Once they got a table, Maggie started in on the Chablis while John Rae demolished an order of Bo Nuong Ha, marinated beef grilled on skewers, which was as close to Bar-B-Q as he was going to get in a Vietnamese restaurant. While he ate Maggie brought him up to speed on Bellard.
“How do you say someone is a complete and utter asswipe in French?” he asked, taking a slug of Saigon Special beer.
“Did Ed call you?”
“He did. I knew you weren’t going to get much cooperation. I tried to warn you. When you called me from SF.”
“You did, but I’m curious: how did you know?”
“That’s for me to know and you to ponder.”
He wasn’t going to tell. “So why the change of heart, JR?” She sipped wine while the pop music played and clubbers took a break to refuel. A noisy table of eight had just left so the restaurant was lively but not insane. “I thought you were a no-go on Abraqa.”
“I guess I really don’t want to see you back in a cell, even if you did leave me in a cab. And Bellard is on the verge of doing just that if his punks are harassing you on the street multiple times per day.”
“But isn’t Walder going to be upset?”
“Walder trusts me to run with certain things. Truth is, if I can help you pull off a quick win with Abraqa, let’s just say he’s not going to turn his nose up at free intel and brownie points. And Walder, for all his faults, does not like his people pushed around. Even you. And, besides, Senator Brahms finally came through.”
Relief. She made a mental note to kiss her father next time she saw him, for pushing Brahms. “So that must have helped sway Walder’s mind.”
“That’s why I’m here.” John Rae raised his beer. “Maybe we get some juicy intel. Maybe you break Abraqa Darknet. And . . .” He drank. “. . . maybe you keep your butt out of a French jail. I hear they have Turkish toilets. Is that true?”
“Just stainless steel,” she said. “But no seats. Helps build quads.”
“Barbaric.”
“I figure we’ve got a couple of days to nab Kafka.”
“If it hasn’t happened by then, he’ll be gone and you’ll be going home.”
She was feeling giddy. Not just because of the wine, but because it looked like a visible course of action again. And, well, John Rae.
“There’s still Bellard to deal with,” she said.
“Right. But, unlike you, I have a rapport with him.”
“Even though you speak French like Popeye the Sailor?”
John Rae took another drink of beer. “Bellard and I worked together in Marseille two years ago. At the time it was Hamas. Now Hamas seem like sweet little granny ladies, compared to Jihad Nation.”
“Explain how Bellard is going to change his tune on letting me handle the communication on Abraqa,” she said.
“Bellard’s going to realize he can’t land Kafka on his own. I’m going to convince him. Ultimately, Bellard is a cop. That’s what SDAT are. Police. Busting heads is how they roll. Especially when jihadists are trying to blow up their city. If I were French—God forbid—I’d be pretty freakin’ annoyed right now too. He knows I get that. He’ll listen to me.”
“What it comes down to,” she said, “is that Bellard will listen to you. Another guy.”
“Bellard is sexist.”
“I forgot how progressive you are.”
John Rae smiled. “Maybe because it won’t be just you.” John Rae pointed the tip of his beer bottle at Maggie. “It’ll be you and me. And a couple of friends, if I need them.”
“Some of your off-the-books friends?” John Rae had a shadowy network of people he could call in. They worked for cash and they shunned paperwork. “Well,” she said, “all I can say is ‘thanks’.”
He took a drink of beer. “Maybe I just don’t like standing by while some girl gets all the glory.”
“You’re supposed to say ‘woman’ now, JR.”
“You are that.”
Their eyes met for a moment.
“I’m going to hit the little boys’ room,” John Rae said. “Then I’m going to call Bellard, leave him a voicemail, speaking slowly, so he can understand. Tell him I can deliver Kafka, but it comes with conditions. Number one is you handle bringing Kafka in.”
“What hotel are you staying at?”
John Rae gave a sheepish smile. “Do you think Madame Nguyen has an extra room?”
“So that’s what this is really all about. If all you wanted was to get into my pants, you could have just said so.”
“I thought the pants thing was a given.”
“The answer’s still ‘no’.”
John Rae sat back, drained his beer. “Story of my life.”
Truth was, they both knew it was better this way.
“I guess you’re sleeping on my floor then,” she said. “I’ll see if Madame Nguyen has an electric cattle prod I can borrow.”
But John Rae was an honorable guy in that department. It was a relief to have him on this op. He downplayed it all of course. That was just his way.
John Rae sat up, waived the empty beer bottle at the waiter for a fresh one.
