54

Jalal paced down the narrow tunnel as if he were entering a lion’s den. He didn’t like the positioning of the cloistered room the cousins had rented, but there was nothing he could do about it. He passed the gaming center, seeing the same teenager out front, playing with a phone and ignoring him. He was amazed at the poverty of the place, and yet this man still had money for a smartphone. It was all that was wrong with the world.

He reached the door to the apartment, and before he could even knock, it was opened by Wasim.

Startled, he said, “How did you know I was here?”

Wasim smiled and said, “Tanan has a camera set up at the entrance. He uses the Wi-Fi of the game center, and it transmits into here. We can see everything.”

Jalal said, “Good, good. Smart thinking.” He entered the hovel, seeing one of the men cooking tagine stew on the tabletop stove, the aroma of the food making his stomach rumble.

He said, “Are you men packed?”

“Yes. It’s not like we have a lot of baggage.”

He saw the other three sitting around the chipped kitchen table, waiting on him expectantly.

He set his bag on the floor and said, “This will be our last meal here. It’s time. The passports have arrived.”

They said nothing, and he saw fear on their faces. The fear of stepping into the unknown. He pulled up a chair and sat down, looking at each man in turn. He said, “Are you committed? When we leave here, it will be the end game. I don’t want anyone who is questioning.”

They nodded hesitantly. He said again, “Are you committed? Truly committed?”

They nodded again, now forcefully. The one known as Tanan said, “I have waited all of my life for this. Yes. Insh’Allah, yes.”

Jalal smiled and said, “That is more in line with what I expect. Powerful people have helped our group. You will be the lions that accomplish what others could not.”

In his mind, he had rehearsed a rousing speech, designed to ensure their dedication, but now he decided it wasn’t necessary. They were Berbers from the Rif. They had struggled together since birth. He had not seen them for close to a decade, but he knew their commitment. They would not let him down.

He unzipped his backpack and pulled out a gallon-size Ziploc. Inside were the passports they would use. He said, “This is your ticket to paradise,” and began calling out names.

—

Sitting on a broken metal chair underneath an umbrella that was listlessly sagging, Johan licked his popsicle next to Fonzie. The boy was enamored of the rare treat, slurping his tongue over it as if he’d never been allowed one before. So much so that Johan wondered if that were true.

He said, “You like that, huh?”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Johan. This is like what Americans do.”

Johan said, “But they don’t enjoy it like you do.”

Fonzie smiled and said, “Because they get this all the time. One day, I’m going to be an American. You wait.”

The boy licked his frozen treat, watching the people walking by in the ghetto, feeling for the first time superior to those around him. He had a delight that they couldn’t afford.

Johan felt the melancholy creep into him, memories of impoverished children in Africa only wanting a chance. And the fact that he’d let them down.

He said, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“I’m going to be a pilot. Flying airplanes.”

Surprised, Johan said, “What makes you think that?”

Smugly, Fonzie said, “I have skills. I’ve been told so.”

“By who?”

“I helped a pilot last month. I was his guide. He said I had the makings of a pilot. He’s going to help me. I have his email address. He told me to wait until I was eighteen to send him a message, but he’s going to help.”

Fonzie was so sure of himself that Johan felt sick. Some asshole tourist had used a toss-off compliment and an email address to plant a time-delayed destruction of the boy. It reminded him of another boy. One who used to service their camp in Angola. He was a smiling, rambunctious kid who lived in the village down the road and had told Johan he wanted to be a soldier. He hadn’t even made it to eighteen, his village destroyed by terrorists, all within spitting distance of the army camp.

Johan had found his dismembered body next to his mother’s.

He shook his head, remembering why he was here. He said, “So, the address is right down that tunnel?”

“Yep.” Fonzie looked comically sly and said, “Well, maybe not. It might take me a little more time to find it.”

Johan laughed and said, “You mean, maybe another ice cream?”

Fonzie nodded forcefully and said, “Yes. Maybe one more and I can find it.”

Johan saw a man with a backpack walking through the market. He was one of many strolling around, but this one looked furtive. The man glanced his way, then quickly looked away, as if he didn’t want to be remembered. After a lifetime of hunting men and being hunted, Johan could almost smell the tension radiating from the traveler.

Fonzie caught the shift and said, “What’s wrong, Mr. Johan?”

He faked a smile but kept his eyes on the man, saying, “Nothing, Fonzie. Nothing at all.”

When the man turned into the tunnel, Johan felt a hardness settle in his soul.