“I take it Kafka and his parents have arrived safe and sound in Langley?” Maggie said to Ed. Her cell phone was set in conference mode, sitting on the pink rococo soap dish of her miniscule bathroom in the Shangri-La Hotel on rue Philibert Lucot while she plucked her eyebrows and sipped from a tall paper cup. After Iraq it was bliss to be back in this funky little hotel with its simple pleasures she took for granted far too often—coffee, hot water, clean sheets, electricity twenty-four hours a day.
“If ‘by arrived’ you mean running up bills for room service and sending out for gourmet ice cream,” Ed replied, his gruff voice echoing off the tiles, “then, yes. I just had to approve a request for a tailor for a private fitting in their hotel suite.”
“Nice to see they are adapting so quickly to the Western world,” Maggie said, starting on her left eyebrow. She had bags under her eyes. She needed sleep. “What about Kafka?”
“Getting debriefed before your arrival to finalize the taking down of Abraqa.”
“I know how to have fun,” she said, sipping coffee.
“You are going to be on that C-130 tonight, right, Maggs? I mean, no taking off at the last minute the way you ditched John Rae—leaving him in a taxicab without a word of French to help him.” Ed gave a chuckle. Maggie knew he had told that story many times already.
“I’ll be there,” Maggie said, her tone serious now. “Debriefing Kafka. Taking down Abraqa. I just need to settle up a few things with Amina. Did that request I submitted go through?”
“Yep,” Ed said, and she could hear him lighting up a cigarette.
In addition to covering Dara’s funeral expenses, the Agency was paying off the lease on Amina’s tea shop in exchange for her services as a potential future intelligence contact. A sleeper agent. Amina would most likely never be called into service. It was accounting sleight of hand that Maggie didn’t have a problem with. Amina would accomplish more for the Yazidi community with that tea shop than half a dozen agents ever could. Besides, the agency owed Dara.
“Any word from Bellard?” Ed asked.
“Not so far,” Maggie said. “But I came in from Germany under an alias.”
“Wonder how he’s holding up—after getting skunked out at La Ferme.”
“I kind of feel sorry for him,” Maggie said. “He did get skunked. Even if he had it coming.”
“Now that is what I call being magnanimous. Bellard threw you in a cell. He stole the op from you.”
“It is his country. And we did promise him credit for the op. I think he should still get it. If nothing else, it might put us back on friendly terms. And it means we don’t have to sneak in and out of France until he retires.”
“Not a bad idea.” She could hear Ed take a deep drag on his cigarette. “I’ll float it by Walder.”
Maggie’s left eyebrow was nice and smooth now, perfectly arched, like the right. No more gorilla bristles.
“Got to run, boss. See you tomorrow.”
“Make sure you’re on that C-130 at Le Bourget.”
The sun broke through the clouds over Passy Cemetery as the six men lowered the plain wooden casket draped with a red and white Yazidi flag, a gold multi-pointed star in its center, into the ground. The men ranged in age from sixteen to elderly and all wore the best they had for the occasion, from a well-tailored Italian suit to a simple pair of gray polyester slacks and pressed well-worn shirt. A few red-and-white keffiyehs adorned heads.
Around the gravesite a gathering of Yazidi and Armenian mourners chanted prayers amidst the plaintive sound of a lone flute and the banging of a single drum. The women wore scarves, many weeping openly, symbolically beating their bosoms to summon grief, others beginning to toss mementos and hand-written notes and money into the grave.
Amina, dressed in a deep blue pant suit and long white head scarf, came forward, holding a crown made of peacock feathers. She stepped up to the foot of the grave and stood, closing her eyes, which were glistening at the rims, before she lowered her head. She tossed the headdress onto the top of the coffin. She then made the repetitive beating of her chest as well.
Maggie, dressed in a somber black business skirt suit, black flats and black chiffon hijab scarf, blinked away the tears welling up as she silently said goodbye to Dara.
“And what of the people?” Amina said, composed now as she sipped tea. “The ones you saved?” They were gathered for a simple wake at the Armavir Tea Room. The music was livelier and the mood upbeat as mourners sought to look forward. Dara was, after all, a hero.
“Still in Turkey,” Maggie said. “Two are seeking asylum in the west. But that’s a lengthy process, as you know. Besma and her little brother will be repatriated with their father in Northern Iraq.”
Amina shook her head. She had removed her scarf and her big hair was back to its former bouffant, reeking pleasantly with hairspray. “Is that so wise?”
Maggie shrugged and sipped a glass of white wine. “It is Besma’s people. And her home.”
“But her little brother is only six years old, you said.”
“I feel as you do,” Maggie said. “But their conviction is greater than mine.”
Amina drank tea. “You did a wonderful thing, Maggie. And dismantling that evil money machine.”
