“Let’s start with those suicide bombers,” Maggie said. “The ones who showed up at Café de la Nouvelle.”
She was recording everything on her computer. Chill morning air hung in the damp abandoned industrial office, early daylight burning through the dirty windows, highlighting motes of dust.
“You know as much as I do,” Kafka said, drinking tea from a cardboard cup with both hands, as if warming them. “Because I know nothing about them.”
Maggie wanted to believe him. “We’ll circle back to that.”
The bruises on Kafka’s face were starting to yellow at the edges and the puffiness was subsiding. The cuts on one side of his lower lip had scabbed over, turning thick and dark. He was fresh from the Giga shower, hair still wet and combed, and dressed in new khakis, deck shoes, and a white shirt, the cuffs rolled up a turn. He hadn’t shaved, no doubt due to the beating his face had received. Maggie saw a hint of definition returning to his chiseled features.
The two of them faced each other at the folding table. Maggie sat back, crossing one leg over the other. She was feeling refreshed from a Giga shower herself, wearing a pair of stovepipe jeans, a white cotton T-shirt, and a turquoise V-neck sweater against the cold. Helga had loaned her a pair of smart tan loafers. A sack full of empty food containers sat off to one side, leaving a suggestion of onions and barbecued lamb hanging in the air. John Rae stretched out in a chair, tipped back on two legs against a wall mottled with peeling green paint that was more mold then paint. Catnapping and keeping guard.
Maggie tapped Dara’s cell phone, scrolling through the old texts between Dara and Kafka. She’d been through them many times.
“Why were you late for that first meeting with Dara?” she asked Kafka. “At the café?”
Kafka set his cup down, looked her directly in the eye.
“The Metro ran late,” he said. “One of the doors got stuck. They took the train out of service.”
“The Metro ran late,” she echoed, sighing. Was that the best he could do? “What stop did you get off at?”
“Cluny—La Sorbonne, of course.”
Of course. Getting defensive. “What train?”
Kafka blinked and eyed her sideways. Maybe he thought she was going to treat him with kid gloves.
“Line Ten,” he said.
“Line Ten.” Maggie noticed John Rae, his eyes open now, looking their way, listening. “What stop did you originally get on at?”
Kafka swallowed. “Odeon.”
“One stop away.” She gave him a questioning frown. “Why didn’t you walk?”
There was a pause before Kafka responded. “I didn’t know it was only one stop.”
“You didn’t know?” she said. “You didn’t plan it out? An important trip like this? Probably the most important trip you’d ever make?”
“I mean, yes, I planned it out, but I thought I was running late, so I took Line Ten to La Sorbonne at the very last moment. I didn’t want to be late.”
“Where did you get on the Metro at Odeon? From the street? Which entrance did you use?”
“I took the train,” he said, looking her in the eye. “Light rail. The RER.”
“Which one?”
“Line Four.”
“Line Four. Line Four from where?”
Kafka’s nostril’s flared. “Gare du Nord. The train terminal.”
“Ah. So you took the train into Paris that afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“From where?”
“Marseille.”
“Wow.” She shook her head. “Wow.”
“What does this mean? Wow?”
“It means you were playing it very fine, especially considering that Dara and you had an important meeting. I mean, here you were, about to meet the woman you’d been flirting with for months, a woman who was going to get you and your parents out of Iraq. Personally, I would’ve been there an hour early. But not you.”
Kafka blushed, most likely embarrassed at the implication that he had been snared romantically. Nothing to be proud of, especially for a Middle Eastern man.
Maggie lowered her eyes at him. “Did you really think I was just going to let the fact that you missed the appointment slide by?”
“I don’t know who sent the suicide bombers,” he said. “Someone found out. I don’t know who. Someone.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Why won’t you believe me?”
“I have to make sure,” Maggie said. “We took a huge risk getting you out of the clutches of SDAT. For all I know, you set us up. You sent those suicide bombers.”
“Why would I do that?” he said, his eyes darting around. “Jeopardize someone—someone I had feelings for?”
Maggie picked up a pencil, tapped the eraser end on a yellow pad. “For all I know you’re still a jihadist.”
Now it was his turn to shake his head. “I have nothing further to say.”
“Well, that’s certainly not going to work,” Maggie said.
He sat back again and she saw him take a deep breath, compose himself. “I didn’t even know you were going to be there.”
“It was going to be a surprise.”
“Well, it looks like we all got a surprise, didn’t we?”
There was a pause. The laptop fan whirred.
“I have conditions,” he said.
“No conditions,” she said. “Not yet. We rescued you from a dire situation. That means it’s your turn to show good faith. Give us something.”
“Conditions,” he said, pressing his fingertip down into the table. “In writing.”
She leaned over to the computer microphone. “Interview one is over.” She clicked Sleep, stood up. She looked at Kafka, frowning, then she nodded at John Rae, letting him know she wanted to talk with him in private and that she would be right back. She exited the room, found Dieter sleeping in a chair. She tapped him on the shoulder. His eyes opened slowly, and he looked up, not surprised, but awake and ready.
“Can you please go in and relieve John Rae?” she said. “Watch our guest?”
“Of course.” Dieter got up, straightened his ribbed motor racing jacket, went into the office. John Rae came out not long afterwards.
“What do you think, JR?” she asked.
“You were too nice to him to begin with. Miss Hostess—nurse, shower, tea. Kosher food. Now he has high expectations. Conditions,” he added, mimicking Kafka’s voice.
“What would you like me to do? Hit him with a phone book?”
John Rae shrugged. “He’s a terrorist. Or as good as. You can’t be sure he didn’t organize that attack.”
“I don’t think he would have arranged to meet Dara again if that was the case.”
