By the time Maggie reached the small park across from La Chapelle Metro station, sporadic drops of rain flew at a slant. Her muscles were warm, loosened up from the brisk walk. Trains clattered along tracks from the Gare du Nord station nearby.
The park was occupied by more than a few people, many of them appearing to loiter. She scanned the crowd from across the street, looking for anyone who might resemble Kafka, saw no one right off. A city of homeless were camped out under the elevated metro tracks across from the park, adjacent to where she stood. Refugees from Syria, arriving en masse, with nowhere to go. The sidewalks were busy with after-work foot traffic.
The last daylight had faded behind billowing clouds. Weak ambient light seeped from shops around the park. Headlights stood out. She squeezed the Garmin’s call button in her pocket, the sack of groceries in her other hand.
“I’m here,” she whispered. “No sign of our boy yet.” Her throat mic was doing the work of transmitting.
“Right behind you,” John Rae whispered. “Across the street. I see the Chapelle Metro stop.”
She waited a moment. “Remi?”
“Not far from Café Avril,” he said in French. “By a florist’s.”
Remi had gotten there quickly. The benefits of youth. But it made her nervous. She knew he was impulsive and he was green. He’d be eager to prove himself.
“Don’t get too close yet, Remi,” she said in French. “We don’t want to spook him. Remember, I’ll tap the call button three times once I’ve confirmed it’s Kafka.”
She scanned the people milling about across the street, one drinking from a paper bag.
A solo figure appeared from behind the round Morris column. A tall slender man. He was wearing a white ball cap, sunglasses and appeared to have blond hair. It gave her a start. But it made sense Kafka would wear a disguise.
He hadn’t mentioned it during their phone call, however. She’d approach cautiously.
“I think I see him,” she whispered in both French and English. She gave a brief description and location. It was slow-going, having to work in two languages.
“Maybe back off, Maggie,” John Rae said. “This is starting to feel funky.”
“Not on your life,” she said. “We’re so close.”
“I’m almost there,” John Rae said.
“T'es là, Remi?” she said.
“Oui,” Remi said. “Je le vois.”
Remi saw him, too. “Heading across the street now,” she whispered. “Remember, three taps when I’m sure.” Again, she had to say it in English and French.
“Ten-four,” John Rae said.
“I think it’s him,” Remi said in French.
“I know, Remi,” she replied. “But wait for confirmation.”
Kafka stepped out from behind the Morris column. He squinted across Rue Marx Dormoy.
There. A woman in an abaya and hijab. Dara’s height and build. Wearing a light veil. Carrying a bag of groceries. She was craning her neck, looking his way.
Dara.
His heart began to thump, annoying him for betraying his emotions. He had dreamed of this moment so many times, never planning it to be one where he would be taking her life.
Too late for second thoughts.
He saw her eyes lock onto his from across the street, do a slight double take. She didn’t recognize him at first, in his wig and ball cap. But she was looking directly at him now.
Kafka drew a measured breath. His Caracal was nestled in his waistband, just inside his coat, within easy reach. His cell phone was in his left coat pocket. The camera was active. He’d let her cross the street, come to him. Shoot her. Get a photo of her dead. With all the people milling around, he’d be able to get across the street to the Metro after that, into the throng, lose himself. Then away.
She was heading to the corner of the street.
Maggie approached the corner, waited for the green light, her heart racing. She started across the street holding her bag of groceries. She wished she had a gun. But Bellard had been emphatic. After the café shooting, any gunplay would be handled solely by his agents. Her nerves grew taut.
She finished crossing the street, turned across the front of the park.
The man was still by the Morris column, partially obscured by the black wrought iron fence surrounding the park.
She got within ten feet.
She slipped one hand in the pocket of her abaya, on her Rino, ready.
“Dara?” the man said.
“Kafka?”
A tentative smile crossed his face. “It’s really you?”
He smiled. Then he reached inside his coat with one hand.
Going for a weapon!
“Gun!” she whispered to alert the team as she hurled the sack of groceries at him. “Pistolet!” The sack hit him full on, taking him more by surprise than anything else. He recoiled, banging up against the green advertising column. Groceries landed on the sidewalk as Maggie rushed him. She saw the hint of a small black automatic pistol appear in his hand from under his coat.
“Je l'ai!” She was well inside the range he needed to pull a gun and fire. “I got him!” She charged in, elbows up, fists ready.
“Arrêtés!” Remi yelled over her shoulder. Where the heck had he come from?
“Stay back, Remi! I got this!”
Remi pulled her roughly out of the way, bringing his gun out.
But Kafka was quicker and jammed his gun into Remi’s gut.
“Fais attention!” Maggie shouted. Kafka’s pistol went off, sounding like a firecracker, muffled by Remi’s stomach. Remi flinched, his eyes squeezing shut, his gun bouncing from his shaking fingers, landing on the sidewalk with a clunk.
People in and around the park shouted and turned.
“Man down!” Maggie shouted. “Remi’s shot! Call an ambulance.”
“Got it!” Bellard replied. She could hear the van’s engine whining over the radio.
Two more sloppy shots made Maggie duck as Kafka ran in the direction of the train station. Someone else screamed. Remi was rolling on the ground, grabbing his gut, gnashing his teeth.
“Kafka’s heading north,” Maggie said into the throat mic as she bent down on one knee to attend to Remi. “Gare du Nord is my bet.”
“On my way,” John Rae said.
“We’re on our way, too!” Bellard announced. She could hear the van’s engine rushing.
Kafka would have to wait. Damn it. Maggie focused on Remi. She took his hand. It was clammy.
“Hang in there, mon petit. Help is on the way.”
“Go get him!” he said through gritted teeth. “Don’t let Kafka get away.”
“I’m not leaving you here alone,” she said, feeling his skittish pulse. So close! They had been so close. If only Remi hadn’t intervened.
People started to approach but hovered, giving her and Remi a wide circle of room.
John Rae came pounding up, gun out. “Which way?”
“You wait here with Remi,” she said, grabbing Remi’s pistol from the sidewalk. She jumped up, spun on the heels of her sneakers, about to head toward Gare du Nord.
“I saw the man who shot your friend turn around across the street and head that way!” an older Middle Eastern man wearing a kufi cap said in Arabic. He obviously thought Maggie was Arabic, too, due to her dress. He pointed at the Metro station across the street.
“You saw him?” Maggie asked. Kafka must have doubled back to throw them off. Sly.
“I saw him toss his hat and a wig. He has dark hair. That way.” He pointed toward La Chapelle Metro station.
“Shukran,” she said, thanking him. Maggie turned, headed for the Metro.
“Be careful, Maggie!” John Rae yelled, crouched down by Remi.