“Thanks to Dara. None of this would’ve been possible without her.”
Amina drew a breath as she appeared to stem what might have been the beginnings of fresh tears. “You don’t know how proud she would be of you.”
“I’m honored to think so,” Maggie said softly.
“And what of this famous Kafka? The man who would shoot my niece? And now is being treated as some sort of hero, too? It seems all he did was benefit from this whole miserable event.”
Maggie nodded in agreement. “Some people seem to come out on top no matter what. Kafka will be handed a nice life in the US—new identity, job, money. His parents are safe. They’ll get the same. All with our blessing. While Besma goes back to a bombed-out village, caring for her little brother. But once we break Abraqa, it will be worth it. I head back to the US to begin that process tomorrow. Over one billion dollars of Jihad Nation money will be frozen. Think how much good that will do.”
“You mean how much evil it will prevent.” Amina sipped tea.
“Yes.”
“I can’t help but feel that Kafka took advantage of my niece,” Amina said. “Whether she really had feelings for him or not. The thought of that opportunist alive makes me sad. May Dara rest in peace.”
“Captain Bellard just left for lunch,” the receptionist said.
“A late lunch,” Maggie said, checking her watch. “He must be working too hard.”
“He ran down to Café Lepic. Can I take a message?”
“No. I just called to say hello.”
“And whom should I say called?”
“Dara,” Maggie said. “Tell him it’s Dara. I just wanted to say thanks.”
Maggie hung up.
The clouds had cleared completely and it was turning into a beautiful day. Café Lepic was a twenty-minute cab ride from Montmartre. She wanted to thank Bellard in person, apologize as necessary, patch things up.
Not long afterwards she paid off the taxi half a block down from Lepic. The working class café was half-full as she arrived, most of the regular lunchtime crowd gone.
Through the full-length window outside, she spotted Bellard down at the standup bar against the wall, across from the cash register and serving counter, where she’d found him the first time she’d been here. He was wearing his light blue suit.
She headed in and stopped when, to her surprise, she saw someone with him.
John Rae.
She stepped back outside, pulled her hijab back over her head. She fished her sunglasses out of her handbag, slipped them on.
She strolled by the café, head down, glancing through the window as she passed to confirm what she just saw.
Bellard. And John Rae. The two men appeared to be in a deep discussion, Bellard nodding at something John Rae was saying.
John Rae was supposed to be heading back to Washington for Kafka’s debriefing.
Maggie was the one with a detour, to attend Dara’s funeral. Why had John Rae not told her he was going to be in Paris?
And why was he being buddy-buddy with Bellard?
She walked down to the end of the street, mulling things over.
A taxi approached. She flagged it down.
Maggie waited in the tiny hotel lobby for a cab to take her to Le Bourget. Her cell phone rang. It was a Paris number she didn’t recognize.
“Maggie?” a familiar Frenchman’s voice said.
“Bellard,” she said. “How are you?”
“Call me Alain,” he said in French. “I’m flattered you recognized my voice.”
“How could I forget? It’s the same one that had me put in a cell.”
He laughed. “I knew it had to be you when my secretary said Dara called. Congratulations. I heard your operation was a success.”
“Who told you?”
“Walder.”
“Really? When?”
“Earlier. He called me—with some news.”
“Oh, I thought someone else might have mentioned it.” Like John Rae. Since he met with you.
“No. I got it straight from the horse’s mouth. He wanted to tell me that SDAT would be getting the credit for Operation Abraqa. I think a word of thanks is due.”
Why was Bellard being less than transparent?
“Well,” she said, “it was the least we could do after that little stunt we pulled out at La Ferme.”
“The less said about that the better, eh? At the end of the day, Maggie, as you say, we are all on the same side. And the operation was a success. That’s what counts.”
Her only wish was that he meant it. But she simply didn’t know. “You, monsieur, are a true sport.”
“How’s it going with Kafka?”
Did he want to know if she’d broken Abraqa yet?
“No problems so far,” was all she said.
“Come on!” Bellard said. “You tied us up in a van—after tear-gassing us! Give me a little something.”
“I suspect we’ll be wrapping things up soon. Very soon.”
“When are you heading back to the US?”
“Tonight,” she said.
“Ah,” he said, giving a sigh. “Next time, then. And when you return, dinner will be on me.”
Did Bellard have an evil twin? “I hope it will have a tablecloth underneath it and not be served on a plastic tray in my cell.”
Bellard laughed.
Night rain pattered on the roof of her taxi as they pulled up at Le Bourget. She was never so happy to get on a C-130 and go back home.
All that remained was to dismantle Abraqa. She already knew the nuts and bolts. It was just a matter of going through the motions, now that Kafka’s parents were safe.
Nearly there.