“In French,” Sellami said, a little apart from the rest.

“That girl, that one with the red scarf,” said Riad.

Aziz nodded.

“This was hers,” Sellami said.

“I killed her,” said Rïad.

“You killed for a French Vogue, you sick fuck,” Sellami said, laughing. The others joined in. Aziz motioned with his eyes toward Antar.

“Tell him we are reading a Hadith.”

Aziz nodded.

“Antar cannot read, so Hadith or Vogue, it’s all one to him,” said another.

“And we laugh over a Hadith because?” Aziz asked.

“Because we know tonight we kill, and the ones the prophet predicted—we are coming for them.”

“A prayer might be good around now,” Aziz counseled.

They put the Vogue into a bag and turned to the east.

People seemed to leave parts of their houses uninhabited in Haouch Boughfi el-Khemisti. Many rooms were unfinished, as if money to build had run out, and there were hallways and inner courtyards given over to vines and ants. Aziz carried a sawed-off shotgun. Only he and Antar were so armed. The rest had knives. Their long beards and hair would have made them look like sleep-roused Bedouins, but many were wearing new leather jackets just stolen, and the fantastically white Adidas not yet worn until that night. Aziz declined these, and Antar, by his side, saw the white of Aziz’s djellaba and drawstring pants. He was in the company of a holy man, and this dress, this humility, to Antar was another sign. To kill him, Antar thought once again, what would it bring? He threw off this thinking. His duty this night was to avenge his sisters.

They walked like soft kittens. Antar turned down a small alley bordered by low trees at the exit east of the village. There were a few groups of mules, loaded with carrots, lettuce, and coriander, ready for the morning to go to market. The air smelled of vegetables and dirt. The houses were identical. The agreed-upon sign was to be a basket of potatoes at the back entry of a house where an army colonel lived. One of his sons had come home only nights ago from his tour of duty. Now his son, Antar thought, will taste what his own sisters had tasted.

The houses were close together. There were thirty men with Antar that night, and the neighborhood had hundreds of families. Aziz guessed this would last until morning, and since it was early March there might be fog. As he always did, he considered whether this village could be gotten lost in, whether disappearing was possible, if he could make the fiction of his death convincing to Antar. For months Aziz had studied the reaction to those of their band who went missing. There had been five of them. In all cases, Antar made the search for their bodies a mission. Two were found. On the other three, word was sent and the families were found. Those families were killed.