“In that case,” Maggie said. “I think I’m going to have another glass of this kinky-poo Chablis.”
It was late when the two of them half-stumbled into Maggie’s room, where Maggie searched for the switch to the puffy pink bedside lamp. She found it and the room was bathed in soft light. She set Dara’s phone down on the nightstand.
John Rae, swaying an inch or two, eyed the white vinyl headboard with the chrome studs while Maggie stood back up. She was wavering a little too.
“Headboard reminds me of the Camaro I bought when I was sixteen,” John Rae said. “Drove it down to Tijuana and got it upholstered just like that.”
“Classy.” She kicked off her sneaks and twiddled her blue-nailed toes. That caught his eye.
Maggie winked, kneeled down in front of the minibar, clanking through bottles, having a little trouble reading the labels as the letters were moving around on her. “Would monsieur care for a nightcap?”
“Fuckin’ oui. Bourbon.”
She clanked. “Ixnay on the ourbonbay.”
“Otch-scay?”
She found a mini bottle of Johnnie Walker, stood up, catching her balance, twisted off the tiny cap, handed him the bottle. She uncapped a small Gordon’s gin for herself.
“To Abraqa,” John Rae said, holding up his little bottle.
His blue eyes met her brown ones. Current.
She raised her own bottle. They clinked, downed the contents. Maggie gave a small gasp at the shot.
She took his empty and set it on the dresser along with hers. Then she was back down on her hands and knees, searching through the fridge.
It was all John Rae could do not to eye her fine derriere in her well-fitting black yoga pants. He shook off the thought that came to him often enough. Mental cold shower.
She rose back up with another whiskey for him and a vodka for herself this time. “Hold these.” She turned, stumbled half a step, found the radio on the dresser, dialed in some smooth jazz, set the volume low. She came swerving back. Close. He could smell her. Some people smelled fantastic, even if they’d almost been jumped, been running around Paris all day and night. She was one of them. There was exactly one woman like her on the planet.
They touched bottles gently. Drank. Their eyes locked.
She gave a little breath again, an appreciative frown. “I think I like the vodka over the gin.”
“Hairdresser’s drinks.”
“Because you’re so macho.”
“Damn straight.”
“Were you staring at my butt?” Maggie asked, smiling with her eyes practically shut, head tilted back now.
“When?” he said in a stiff voice.
She gave a smirk. “Don’t pretend you don’t know when. Just now.”
“No,” he said, his pulse rate escalating.
“Yeah, you were.”
“Not at all.”
“Never?” She came up close, looking directly into his eyes. “You’ve never checked out my butt?”
He cleared his throat. “Only for professional reasons. I was covering. In case you fell over. You’ve been drinking. You were in a precarious position. I was worried about your safety.”
She set her bottle down on the dresser, put her hands on her hips. Her breasts jutted out. Good Lord. She wiggled her toes. “And what were you going to do if I came into harm’s way?”
He cleared his throat. “I was going to come to your assistance.”
She moved in closer, brushing against him, woozy, eyes closed. “I’m glad you were watching me, if only for my own safety.”
He could feel the heat coming off of her. Smell her sweet natural woman’s perfume.
So close to heaven.
“This would be your cue, JR,” she said.
“I’m probably an idiot for asking this, but, what about the guitar player?”
She gave him a sly squint. “Check out the shred of decency on JR. You think Sebi would do the same for you?”
“No,” John Rae said. “I couldn’t care less about him. I was just thinking about you. If he’s what you want, that’s none of my business.”
JR was old school.
“Sebi’s history,” she said. Her eyes got shiny.
She didn’t have to ask twice. His arms went around her, soft but firm, as if he’d done it a hundred times.
“In that case . . .” John Rae said.
They swayed, listening to Miles Davis.
She unbuttoned two buttons of his shirt, nuzzled his firm chest with her soft lips. She undid another button and put her warm, soft cheek on his bare chest. His heart was thumping away.
To Maggie, he glowed. He gave off a raw scent that went straight to her groin, filling it with blood and something else. He was still wearing his jacket. His heart was pounding right next to her face, strong and sure. She always knew he would be like this. She just never thought either one of them would find out.
They moved together to the music.
“Thanks,” she said, slurring the word.
“For what?” He nuzzled the top of her head, kissed her sweetly on her forehead. “Dancing like a white guy?”