“Unless he’s got balls of steel.”
“I don’t feel it.”
“He could still be playing us.”
“I’ve been through Dara’s texts a hundred times. Her notes. She got Kafka to fall for her.”
“Maybe,” John Rae said, frowning, “but he was more than ready to shoot her. You.”
“Because Jihad Nation have his parents.”
“How bad do you want him to work with you? Soon?”
“What are you suggesting? Waterboard him? Pull his fingernails out?”
“Maggie, how much time do we have? We can’t sit around here all week eating kebabs.”
She took a deep breath. There were things she wasn’t prepared to do. Torturing a suspect was one. “I want to give him a couple hours to stew in his own juice. While I check out his Metro story.”
“Fair enough. But SDAT might be creating one unholy stink with Langley right about now. The Agency might even decide to hand him back if you don’t pull a rabbit out of your hat soon.”
“Or maybe SDAT is too embarrassed to talk about how they got caught with their pants down.”
“Oh, Bellard’s embarrassed all right. But he still wants his ball back. It’s a nice one.”
Maggie went outside, walked along the River Spree, savoring the morning breeze, thinking about what it must have looked like long before people ever came along, screwed it all up. Thinking about something else. Trying to. To clear her head.
She ended up thinking about Sebi. Sebi.
She called Ed. He had been seriously sidelined. She needed to mend fences. Pull him back in. And build up expectations in case this op was taken up a notch.
They chatted about the 49ers and their dismal season before she brought up Abraqa. She could tell Ed was happy to be back in the loop.
“Ed,” she said, as their conversation wound down. “I’m wondering if you can expedite a check on some Paris Metro stats that happened around the time of the café shooting? Line Ten . . .”
“Let’s talk about Abraqa Darknet,” Maggie said.
Kafka set his cup down. “First, what am I, exactly? A prisoner?”
“You’re a lot freer than you were twenty-four hours ago.”
“Because you try to soften me up with a shower and tea? Adana kebabs?” He smirked.
That annoyed her.
“Don’t forget the nurse,” she said. “The pain pills that stopped you whimpering like a little boy? SDAT weren’t taking care of you. You could be in a damn coma by now.”
He scowled.
“Dara died because of you,” Maggie said. “You. So did four other French citizens. So don’t push your luck. I’m not in the mood.”
He raised his hands, shrugged at the gloomy surroundings. “This is your idea of luck?”
“Well, it’s about the best you’re going to get. And you should be thankful. Thankful SDAT don’t have you in some cozy room at La Ferme, slapping you around. So let’s stop playing games.”
“What game am I playing, exactly? Kindly educate me.”
“The one where you’re trying to get the very best deal. I get that. Just make it quick.” Maggie sat back, crossed her arms. “We don’t have a lot of time. Your parents don’t have a lot of time, and that’s what this is about. Or should be about.”
He nodded. “That’s given. My parents—rescued.”
“We can do that.”
He rubbed his face. “And then what?”
“They are relocated to the West. Here, Germany, the US, wherever. New identities. You too.”
“What do I do for a living?”
“You have an education. A good technical background. It won’t be a problem getting you set up. But you work for us, too, on the side. That takes priority. Always.”
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A text. She pulled it.
ED: Kafka’s Line Ten story checks out. Broken door, 4:51 PM, Friday. Train taken out of service at Cluny.
Well, well, she thought. Kafka was telling the truth.
“What do my parents live on?” Kafka said.
She put her phone away. “They’ll be given a sum to start with. An apartment. Connections for employment. Just like you will. There will be a monthly income until then, a stipend of some sort. It will be comfortable. Better than being guests of Jihad Nation.”
“My parents will be provided a house in Palm Springs of my choosing.”
“Palm Springs?” She smiled. “Why not just go for Beverley Hills?”
His face wrinkled in anger. “One hundred thousand dollars per year. That’s what my father will receive. Two automobiles, one for each of my parents: A BMW 750 and a Mercedes 500. Complete health care.”
Maggie gave a tired smirk. “You had this all figured out, didn’t you? Tell me, was this before or after we saved your ass?”
“Be quiet, I’m not finished. I live in New York. Manhattan. I will receive a condo, also which I will select. An automobile. A Tesla S model.”
“You sure you really want a car in Manhattan, amigo?”
“A sum of two million dollars to start with. And a senior position earning not less than one hundred and fifty thousand dollars per year.”
She sat back, blinking in disbelief. She could see John Rae watching her, shaking his head.
“We’ll take care of you,” she said. “But there’s a limit. You owe us.”
He took a slurp of tea, sat back. “Those are my conditions.” He crossed his arms. “I know what I’m worth. I know what Abraqa is worth. Billions,” he said. “Billions.”
Maggie nodded. “Let me tell you your options at this point: A—make ridiculous demands and risk being handed back to SDAT or B—work with us, knowing we’ll get your parents out—no small feat—and then, see what else we have to offer. I guarantee it will be better than the French. Significantly.”
He shook his head angrily. “I want to talk to someone who has influence. Not some woman who sends lurid texts for a living. We have a name for women like that.”
Maggie leaned forward, dropping her voice. “You want influence, motherfucker? Here’s my influence. Option C—you go back to Iraq. Right now. Present your ‘conditions’ to your masters. See how far you get with them. After you explain why you tried to defect in the first place. Wonder what that’ll mean for your parents.” She drained her tea, stood up, crumpled the cup, tossed it in the sack full of garbage by the table. It fell off, landed on the floor.
Kafka’s mouth dropped in surprise.
“You have five minutes to decide,” Maggie said. She picked up her jacket, threw it over her shoulder, stormed out of the room. She saw John Rae giving her a thumbs-up.