“Of course I had no idea such a thing would happen!” Bellard said.
Maggie wondered. She stood in front of Bellard’s desk, her arms tightly crossed.
“They almost killed him,” she said. “If he hadn’t chewed through the masking tape sealing his mouth, he would’ve suffocated.” Kafka’s nostrils had become plugged with blood during the beating. “Let’s hope he doesn’t suffer from some kind of cerebral contusion and die.” She shook her head, vibrating with anger.
“Medical personnel are evaluating him now,” Bellard said.
Selfishly she thought, even if Kafka didn’t die, he could suffer the equivalent of a stroke and be useless to her.
All that work.
“You can see what I see,” Bellard said defensively, moving the computer mouse and backing up the recorded video on his computer to the point where the camera had blacked out. The time in question was less than ten minutes after Maggie had left to pick up food, which now sat untouched in a plastic bag on the corner of Bellard’s desk. “Look,” he said. “Nothing.”
John Rae stood behind Maggie, arms crossed as well, stroking his goatee. It was past two AM. Everyone was tired and exasperated.
“Stay cool, Maggs,” he whispered.
She took a deep breath. Bellard’s tone did seem to imply he had not been aware of the beating until she had discovered it.
“Go back earlier,” Maggie said. “Before the video blacks out.”
“One more time,” Bellard said with unmasked irritation. He backed up to Kafka sitting up, chained to his chair, head back, eyes closed. Grabbing a rest. The sound of the interrogation room door opening made him open his eyes. Eyes that soon rounded in shock.
What followed was the sound of soft footsteps entering the room. Multiple footsteps. Then, in close proximity to the camera, a muffled noise, followed by the blurry tip of a small thumb in a plastic glove partially blocking the lens.
The screen went black. Then the sound of a mechanical screw turning, or something similar. Someone detaching the video cable. Silence. That was the way Maggie had found the camera when she entered the cell—the lens taped over, the camera disconnected.
“I hope you’re calling whatever passes for SDAT’s internal affairs and beginning your investigation,” Maggie said.
Bellard turned in his chair, sat back, eyes narrowing.
“There will be a full investigation,” he said. “When I say.”
“And no one’s allowed to leave the building until that is done, right?”
He put his hands back behind his head. “Do not tell me how to do my job.”
“Under-planning an operation handed to you on a platter. Assigning some pimply-faced kid to handle a crucial arrest. And now—this. Do you have any idea how much work went into this op? Dara lost her life.”
Bellard’s eyes turned to slits. “I suppose I’d have to go to Guantánamo Bay to learn how to do things properly.”
“I had Kafka talking,” Maggie said. “Good luck getting anything out of him now.”
Bellard gave a nasty staccato laugh as he sat up in his chair. “Do you really think batting you’re eyelashes at some terrorist who would behead his own mother for not following Sharia law is going to make him bend to your will? You American women don’t have a problem with low self-esteem, do you?”
Maggie shook her head. “You can bet someone on my side of the fence is going to be giving you a call,” she said. “You guys think you’re hot shit, filing complaints against us? Well, you ain’t seen nothing, ami.”
“Maggs,” John Rae whispered. “Cool it.”
Bellard shot up out of his chair with such force that it rolled back, smacking the credenza. “Get out of my office!”
“Hey, guys,” John Rae said calmly, stepping forward. “Let’s just take it down a notch, huh?”
“Shut up!” Bellard said to John Rae as he picked up a phone and punched buttons. Someone answered. “Capitaine Bellard here,” he said, switching to French. “I need officers. Be prepared for resistance.” He slammed the phone down, turned to Maggie and John Rae, hands on his hips. One shirttail was halfway out.
“Seriously?” Maggie said. “Are your guards going to beat us senseless, too?”
“Enjoy your flight back to the US,” Bellard said, sitting back down with a thump.
“We might have lost a little ground,” John Rae said. “But it’s not a showstopper. Tempers run high when an officer gets hit. I get that. But let’s not lose sight of the original plan.”
Bellard nodded as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, shook one out, put it in his mouth. “I’ll crack Kafka,” he said, pulling his lighter from his pocket, flicking it, lighting up his cigarette. He got it going, slipped the lighter back in his pocket. He took a deep drag, pulled the cigarette from his mouth, exhaled. Smoke billowed across the room. “I’ll crack Abraqa. I don’t need either one of you.”
“Now that makes about as much sense as tits on a bull,” John Rae said.
“What the hell does that mean?” Bellard sucked on his cigarette. “What damn language are you speaking?”
“Maggie’s put a lot of legwork into this. There’s no way you can replicate what she’s done, the intel she got from Dara. You’ll be starting from scratch.”
“I’m tired of talking to both of you,” Bellard said, taking a calmer puff on his cigarette.
They heard the elevator bell ding in the hallway. Excited voices. Footsteps came bounding down the hall.
Two men and one woman in blue appeared at Bellard’s office door. All had their hands on the batons in their belts.
“Look,” Maggie said in English, so that Bellard wouldn’t lose face in front of the guards. “You may not think so, but you’re going to need the Agency’s help.” She raised her eyebrows. “I’m sorry if I lost my temper.”
Bellard smoked. “D’accord,” he said to the guards in French. “Escort these two to the airport. If they give you any problem—any problem whatsoever—place them under arrest.” He turned to Maggie and John Rae, switching back to English. “And you two better be on the next military flight out of France.” He tapped his cigarette into an ashtray.
The guards came into the room and it suddenly became very crowded.
“Americans,” Bellard said, sitting back in his chair.
“Well, that went well,” Maggie said as she and John Rae were unceremoniously dumped off in front of the Shangri La hotel on rue Philibert Lucot. The blue and white French National police van roared off on a street devoid of traffic, glistening with recent rain. It was just after three in the morning.
John Rae jammed his hands in the pockets of his pigskin jacket. “At least you got us a reprieve.”
A hasty phone call to her boss had resulted in Ed calling Bellard and negotiating the two of them being allowed to stay the night and gather their belongings. The next military flight wasn’t until after eight AM anyway. In the meantime Ed was going to try for an extension. Bellard wouldn’t want Washington to create a stink over Kafka’s beating so Ed had some leverage.
They walked across the street to her hotel.
Once inside the small dark lobby, John Rae said to the night clerk: “My bag is in storage. Do you have a room for me?”
“So sorry, monsieur,” the young woman said, hunched over her textbook. “All full.”
Maggie sighed.
“Come on up,” she said to John Rae.
John Rae gave her a look.
“You’re sleeping on the floor,” she said, punching the button for the tiny elevator. “I smell like a horse anyway, trying to break my quarter mile to Stalingrad Metro. I’m not fit to sleep with the homeless refugees.”
“Sure you are,” John Rae said.
Maggie shook her head. They got into the lift. “Once Bellard cools down,” she said. “He’ll realize he can’t pull it off without us.” But she didn’t know. Bellard didn’t really care about Abraqa. All he wanted was Kafka. And he had him.