed the strange man as he walked slowly away. There was something about him. There was one man, however, that nobody noticed that he was missing. He was in the café making a phone-call.
Since crossing the Mandeb Strait Ax had been “lost”. His intention had been to sail down past Aden to mix in before walking back up, but the currents had taken him much further east. He arrived on a beach with sand so white it was blinding. Old tanks lay rusting in the salty air and blinding sunlight as he quickly climbed into the mountains.
He called Ethan on his cell. “Where,” he said.
“Taizz, near Taizz” said Ethan. It was all he said before hanging up.
Ax passed Dhubab, then walked to Mocha. Ax called Ethan again and found out that were holding Lucy in a camp outside of Taizz. When he passed Mocha he knew he must slow down. He was dressed as an Arab, and no Arab hurried in the heat. It would take him a day to walk to Taizz, avoiding the road used by Al Qaeda and rebel forces. He would be slow, but he would get there. Soon.
And then the storm arrived.
The air had changed. Electric. Ax had been feeling it for the last two hours, at least. When he saw the first flash and heard the first rumble he swore. “Fuck, Fuck, Fuck,” he shouted. This was the last thing he needed. And then he saw the lights. A Bedouin camp. Buildings. Trees. Within minutes the stillness had turned into madness. Sand tore at his face, his eyes, he wrapped his Keffiyeh across his face to protect himself, to shield his eyes against the driving rain and sand. He had no choice, he would have to ask the Bedouin camp for hospitality, which they could not, would not refuse, it was the Arab way to offer hospitality to a stranger, any stranger. And so it was that Ax walked by his own accord into the most dangerous camp he could of chosen.
Djamila was waiting for him.
To any westerner she would be a rich, Arab tourist. To the Bedouin she was an Arab woman travelling to her husband and as such would be given every hospitality and left in peace.
There was relative calm in the camp. His arrival on foot had caused consternation. Is Sir American, they had asked? Please, welcome, have some tea. We are poor Bedouin, but we can share what Allah has given us. Please. Rest. The Bedouin immediately started sharing strong black tea, with mint, and then came a bottle of Arak. There was a girl there, a woman. She has been watching him. Ax was not surprised to hear them speaking very good English, and knew that many would also speak German. The strange woman served him strong, black, sweet tea. They spoke to her in Arabic. She wore the traditional garb and her face was totally covered but Ax would forever remember her eyes. Dark, almost black, burning with an unfathomable intelligence, he thought. She poured his tea with a control that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. She had long, thin fingers, the wrists covered in tattoos. “Who is that?” he asked an old man. They were seated around a small fire in the middle of the tent, shielded from the wind and driving rain outside. She is a guest, Sir. An Arab. And like you she seeks shelter from the storm. “She has - beautiful - eyes.” “We Bedouin do not concern ourselves with such things, unless it is the eyes of our camels,of course,” smiled the old man. “A pretty woman is very soon an old woman. A camel lasts much longer, and when you are alone and starving in the desert she can seem most beautiful!” he said. The old man turned and walked away and again Ax was struck by the simplicity of thinking. The Arab guest woman was hovering in the background. There was something about her, he thought. He did not know how right he was. Soon. Hours later he was lost in a bottle of Arak. The sandstorm raging around him blowing sand into his tent. He thought about why he was here. Was it for Lucy? Really? It was not for Lucy. He knew Lucy was dead. He also knew he should not think such things because thinking them would make them true, but he knew in his heart that she was dead. No, he was here for himself. For revenge. There was no such thing as heroism in Ax’s world. That was stupidity as far as he was concerned. Being tortured for information you would give up anyway? When the pain became too much to bear? There was no reason for this, unless is was to spare a few hours for an attack or some concrete plan. Otherwise? Why die? For “honour?” There was no such thing. This was a T.V world. If you were tortured and killed then you were dead. Where was the honour in that? And being tortured to save others? They would die anyway. You lost, they lost. There was no point. He took another long swig of yellow Arak from the bottle. He needed to piss and went outside. A camel looked at him sideways, huge eye-lashes half-closed in the wind. Ax said hello to the camel as he pissed in the wind. Back in his tent he lay down and continued drinking. Ax was in his memories with a new bottle of Arak and a large bottle of water. He had no mind to be careful. He was an assassin. He would do what he did. Lucy was probably dead. He knew this. Even if he did not want to think it. That is why he had to balance the books. People had to die. They had taken his woman. People had to die. People would die. Ax looked back across the ocean he had just crossed. He looked past the sands of time and saw himself in the same place he had started in. Had nothing really changed? He saw the dead bodies in his mind. The people he had killed and the people he would kill. But this, it was not his fault. It was theirs. They had made this happen. There was no turning back. Not now, not ever. People were going to die. He was a day away. A day of mountains and more desert, but at least his eyes stayed open. On the sea the air was so salty his eyes had closed up. He closed them again now, taking another swig of Arak as the memories came flooding back. Ax knew then what the point was. Memories.
He was 25 when they “took” him. They had lured him to follow with the promise of more, yellow Cocaine. Ax knew, that pure Cocaine was not white as they said in the movies, it was yellow. The best stuff smelled of Roses. He had been protecting some people, watching over them. And they had become suspicious. Nobody could do what Ax was doing? He must be working for someone? Sometimes Ax would just look at a coin machine and that fucking machine would just spit out money. They had told him to stop, but, Ax couldn’t stop. He just looked, and stuff happened.
Ax had gone with Rollo. They had arrived, by car, at the house of A. A must remain nameless. A introduced Ax to his wife, his children. “I am happy to invite you to my house, “ he shared in broken English, not his native Columbian Spanish. “We made you vegetables, later we hope, we hope you will play for us,“ he said, smiling, the meaning very clear - you are going to play for us. Ax wondered about the we made you vegetables - the whole USA?
Through the passing of the night Ax learned that A was the, THE man, when it came to exporting/importin