“And there he goes,” Maggie said. “Leaving the hospital.”
Maggie, John Rae and Bellard were huddled around Maggie’s laptop on the round table in the corner of Bellard’s office at SDAT headquarters. It was early the next morning, the floor near empty and unlit, as they watched rough black-and-white closed-circuit TV footage of a man exiting the American Hospital of Paris the day before. The man in the video was tall, slim, wearing a dark suit, dark hair combed down. He carried a bunch of lilies. He turned abruptly where the path from the hospital stairwell exit met the sidewalk, revealing his profile for a moment. Prominent nose, thick-framed glasses. He marched briskly out of camera view.
“That’s Kafka,” Maggie said, pausing the video Field Ops had given her access to. “Although he’s done a good job of looking like someone else. Fake glasses, change of hairstyle.”
“So you know what this Kafka looks like?” Bellard asked Maggie, sitting forward now, next to her. His attitude had changed dramatically since consulting with John Rae and realizing how tantalizing close the Agency had gotten to Kafka.
“We traded photos only a few hours ago,” Maggie said. “I sent one of Dara I’d altered to look like she was in the hospital.”
“I see.” Bellard took a sip of coffee from a plastic vending machine cup.
“The flowers were found half a block down Victor Hugo in the trash,” John Rae said. “Kafka was posing as the brother of another patient. Showed a false National ID at the desk. Took the elevator up to the fifth floor, walked down to the second, where Dara’s room is. He was stopped by one of our contractors. Kafka asked for Dara, said he was a work acquaintance at Incognito. He presented another fake ID. He left when challenged.”
Maggie leaned over the desk, brushing her hair back, verifying the timestamp. She was back to her prosperous young Arab look, with black leggings, long gray cashmere sweater working as a dress, her black crocodile Gucci loafers. Her hijab was in a shoulder bag hanging over the chair.
“So Kafka bought it,” Bellard said in accented English, leaning back, looking at Maggie. “He fell for your keep-alive. And your text chats.”
“It seems that way.” Maggie smiled.
“Quick thinking on Maggie’s part,” John Rae said. “Getting Ed to set up the keep-alive in the first place.” He’d been promoting Maggie’s efforts since they had sat down with Bellard that morning. Bellard, contentious at first, was now being receptive, thanks to John Rae’s persistence. “Maggie’s been staying in constant contact with Kafka since the shooting, keeping him on the hook—keeping him here in Paris.” John Rae was chewing gum, leaning back in his chair—casual, wearing sneakers, 501’s and a black long-sleeve T-shirt. Maggie thought of him briefly with fewer clothes, scant hours ago, in a physical clinch she still savored. She banished the memory. “Maggie’s also brought in a language resource who can stand in as Dara on phone calls with Kafka. We’re flying her in from California as we speak. You can’t afford not to have Maggie on this effort, Bellard.”
Bellard folded his hands over his stomach. He said to John Rae, “And you can guarantee your support as well?”
“That’s why I’m here,” John Rae said.
“Walder has approved this?”
John Rae gave a sheepish grin. “Define ‘approved’.”
“In writing.”
John Rae made a comme ci, comme ça motion with his hand. “Let’s just say I have a lot of leeway although my name—and especially Walder’s—will be nowhere on this op in any official capacity. Walder wants Kafka caught but he wants it off the Agency books. Politics. So Abraqa is officially your baby.”
Bellard pursed his lips. “And Maggie here? What does she get? The first interview with Kafka? That’s it?”
Maggie and Bellard exchanged knowing glances. She hoped she could trust Bellard to deliver on his promise.
Maggie said: “Forensic Accounting gets the first interview with Kafka. And others, as necessary, until I understand how to gain access to Abraqa Darknet. The process overview, logins, passwords, IP addresses. That can be done here in this facility, with you or your people sitting in. He’s all yours after that.”
Did she feel good throwing Kafka under the bus? He had been lured into this situation for his parents’ sake and he cared for Dara. But he had served Jihad Nation, helped them further the Yazidi genocide. Ending that took priority.
Bellard sat back, eyes half-lidded. “SDAT makes the arrest. We hold him—here. To clarify, Kafka is ours, not yours. No question. After your interviews, you are gone, poof!” He made a little motion with his hand.
“That suits us,” Maggie said.
“I want it in writing.”
“This is way below the radar, Bellard,” Maggie said. “No paper trail.”
“I want an email at least.” Bellard pressed an imaginary button on his desk. “From Walder.”
“I told you,” John Rae said. “Walder’s not going to put his name anywhere near this. Not after getting his ass chewed out by the National Security Advisor. But you have our word.”
“I need something,” Bellard said. “There’s been too much—ah—volatility in the way our departments work together. My boss has a lot of egg on his face.”
“How about an email—from Ed?” Maggie had already cleared it with him prior to meeting with Bellard this morning. Good old Ed was prepared to stick his neck out. One more time.
Bellard stared at a poster of a white sandy beach on the wall for a moment.
“D’accord,” he said, raising his eyebrows, looking at Maggie, then John Rae, then back at Maggie. “You get Abraqa Darknet. I get Kafka. The operation is mine. My instructions will be followed to the letter.”
Maggie took a quiet breath. Dara had died giving birth to Abraqa. Maggie had been both midwife and wet nurse. And Bellard was going to be the proud poppa, handing out the cigars.
But, if it was the only way Abraqa was to survive, and Dara’s mission be fulfilled, so be it.
“Deal,” she said. She stood up, put her hand out across the desk.
Bellard sat there for a moment before he gave up a begrudged smile and finally sat forward, reaching out, taking her hand.