I paused to take in the sunny, sleepy square and forced my hands into my lap.
Zarif’s voice broke through. “Ms. Parnell. Sydney. Are you all right?”
“Yes.” I plunged on. “Malik and I grew close. I wasn’t a mother figure for him. I have no children of my own, and my parents weren’t great role models. But I did my best. I worked with him on his English, let him play games on my computer, showed him how to count cards in blackjack.” I smiled. “I told him that in America, thumbs-up means something different from what it means in Iraq. We watched a lot of movies together. His favorite was The Lion King. Hakuna matata, he would say to me. It means—” I glanced away and cleared my throat.
“It means no worries,” Zarif said. “A good idea, hard to hold on to.”
I brought my gaze back. “The other Marines helped take care of him. We were all fond of him. Then, a few months after his mother’s death, I was redeployed. I tried, but failed, to bring him with me back to America.”
“I’ve heard that story many times,” Zarif said. “Men and women who helped our soldiers and Marines, then were left behind when we withdrew and things got ugly. A lot of them died. I thought we’d learned that lesson in Saigon.”
An old, familiar anger burned in my throat. “Not our most shining moment.”
“No. But please, go on.”
“After I left, friends sent me emails to let me know how Malik was doing. He continued to spend time on the FOB. Then one morning he didn’t show up. No one was worried until he didn’t appear the next morning. Or the next. A week went by.”
Zarif raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. He never came back.”
“Everyone hoped that his grandparents had decided to move away. But in truth, a lot of us figured the family had been killed for working with us. It was not only Malik’s mother who worked for the US government. One of his uncles did some sort of business on the FOB. And another family member had served as an interpreter for a special-ops team. He was killed in an ambush along with the rest of the team.”
Including the man I’d loved. Doug Ayers.
“It’s a terrible story,” Zarif said. “So much loss.”
“Yes.”
He took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “Do you mind?”
“I live for secondhand smoke.”
“Sarcasm.” He moved to slip the pack back into his pocket. “I’ll wait.”
“Actually, no. Please, go ahead.”
He tapped out a cigarette and lit it. The pungent scent of tobacco filled the air. I tried not to notice how good it smelled.
“But now something has changed,” Zarif guessed.
“Six months ago, a man came to see me. He believed that not only was Malik alive and well, he was sure the boy had made his way to America. But he had no leads. He thought I might know something, since Malik and I had been close. But this was the first I’d heard anything.”
“This man, who was he?”
A real son of a bitch. “A fellow Marine. I didn’t ask how he got his information.”
“And you do not wish to share his name.”
I hadn’t decided what to do about Sergeant Max Udell—Sarge. I didn’t know where he was or what he was up to. Sharing seemed like a bad idea. “What could it mean to you?”
Zarif tipped his head to the side and blew a stream of smoke up and away. “Nothing, I suppose.”
Max Udell had been a tank sergeant in the Marines, a trusted colleague, if not a friend. But by the time he surprised me in my own kitchen, he’d fallen a long way from his time in the USMC.
“This man broke into my house and told me at gunpoint that he was working for the CIA. They’d taken the boy to use as a spy, then lost him.”
As if Malik were merely a toy, carelessly misplaced.
“And what did you tell him?” Zarif asked. There was a bright rim of metal in his voice that hadn’t been there before, as if he were more interrogator than bystander.
I narrowed my eyes. I’d had nothing to offer Sarge to help with his search. Not that I would have shared anything with a man who wanted to turn kids into spies. Or with someone who opened the conversation by promising to splatter my brains around when we finished.
“The truth,” I said. “That I hadn’t seen or heard from Malik in nearly three years.”
The waiter came out and, unasked, poured my third cup of coffee and brought Zarif another espresso. If I drank any more, my heart would be leapfrogging over my ribs.
When the waiter returned inside, Zarif said, “But now something has led you here. To Mexico.” His voice was mild again.
“Have you heard of an American named David Fuller?”
Zarif shook his head.
“Fuller runs an organization called the Hope Project. Its mission is to help endangered Iraqis—especially those who helped the Americans—get out of Iraq. Fuller has people working for him around the globe—the US, Canada, Europe, Mexico. When I asked for his help, he had an artist create an age-progressed sketch of Malik. Then he sent the word out, telling his people to keep watch for Malik.”
“Wasn’t that risky? You don’t know why this man, this Marine, was looking for him.”
“Fuller spoke with very few people, and only those who have been with him for a long time. People he knew would be careful. And discreet. Angelo Garcia—” You cannot resist pain. “Angelo was one of the men he trusted.”
“Was?”
“He’s dead.”
I studied Zarif, trying to gauge if all this was truly new to him. But Zarif could have taken the place of a sphinx if he’d been so inclined.
“I am sorry for your friend. But what does this have to do with the Jameh Mosque?”
“Angelo saw Malik there,” I said. “Last month.”
Zarif frowned. “And you believe him? That this child came all that way from Iraq to our little mosque in a sleepy suburb of Mexico City. How could he manage this feat? And more importantly, why would he?”
