They were ready.
But Kafka was almost half an hour late.
No one was saying it, but everyone was thinking it: What if he didn’t show?
The windowless van, bearing a faded red cow painted on the side over the name of a fictitious Paris butcher’s shop, was parked down Boulevard Barbès. From the back seat Maggie could just see the corner of the side street Aunt Amina lived on, a length of four-story buildings constructed during the late nineteenth century when Napoleon renovated the city. An eclectic mix of modern shop fronts at street level contrasted with the stately architecture.
As evening approached, the open-air market along the elevated Metro line on Barbès—Rochechouart had reached full swing, despite the cool weather and sharp wind. The odd spot of rain landed here and there. Clouds churned low in the sky. Even so, Parisians were out, strolling from stall to stall, sampling delicacies, listening to lively Middle Eastern music piped through outdoor speakers. The atmosphere was distinctly south of the Mediterranean, with tantalizing smells to match.
Five others occupied the van along with Maggie, making the air inside close and well-breathed. Behind the wheel sat a driver in a dark blue windbreaker, working a toothpick. Next to him, in the passenger seat, Bellard consulted a Garmin Rino two-way radio, scrolling through its tiny screen. The high end device featured GPS, electronic compass, camera and had a range of two miles, supported by dual antennae.
Next to Maggie sat Elizabeth, wearing a wireless headset, her ever-present yellow pad full of notes on her lap. In the back bench seat behind Maggie sat John Rae, along with an SDAT tech who worked a small array of digital equipment mounted to a metal frame.
“Hurry up and wait,” she heard John Rae say, as if sensing her concern.
Maggie turned around to give John Rae a smile. With the pigskin jacket he seemed to wear in every part of the globe he was assigned to, John Rae sported a blue beret. Along with the goatee, it helped tone down his Anglo features. His young Brad Pitt hairstyle was tucked back behind his ears. Maggie kept finding herself taking a moment whenever she looked at him now, reminiscing about their aborted encounter. But work was work, and coworkers were just that. John Rae returned her smile, despite the fact that Bellard had relegated him to an “advisory role”, meaning he would not participate in Kafka’s capture.
Maggie was ready to meet Kafka, if it came to that, in a smart new abaya pulled over her black leggings and a white, loose-fitting T-shirt, finished off with black Nike women’s 5.0 running sneakers, each shoe weighing in at a few ounces. She had changed out of her chic loafers in case things came down to a chase. On her head she wore a black leopard print hijab, which would set the department back one hundred and twenty-five euros if she could get it approved, along with a sheer black face veil that she had unfastened. Under the hijab she wore wireless earbuds and a wireless throat mic, which would allow her to talk on Dara’s cell phone as well as with the rest of the team hands free.
Dara’s phone rested on her knee, awaiting Kafka’s call.
Two agents were posted near the Metro stop behind them, watching out. The tall female cop who had searched Maggie was stationed in Amina’s apartment on the third floor, along with another agent, in the event that Kafka made it that far. The kid who had almost pulled the gun on Maggie stood across the street from the side street to Dara’s apartment building, in a blue hoodie and sunglasses, sipping a soft drink from a paper cup. Maggie and he had acknowledged each other at the beginning of the op today. Maggie had put her hand out and said, ‘sans rancune’. No hard feelings. The young man, whose name was Remi, had taken her hand, given it a single wooden shake as he looked away. Good enough, Maggie thought. He was OK—just green. She could see him through the windshield, craning his neck, scanning the street.
On the Rino Bellard had issued her, she enlarged the grainy photo of Kafka, sent to “Dara” when she was allegedly in the hospital. Thirties, olive skin, half-lidded hazel colored eyes with prominent lashes, accentuating a long face with elegant features. The rest of Bellard’s team had a copy of the photo on their phones as well. One problem was that Kafka looked like many other Parisians around the street market at the moment.
“Kafka’s over half an hour late,” Bellard finally said, breaking the silence. “We should call.”
“A few more minutes,” Maggie said.
“A few more minutes.” Bellard tapped his radio.