“You know,” she whispered, her head on his chest, reaching down his shirt, unbuttoning the last button. He had a six-pack and a fine layer of hair that led down to his waistband. She unbuckled the belt, heard him gulp, his face in her hair, kissing the top of her ear, setting it on fire.
She got his zipper down. She reached for him.
“Wow,” she said, head on his chest.
“I have wanted you since the moment I first saw you,” he said in a husky voice.
“Shut up.” But she was getting wet.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t want to say another word, mess up the moment.
They danced while she fondled him.
“This is a one-time thing,” she said. “You know that, right, JR?” She honestly didn’t know what she wanted, just that, at this point, she’d keep things simple.
His head nodded on top of hers and he kissed her ear again, then her neck. His fingers were through her hair, brushing it back off her forehead.
They looked at each other in the dim pink light before a primal hunger pulled them back together like kissing magnet dolls. He pulled away, took her chin in his hand, smiled, parted her lips with his thumb, ever so slightly. And then his mouth was on hers again and he tasted good, and hot, like she knew he would, like food, like beer, but mostly like him. She found his tongue and he wasn’t clumsy, not at all. She responded, probing his mouth with her own tongue, realized how long it had been. He lifted her up with ease and she wrapped her legs around his waist. Warm spasms shot down the small of her back in anticipation—through her bottom, straight to her toes as her feet curled around his back, locking over his firm ass. He leaned back, just touching the wall, holding her upright, resting her groin on his. She rubbed herself against him while he stood there, legs apart. Holding onto his shoulder with one hand, she reached down underneath her butt with the other. He was hard, as hard could be, his underwear taut over his crotch. Her hand slipped underneath the elastic waistband and circled around him, stroking him slowly.
He was breathing heavily.
“All these clothes,” she said. She leaned back, legs holding onto him like a vice.
“What do you recommend?”
“Take them off?”
“That would work—wouldn’t it?”
“You first,” she whispered. “I get to watch.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured.
“When I said this was a one-time thing, JR, I meant it’s once, fast and furious, then once again, slow and delicious. That’s what I meant.”
“Let me write that down.”
“It’s OK. I’ll remind you.”
She held onto his neck while his hands grabbed the firm curves of her thighs, found their way up her midriff, burrowing under her sweater. He cupped her breasts, outside her bra, massaging her through the lace, his thumbs circling her nipples expertly. She was generating steam heat. She unhooked one arm and, pulling her sweater up, exposed her breasts still encased in bra. She hugged his face into her cleavage.
Reaching behind her back, she unhooked her bra, let her breasts jiggle free, relishing the way they fell into his warm hands. Then his hot tongue was all over them.
On the nightstand, Dara’s phone vibrated.
No, she thought. No!
John Rae stopped doing what he was doing, looked up into her eyes.
“It’s him,” she said.
“Kafka,” John Rae said. “I thought you were calling him tomorrow.”
“Me too.”
The phone buzzed again while they watched each other, the moment slipping away.
“I have to get that,” she said, brushing her tousled hair out of her face, pulling her sweater back down over her swelling breasts.
“You better get that,” he agreed, letting her down. He exhaled deeply.
KAFKA: must talk to you
Maggie had to think fast. Her head was swimming with the drinks and muggy thoughts of what had been about to happen.
DARA: can’t, still in hospital. was asleep
KAFKA: are you getting out tomorrow?
DARA: not now. one wound puffy. docs want to watch it
There was a pause. Maggie heard John Rae zipping up his trousers. The party was over.
KAFKA: I have to leave tomorrow
No! Maggie thought.
DARA: iraq?
KAFKA: Yes.
No way. Not Now.
DARA: your parents worry you
KAFKA: Yes.
DARA: one more day, habibi. just one more day. please!
KAFKA: but how?
DARA: you simply stay. that’s how. you don’t leave me
KAFKA: but . . .
DARA: don’t you want me? like I want you?
Pause.
KAFKA: yes, but . . .
DARA: then you must wait
John Rae came over, peered over Maggie’s shoulder. The conversation was in Arabic script, so completely unintelligible to him.
“What’s the deal?” he whispered, as if Kafka might be able to hear the two of them talking.
“He’s going to bolt,” Maggie said, sucking in air. “Tomorrow.”
“We need more time. Another day.”
“I know.”
“Promise him anything.”
“I think I just did.”
KAFKA: I cannot. I am so sorry. I must leave tomorrow.
