“This is it,” Maggie said, sitting up, reading the text on Dara’s phone.
KAFKA: are you there?
Yes, she typed, using the Arabic script keyboard. Finally out of the hospital! At my aunt’s.
KAFKA: Safe to talk?
Maggie eyed the computer tech, who was watching her intently, poised over his keyboard.
DARA: Yes. Maggie nodded at Elizabeth, who was donning her headphones.
KAFKA: I will call you
“Get ready,” Maggie said, signaling the others. She pointed at the lab tech who clicked Play on the YouTube video fed into the audio mix, filling the background of her headphones with a Turkish soap opera. A mother and daughter were having a heart-to-heart talk in Arabic while syrupy strings played tear-jerking music.
Dara’s cell phone vipped on the table, and Maggie pulled her chair up next to Elizabeth’s. Elizabeth got into position, adjusting her headphones and throat mic. John Rae moved closer. Bellard rebuttoned his jacket for the umpteenth time.
The tech raised a finger, hit Record on one of his computers.
Maggie answered the call, giving Elizabeth the go-ahead.
“Alsalamu ‘alakum!” Elizabeth said in a breathless, excited rendition of Dara’s voice that still astounded Maggie for its accuracy. The tech adjusted a digital dial on his application, adding a level of static, muddying up the call quality just enough.
“God be praised,” Kafka said. “You sound well!”
“It’s so good to hear your voice.”
“Are you at your auntie’s?”
“I arrived not long ago.”
“In Montmartre?”
“Yes.” Maggie made eye contact with Bellard and John Rae. She had set MockLoc on Dara’s phone to the GPS coordinates of Aunt Amina’s apartment.
“What are you doing?” Kafka asked.
“Oh, just having tea.” Elizabeth drank nosily from a cup for effect. “Watching television.”
“What are you watching?”
Elizabeth looked over at Maggie. Why was Kafka being so inquisitive? Doing his due diligence?
“Some silly soap opera,” Elizabeth said in Dara’s voice.
“Do you really watch such things?” There was a tone of admonition.
“My auntie likes them.”
“Is she there?” Kafka asked. “Your auntie?”
Elizabeth and Maggie’s eyes connected again and Maggie nodded yes, then motioned for Elizabeth to go ahead. “Yes, habibi. She’s in the kitchen.”
“I would like to say hello, if I may. I’ve never had the pleasure.”
Elizabeth gave Maggie an oh, shit! look.
Maggie pointed to herself. Elizabeth nodded. Maggie caught the tech’s eye, gave him a signal to mic her in. He adjusted another dial.
“Let me just go fetch her,” Elizabeth said. She stood up, placed her hand partially over her throat microphone, and shouted in Kurmanji: “Amina! Kafka wants to say ‘hello’.”
Maggie put on a deep voice while the tech toyed with a setting, adding a touch of echo, and said, “Coming!” before stepping deliberately over to the table so that her footsteps might register.
“Is that Auntie Amina?” Kafka said in a sweet voice.
“As-salam alaykom,” Maggie said in basic Arabic, channeling her best fifty-year-old Yazidi woman.
“Wa 'alaykum salaam ya Amina,” Kafka replied. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Maggie didn’t know whether that was even true. Perhaps Kafka was testing her. She forced a laugh. “Arabic is not my mother tongue. I only speak a little classical. Unlike Dara, who speaks Baghdadi with ease.”
“Say something in Kurmanji, Auntie Amina,” Kafka said.
Testing her, to be sure.
“Xwa-legell, Kafka,” Maggie said. Thank God Dara had taught her a phrase or two.
“I have no idea what you just said but it sounds wonderful.”
Maggie switched back to Arabic, not feeling too bad about nailing Kafka now. He was going to get what he deserved. “I’m preparing a special meal—Adana kebab. I hope we see you today.”
“That sounds wonderful, too.”
“Let me give you back to Dara.”
Maggie nodded at Elizabeth, who tightened the headset over her ears. Maggie sat back down.
“Well,” Elizabeth said in Dara’s voice, laughing like a schoolgirl. “When will we see you? How soon?”
“I can be there in an hour.”
Elizabeth eyed Maggie. Maggie translated for Bellard and John Rae. Bellard jacked his thumb down, then showed six fingers. He needed time to get everyone in place.
“Auntie has just started to prepare the meal, habibi. She will be mortified if it’s not ready when you arrive. And I need a nap. I am so tired after getting out of the hospital. Best make it later. Six o’clock?”
“Six o’clock it is.”
“I can’t wait.”
“And I.”
Maggie grabbed a pencil and circled a particular note on Elizabeth’s notepad.
“Oh,” Elizabeth said, reading. “You’ll need directions, won’t you?”
“You’re on Boulevard Barbès, correct?”
“Just off of it. Rue Bevric. Down the street from the Metro.” Elizabeth consulted the yellow pad, read off an address. “Maʿ al-salāmah.”
Maggie hung up the phone.
Elizabeth jumped up from her seat, gave her and the tech a high five while John Rae and Bellard hooted with glee.
Maggie’s enthusiasm, however, was more tempered. Kafka was acting more suspicious than she’d expected and that worried her.
Kafka hung up his phone, looked around at the crumbling walls of the abandoned house he was staying in, sleeping on a sheet of cardboard with a throwaway blanket. The mold had given him a headache. The rats scurrying back and forth all night made it impossible to sleep. His arms were covered with spider bites.
He would meet Dara in a few hours. His mind was set.
He pulled on the blond wig, combed the shiny hair into place with his fingers. Pulled a white ball cap on over the wig, with its red, white and blue French Le Coq rooster gripping a soccer ball in its talons. Dress like a patriot to blend in.
Then he checked his Caracal 9C, slipped the pistol carefully into his waistband. The faulty safety switch remained a concern. He slid a spare fifteen-round magazine in his jacket pocket.
He stood up straight, arms by his side, and closed his eyes. He attempted to calm himself.
When he first ‘met’ Dara, killing her had been the last thing on his mind.
He had entertained the thought they might be sweethearts. Indeed, she had fostered that notion. He had allowed himself to become infatuated. Dara was beautiful, intelligent, spoke Arabic, and had worked tirelessly to get him to come over. She had sensed he wasn’t a true jihadist.
If there ever was a tragedy on this earth, having to ending Dara’s life was it.
But now he had no choice. Hassan al-Hassan held his parents hostage.
If they were to live, he must atone for his transgression, execute Dara, send proof. A photo.
What if Hassan al-Hassan killed his parents anyway? After Kafka killed the woman he once thought so much of? What a mess. What a damn mess.
He slipped on his sunglasses.
Too late for regrets. He had made his decision.
It was time.