“Angelo sent a photo. There’s no question. Malik was with a man, a Caucasian, inside your mosque. As for why he ended up there . . . I don’t have an answer for that.”
Zarif rested his still-burning cigarette in the glass ashtray. Smoke spiraled up like a signal for help. “And now this Angelo is dead. And you must think his death had something to do with this small thing he did, sending you a photograph.”
“I know it did.”
“How did he die?”
The day had warmed as the sun moved into the western sky, and now the air was so heavy, I felt I could push it away with my hands. Bees buzzed among the flowers, and a flock of pigeons landed on the cobblestones nearby, cooing softly, their heads bobbing. I took a gulp of cooling coffee and let the caffeine run counterpoint in my blood.
“He was tortured to death.” I laid my gaze on Zarif. “They dumped his body outside my hotel room last night. I’ve been on the run since.”
Zarif had gone very still save for a flash in his dark eyes of what I guessed to be anger. He didn’t touch the espresso, which was no longer steaming. “And now you have brought this danger to my doorstep. Almost to my mosque.”
“That is why I asked you to meet me away from there.”
Zarif picked up the cigarette and sucked in a long drag. He huffed out the smoke and tapped away the ash, taking his time. “Why didn’t this man, this Angelo Garcia, just come to me and ask if I’d seen the boy?”
“He said he did. You told him no.”
There followed a long silence as Zarif eyed me through the smoke. For the first time I noticed how weather beaten his face was, how spare his gestures. The distance he held in his eyes. I’d seen this look before, many times. It was in the eyes of the men who returned from a tour in the Iraqi desert where they’d spent their days staring through a sniper’s scope or kicking down doors. Men who had been unable to let down their guard for so long that suspicion had merged with their flesh like a second skin.
Zarif blinked first. “I re
member that now. I believe I also told him that we got so many visitors that I could not be sure who might have come and gone. I told him that I would ask around.”
“And did you?”
“No one had seen him.”
“Except, apparently, Angelo.”
A faint flush crept into his face, and he looked down at his cigarette. “Apparently.”
Some emotion whispered just beneath his skin, barely detectable. A white noise of reaction, impossible to read.
But one thing I did know—he was lying.
The part of me that was big into self-preservation urged me to stand up, thank Zarif for his time, then walk away and disappear onto a bus or taxi. To put as much distance as possible between the two of us. His behavior had been strange from the get-go. And now he was lying about something.
But I could not leave without learning everything I could, even if—especially if—what Zarif was lying about was whether or not he’d seen Malik or knew anything about him.
I played out a little rope. “What are you uncomfortable about, Zarif?”
He stabbed the air with his cigarette. “Tell me this. If what you are doing is honest, if your reasons for looking for the boy are sincere, why did you not come straight to me once you believed he’d been seen at our mosque? Or ask to speak to our imam? If you are worried about this boy’s safety, that would make sense, wouldn’t it? To ask us directly instead of wasting time?”
“Angelo tried that.”
“A second request would have carried more weight. Especially if you’d said you were concerned for the boy’s safety.”
“Bullshit!” I slapped my palms on the table. Silverware rattled. “That’s bullshit.” My blood pressure took an express elevator up. “I did not come to you immediately because Malik disappeared again right after Angelo saw him. Fuller and I weren’t sure who we could trust. We still aren’t sure. And now you are lying to me. I’d like to know why. For all we know, he was grabbed at your mosque. And maybe you had something to do with it.”
Zarif took another drag from his half-finished cigarette, the tiny flame blazing with a crackle, then stubbed it out. “What is it you want to do with the boy if you find him?”
“Why?”
“Because now I am part of this charade.”
“Fuller knows people outside the US who are willing to take him in. Who want to take him in. Families who could give him a safe and normal life.”
“A safe and normal life.” Zarif leaned back and tapped his chin with a forefinger. “What does that look like for a boy who—if what you say is true—is being hunted by killers?”
Safe and normal, for both me and for Malik, resided on the far side of the investigation I was conducting. The one I’d allowed myself to be scared away from six months earlier when Sarge came calling.
But I couldn’t share that with Zarif. Couldn’t tell him that the key to Malik’s safety possibly lay in what Malik himself could tell me. In what Malik might be able to reveal about who killed his mother and PFC Resenko, assuming he’d seen or heard anything at all. Answers he’d been too traumatized to offer three years ago, but which I needed from him now.
Answers that could mean exposing him to risk in order to save him.
“Until a family is vetted, I’ve made arrangements for an FBI safe house,” I said.
“First you have to get him there.”
“Yes.”
“And what if he is safe where he is?” Zarif pressed. “What if he is safer if you don’t find him? These men you say are looking for him know who you are. They dumped a dead man outside your hotel room. What kind of message is that? Maybe you can elude them here. But as soon as you return to Denver, they’ll have you. They will ask you about this FBI safe house, and you will sing.” He jabbed a finger at me. “Because we all sing.”
As if that thought hadn’t given me nightmares from the moment I decided to walk off the cliff. “What if he isn’t safe, Ehsan? What if he’s in danger?”
“And your presence will make the difference? You’re that good?”
My face grew hot. “For a man who’s never seen this boy, you seem quite invested in the outcome.”
