Paris, near Gare du Nord train station
Kafka passed El Mushir market for the third time that morning, peering inside. He stopped, pretending to browse the eggplants on the rack between the sidewalk and the open front of the shop. His nerves were brittle—an understatement. Through the ramshackle shop, beyond the cluttered shelves of spices and imported goods, plastic boots hanging from the ceiling, even the stuffed head of a white Oryx for sale, he saw the man he had been looking for, stooped over, stocking a shelf with tins. The old shopkeeper was finally on his own, no one else in the store.
Kafka had observed the shop all morning. He knew his masters. They watched those who were doing their bidding.
But he was relatively sure he was not being followed now.
He picked up an eggplant, craning his neck to catch the old man’s eye.
As if sensing his look, the old man stopped his stacking, turned his head to look directly into Kafka’s eyes from down the aisle. His light-skinned face was wrinkled and stubbled with gray. A beige knit prayer-style cap sat on his head.
Kafka did not even know his name, nor did he want to.
The old man raised himself from his crouch, one hand supporting a weary back. He did not seem much taller for standing up. A long green apron reached past his knees.
Kafka gave him a questioning look.
The old shopkeeper shuffled to the front of the shop, a limp in his walk, went behind the counter. Kafka stayed out front on the sidewalk. If he had to run, this was the place to be.
The man gestured for Kafka to come inside.
Kafka shook his head.
The shopkeeper shrugged, bent down behind the counter, and Kafka put one hand inside his coat to grasp the polymer handle of the compact Caracal 9 mm jammed down the front of his waistband. He didn’t bother with the safety mechanism because it was off. These Caracals had been recalled due to faulty safeties that often let the gun fire regardless. But the pistol was the only weapon Kafka could lay his hands on at short notice.
The old man stood up, a crumpled paper bag in his hand. He held it up for Kafka to see.
Again, Kafka shook his head.
The shopkeeper shuffled to the front of the shop, stood across from him at the rack of vegetables.
“All is well?” Kafka asked in Arabic.
“Alhamdulillah.” Praise be to God.
Kafka repeated the phrase, right hand still on the handle of his gun inside his coat, and reached over and took the paper bag with his left. He didn’t have to open it to know what was inside.
He put the bag with the phone in his pocket, grabbed an apple, turned, and quickly left. He looked over his shoulder, to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He no longer trusted anyone.
The password for the old school Nokia cell phone was written on the back of the bag in blue ballpoint pen:
١٢ ٣٤
1-2-3-4.
Kafka dialed and listened to the single voicemail while he ate his apple outside Gare du Nord. He kept his back to a wall, eyes to the street.
“Call this number,” was all that the voicemail said. Kafka called.
“It’s about time, Kafka,” Hassan al-Hassan said in guttural Arabic. No doubt from that god-forsaken camp outside of Mosul. That hellhole Kafka had been to, to videotape executions that he had to put up on social media for Jihad Nation. The bite of apple in Kafka’s mouth remained unchewed for a moment. He forced it down, as if it were stone.
“It’s good to hear your voice again, Sayidi,” he said, using the formal method of addressing a superior.
“Of course it is,” Hassan al-Hassan said, the sarcasm thick, even as it travelled the miles. “Did you try to betray us, friend?”
With a flash of terror Kafka realized, perhaps he too was supposed to have been killed in the café blast that never happened. He tossed the apple, steadied himself against the wall while his heart pounded.
“But no, Hassan al-Hassan!” he said. “I would never . . .”
“Good. I have someone here who wants to say hello.”
What was he talking about?
A well-known voice came over the phone. A woman.
“Hello, habibi,” his mother said in a quaking voice. “Your father and I are well. Please don’t worry . . .”
Kafka’s heart sank. They had taken his parents hostage. To ensure his cooperation.
Hassan al-Hassan spoke again. “Do we understand each other clearly, Kafka?”
“Please don’t harm them. My mother has a weak heart.”
“No one is going to harm anyone,” Hassan al-Hassan said. “As long as you do exactly as I say.”
“You have my word, Hassan al-Hassan.”
“Good,” Hassan al-Hassan said. “Have you contacted Dara?”