“It’s time for the pièce de résistance,” Maggie said. She retrieved the JPEG image file she’d photoshopped for this very situation. Created from a selfie she’d found on Dara’s phone and transferred back. The original was taken at a restaurant but that context she’d removed. Now Dara was set against a hospital bed, which had taken a while to find. Shy smile, hair slightly messed. A little bare neck and the hint of one shoulder. Blouse touched up blue-green with a higher collar to resemble a hospital gown. Dara had been pretty, to be sure. Maggie had shaded underneath Dara’s eyes to simulate weariness. As a final touch, she had roughened the photo appearance using her photo editor, making it grainy and just a little harder to discern. A comely Dara, happy and hopeful, recovering, with a hint of intimacy to get Kafka’s blood flowing. Nothing overt. Her hope was that Kafka wouldn’t see anything too forward. He was, after all, a Muslim, and if his radicalization was anything to go by, most likely straight-laced. According to Dara, they had only ever traded formal photos on two occasions.
But men were still men.
“Nice work,” John Rae whispered over Maggie’s shoulder.
“Think he’ll buy it?”
“Only if he has a pulse.”
“OK, then,” Maggie said. “Dara—do your thing.”
DARA: i’m sure i will be discharged day after tomorrow. just look at me!
Maggie attached the photo to her next text message, and hit send. Seconds crawled while the image transmitted and she imagined Kafka studying the picture. “Come on, Kafka,” she whispered, her heart rate belying her still pose, sitting on the bed. “Take the bait.”
Finally, a single word came back.
KAFKA: Jamillah!
Beautiful.
Maggie sat back, sighing with relief.
DARA: why, thank you! :)
“Things seem to be getting pretty out of hand,” John Rae joked.
“Now you know what Muslim sexting is, JR. Let’s see if we can get him to send one back. Get him to buy into the fantasy.” Get a fresh look at their problem child while they were at it.
DARA: and may i have one of you? it’s been so long
No response. Had she overplayed her hand?
KAFKA: 1 sec
She brushed her hair back while a photo downloaded. A coarse selfie of Kafka appeared. In a dark room with a mottled, stained wall behind him, wallpaper peeling off in strips. Lit only by a camera flash. Was he in a slum of some sort? An abandoned house?
“Cool digs,” John Rae said.
But there was Kafka, in need of a shave, his chiseled face made even more gaunt by lines of stress and apprehension. Forcing a smile.
DARA: very handsome!
KAFKA: Now I know you are lying. I’m too worried for my parents
DARA: where are you?
KAFKA: paris
She wanted to know exactly where but didn’t want to push too hard.
KAFKA: do you mean it? About getting out?
DARA: i will get out day after tomorrow. even if i have to walk out
KAFKA: Promise?
DARA: promise!
Finally, the response came.
KAFKA: then I shall wait . . .
“Woo-hoo!”
“Keep your voice down, Maggs. It’s three in the morning.”
KAFKA: shall I meet you?
The hospital was out. Kafka had already been there, according to John Rae. In disguise. He’d tested the keep-alive.
“He wants to meet me,” she said. “We need somewhere where he’ll trust me unconditionally.”
“How about Aunt Amina’s?”
“I don’t want to get her involved.”
“You won’t have to. Bellard can set up a flytrap.” A flytrap was a house or apartment set up to resemble a person’s living quarters.
“That works,” Maggie said.
DARA: do you know where my auntie lives, habibi?
Maggie waited. Somewhere upstairs, a toilet flushed. Someone stomping around, woken up.
KAFKA: montmarte, correct?
DARA: yes, i’ll let you know when i’m home
She waited. And waited.
KAFKA: will I talk to you tomorrow?
He was back under her control now. But she needed to make sure he didn’t have a change of heart.
DARA: yes
KAFKA: until then
She let out a breath she wasn’t aware she’d been holding so long.
DARA: enta kol shay’a
She signed off, set Dara’s phone down. She stood up, turned around. “The fish is on the line.”
“We need to get hold of Bellard,” John Rae said, pulling his cell phone from his jacket pocket. “Get this puppy rolling.” He hit dial, put the phone to his ear.
“We need to get Elizabeth on site, too. We’ll need her telephony magic.”
“We can fly her in. We have until the day after tomorrow—thanks to you.”
“Thank Dara.”
Maggie took a good look at John Rae tucking his shirt in with one hand. Now she knew what was underneath. Only a few minutes earlier the two them had been headed down a very different path. That course had been changed. It felt as if someone had opened the window, pulled back the curtains, let a blast of cold air into the room.
Probably for the best.
But what a sweet start before the brakes were applied.