Zarif’s look had hardened to the point where his mild spectacles made me feel as though I stood on the wrong side of a rifle scope. “He’s a child. It is normal to care. But more importantly, if he really was at my mosque, he might return. I’d like to know what risk he brings with him.”
“As long as Malik is somewhere out there, he will never be safe. If he returns to your mosque, then maybe you won’t be safe, either.”
“And you believe you and your Feds can protect him.” He spit the words.
In the square, the pigeons startled, flapping heavily into the air, the beat of their wings a panicked throb against the drowsy afternoon. I jerked upright and scanned the area, but the rest of the world dozed peacefully. Zarif, apparently utterly relaxed, kept his back to the square.
“You are arrogant,” he said.
“I am determined. Malik deserves a real life.”
“And arrogance,” he went on, “has killed more people than stupidity ever did.”
“Would you choose to live your life looking over your shoulder?”
“I’d certainly find it better than a bullet in my heart.”
“Ehsan—”
“There were men,” he said.
“What?”
“Men came looking for the boy a week ago. Americans. Perhaps the men who killed your friend. I told them the same thing I’m going to tell you now. If that boy was ever in my mosque, he came and went without my knowledge. And he never came back, because I’ve been watching. So please—” He clenched a fist but stopped short of smacking it on the table. “Please go away and leave us alone. I am sorry for your troubles. But I want no part of them.”
I said nothing. There was nothing to say.
“Well, then.” He smoothed his suit coat, then placed a two hundred–peso note on the table and stood. “Good-bye, Ms. Parnell. I wish you and the boy, wherever he is, good luck.”
He came around the table with his hand extended. I reached out.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured as he clamped his fingers around my wrist. “It must be done this way.”
At a sharp burn in my arm, I jerked back. He pulled me to him as if we would embrace. I wrenched violently away and bent to grab my duffel with the stun gun. But the ground dropped away, and I staggered. I opened my mouth to cry for help, but Zarif clamped a hand over my mouth and hustled me toward the door to the restaurant.
“It’s better if you don’t fight me,” he said as the ground stopped falling and instead rose to meet me.
CHAPTER 5
Don’t be afraid of the ugly in your past. The trauma. The failures and mistakes. The what-ifs and the what-the-hell-was-I-thinking and the times someone broke your heart.
They’re over and done with, a pile of bones you can use to stand tall.
—Peter Hayes, Clinical Therapist, VA Hospital.
A trace of light nudged at the edges of the world, and a man’s voice dropped through the drugged depths of silence.
“¿Cuánto tiempo?”
A rustle of movement. Fabric.
“Ella debería despertarse en cualquier momento,” someone answered.
My brain labored to parse the words. How long? Followed by, She should come around any minute.
The first voice I didn’t know, but it took me only a few seconds to recognize the second as belonging to Zarif. I made up my mind to kill the bastard at the first chance.
“Ms. Parnell?” he said.
I lay as boneless as the dead and worked to sort out my whereabouts without any visual cues. A warm, fading light filtered through my closed lids. Late-afternoon sun, I guessed. So I’d been unconscious a couple of hours. The surface beneath me was soft and smooth and smelled of leather. The scents of roasting meat and vegetables stirred in the warm air, accompanied by the aroma of baking cinnamon, cori
ander, and cumin, smells I recognized from my favorite Moroccan restaurant. Maybe I was still on the square. That gave me hope. Whoever heard of torturing someone to death in a café?
I felt no pain, save for a residual burn in my arm from the injection. And I wasn’t restrained. I took these as good signs.
“She is coming back to us,” Zarif said in English. “Sydney, you are safe.”
I opened my eyes. Zarif was leaning over me, a furrow between his eyes.
“You son of a bitch.” I threw a fist, hoping to break his nose.
But he caught my hand and then patted it, as if I were a child. “I am sorry. I had no choice.”
He released my hand and stepped away as I pushed myself to a sitting position and waited for the world to stop spinning. I found myself on a leather sofa in what looked like a millionaire’s living room. High, timbered ceilings, a wood-planked floor covered with woven carpets in reds and blues, and white walls adorned with carved masks and framed oils of local scenes. Each painting had its own personal spotlight, and I’d swear the door to the room was thirty feet away. Sunlight slanted through a high row of windows on the southwest wall and lay in mellow trapezoids on the floor. I was in the home of someone so wealthy they didn’t care if the carpets faded.
Just visible outside were an expanse of lawn and a row of distant trees. If I squinted, I could make out faraway hills. I definitely wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Or even Ecatepec.
A man in his early thirties stood behind Zarif. He wore jeans, a black T-shirt, and an expression of alarm. I narrowed my eyes at him, and he flushed, as if I’d caught him thinking things he shouldn’t. Like maybe how to remove my eyeballs without getting blood all over the sofa.
Zarif took a chair a couple of feet out of swinging range. “Do you feel all right?”
“Peachy. This how you get all your dates?”
“My apologies for the rough treatment. But I couldn’t let you see where we brought you. If your enemies are willing to torture you to get the answers they want, then I’d rather you didn’t have those answers.”
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