“Hang in there, darlin’,” she heard John Rae say behind her.
“I told you not to call me that unless we’re in bed together and . . .” Maggie caught herself. She’d have to find another joke. That one cut too close for comfort now.
John Rae said: “I guess it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.”
“I’m impressed, JR. You know a word like prerogative and can use it in a sentence.”
“I don’t have a clue what it means. I just know it impresses the ladies.”
Elizabeth turned to grin at John Rae. “Who are you calling a lady, buddy?”
“Everyone’s a comedian.” Maggie checked the time again on her phone. Thirty-five minutes late. Kafka had been dying to meet Dara. He’d be early, if anything.
The radio in Bellard’s hand crackled. Everyone jumped. Bellard punched a button and spoke speakerphone style. “Allez-y, mon petit,” he said. Mon petit was the team’s nickname for Remi, the junior agent in the blue hoodie posted across from Aunt Amina’s.
“Un van de DHL vient de s'arrêter à l'extérieur du bâtiment,” Remi said.
Maggie translated for JR. A DHL van had just pulled up outside Amina’s apartment building.
“Some guy in a DHL uniform is getting out,” Remi said. “Carrying a couple of packages.”
“Stand by, everyone,” Bellard said into his Rino.
“Dude just went into the building with the packages.”
Maggie leaned across the front seat, spoke into the phone, which was now in conference mode. “You get a good look at him, Remi?”
“Tall. Yellow uniform, cap, glasses.”
Maggie translated for John Rae. “Could be our Kafka. In disguise.”
Several tense minutes went by during which Bellard issued commands, primarily to the two agents stationed inside Amina’s apartment. Then, Remi spoke again.
The DHL man had exited the apartment building, without packages.
“Well, that was kind of exciting,” John Rae said, sitting back.
A tense breath escaped Maggie’s lips.
“Time to contact Kafka,” Bellard said.
“Yes,” Maggie said. “I’ll text him.”
DARA: are you running late, habibi?
No response.
Two minutes later, she tried again.
DARA: just wondering where you are—give me a call when you think you’ll arrive—so looking forward to it!
She sat back.
“Shit,” she said out loud.
Kafka had seen the young punk in the blue hood loitering across the street from Rue Bevric when he checked the neighborhood out before his visit. Perhaps nothing, but he wasn’t taking chances. Kafka circled the street market twice. Now, half an hour later, the kid was still there, drinking the same drink. Maybe he was waiting for someone. But it didn’t look quite right.
Kafka’s first instinct had been to flee. Then he thought of his parents, specifically his mother, at the hands of Hassan al-Hassan. Their deaths would be brutal.
He had waited this long. His masters didn’t care if he died killing Dara, but he did. So he headed briskly down Boulevard de la Chapelle, the wide thoroughfare flanking the elevated Metro, to the next Metro stop, La Chapelle. About half a kilometer from Aunt Amina’s, near the Gare du Nord. There was a small park on this side of the street, on the corner, across from the entrance to the Metro. It was surrounded with black decorative wrought iron fencing, dotted with trees, and populated with rough-looking people milling about. The area under the elevated Metro across the street was teeming with Syrian refugees sleeping out underneath. A place to run to, if need be. Kafka checked that he had a spare Metro ticket for quick entry. He did.
He found a spot next to a green circular Morris column next to the park, affording a good view and providing cover.
The phone in his pocket buzzed.
He retrieved it.
DARA: are you running late, habibi?
She was getting anxious. Good. He’d wait. He said a silent prayer for his mother.
Then, another text.
Dara: just wondering where you are—give me a call when you think you’ll arrive—so looking forward to it!
Yes, he had feelings for her but weren’t they just some imagined thing? What was she? An illusion he had created. Out of loneliness. If she had to die, she had to die. All illusions die.
His parents came first. His mother.
It was time.
He dialed Dara.
Maggie jolted upright in the van when the phone call came in.
Thank God. She thought he had slipped away.
“It’s him,” she said, sucking in a breath. “It’s Kafka.”