“Because he told you he wasn’t?” Hugo asked, keeping the sarcasm gentle. “Look, there’s a whole lot going on right now that you two don’t know about. And none of it is going to end well if he tries to disappear.”
“Like what?” Rousseau said. “What’s going on?”
“The man with Abida, the one killed in the cemetery. He was supposed to start work at our embassy. He was also the son of a US senator. When he was killed a lot of high-level people got very upset and very interested. They started looking at Abida and they found you. So the sooner I find her killer the sooner we can work out your situation.”
Al Zakiri’s hand lowered, just a couple of inches. “She was my friend,” he said, his voice softening. “I can’t believe what happened.”
“Why was she here on a false passport? What was she doing here?”
“The same thing as me. Trying to escape our lives. We knew each other in Karachi, our families were friends for many years. Our fathers became …” he waved his hands, looking for the right word, “… radicalized. When the United States invaded Afghanistan and Iraq they, along with a lot of people, saw this as an attack on our religion. They started by funding local activists and, as time went by, my father and Abida’s become personally involved.”
“Meaning?”
“They funded training camps, then they helped set them up, run them. My father took me with him but,” he shrugged, “I never wanted that. I am a Muslim but don’t believe as they do.”
“And Abida?”
“She felt the same way. She was so smart, so modern. She was being made to wear clothes she didn’t like; her family stopped her from dancing, which was her favorite thing in the world. She was elegant, wonderful. That’s why they took her on at the Moulin Rouge, she was amazing to watch.”
“She was good,” Rousseau said. “She was my understudy. That’s how I met Mohammed.”
“It’s true. The final straw for Abida was when she learned that her father had arranged her marriage to some goat herder in Afghanistan who thought himself a warlord.” Al Zakiri shook his head and Rousseau entwined an arm through his, leaning her body against him. “We had money,” he continued, “so I used it to get passports. We came as friends, to help each other start new lives.”
“OK. That’s all fine,” Hugo said. “But you need to come with me to tell that to the intelligence people who think you are a terrorist. They can check it out, and you can have your new life.”
Al Zakiri laughed, but there was no humor in his eyes. “Check it out? While I rot in some jail thousands of miles away? While they subject me to enhanced interrogation just to make sure I’m telling the truth? No. You said it yourself, they have made up their minds and nothing I can say will change that.”
Hugo started to speak when his phone buzzed. Al Zakiri raised the gun again. “Don’t answer it.”
“It may have something to do with you,” Hugo said. “They are at your apartment, right now. Let me see who it is, that’s all.”
“Slowly. And do not answer.”
Hugo pulled the phone from his pocket, looked at the display and then at Al Zakiri. “It’s him. This is the man in charge of catching you.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Hugo held up a hand, wanting Al Zakiri to remain calm, to listen. “He’s a friend, and you can trust him.”
“So you say,” Al Zakiri said. “Put him on speaker, and don’t tell him I’m here.”
Hugo nodded. “Fine.” He flipped open the phone and held it out before pressing the speaker button. “Tom, what’s up?”
“Got me on speaker?”
“Yes. What happened?”
“We went in but he wasn’t there.” Tom’s voice was tinny and remote, but clear. “He has a girlfriend, though, judging by the underwear on the bedroom floor.” They heard a chuckle. “Unless it’s his, of course. Never can tell with those repressed radicals.”
Hugo felt Al Zakiri shift, and shot him a glance. Stay cool.
“Know who she is?” Hugo asked.
“No, but we will. I’ve got people questioning the neighbors and going through his computer. Fuck knows what we’ll find on that but it won’t take long, the dumbass didn’t even have a password.”
“A terrorist without a password? What does that tell you?”
“You’re on his side now?”
“I always told you he wasn’t our killer. What if he’s not a terrorist, either?”
“You think he’s Santa Claus? Shit, maybe he is but we’ll worry about that once he’s in Gitmo.”
Hugo and Al Zakiri locked eyes. “What’s your plan?” Hugo said into the phone.
“Find his girlfriend’s place and take him there. Guns blazing if we’re lucky.”
“OK,” Hugo said. “Thanks for letting me know. You sound tired, I’ll let you get some rest.”
“Yeah, whatever. How did the Moulin Rouge visit go? Get some phone numbers?”
“A lead or two, nothing solid yet. I’ll let you know if anything pans out.”
“You sound weird. You’re not holding out on me are you?”
“Yes, Tom, I am. In fact, I’m standing here with Al Zakiri.”
“Yeah? Well, tell him that when men with masks come knocking, he needs to stand very, very still. Or, better still, duck.”
“Nice. How long until your boys come knocking?”
“No idea, I should get off the line so they can call me if they find something.”
“Or you could spring for that newfangled call-waiting feature.”
“It came with the phone, just can’t figure out how to use the fucking thing. Every time I try, I disconnect both people.”
“You’re a dinosaur,” Hugo said. “Give me a call when you know anything, OK? I’ll do the same. And in the meantime, get some rest.” Hugo closed the phone and looked at Al Zakiri, then Rousseau. “He’s in a hospital bed right now.”
“Why?” Al Zakiri asked.
“The man who killed Abida shot him last night.”
“So why are you all chasing me and not him?”
“It’s complicated. Partly because some people think you’re the one who killed her and partly because by chasing you I also get to chase the real killer.”
Al Zakiri looked down into Rousseau’s eyes. “I have to get out of here. Find somewhere safe.”
“The safest place for you is with me,” Hugo said.
“Bullshit. Your friend wants me dead. Men in masks with guns, remember?” Al Zakiri shook his head. “And he wasn’t kidding when he mentioned Gitmo.”
“Yes,” Hugo said firmly, “he was. I’m telling you right now that while you might be detained, you won’t be harmed. You have my word.”
“It’s not you I’m worried about.”
“I can’t let you leave,” Hugo said.
“No, my friend.” Al Zakiri waggled the gun. “You can’t stop me.”
“I don’t believe you’d shoot me. If you’re not a murderer or a terrorist then you won’t.”
Al Zakiri’s eyes flashed. “Why not? Why shouldn’t I? You came busting in here, I have every right. And if my only other option is an American prison cell, why shouldn’t I? I would rather die than be taken into custody by you people. Because that’s what would probably happen anyway.” He looked at Rousseau. “My sweet, it’s hard for you to understand. I lived so long with violent extremists, I’ve seen death and I’m not afraid of it. And I’m not going to submit to the other side of it.”
The shaking hand, the uncertainty in the Pakistani’s voice, both things told Hugo that he was probably telling the truth. But Hugo couldn’t fault the man’s logic, either; turning himself in was a huge risk for Al Zakiri, and if the man had money here he might be able to safely disappear in Paris. Might.
“They’ll find you,” Hugo said. “Sooner rather than later, and when they do—”