Two orderlies in white came through a door at the far end of the garage. They had a stretcher.

“I have talked to Tahar,” Sellami said.

He and Ramdane Benane were sitting in a gallery that abutted a pond. The doctor was working on Aziz in another part of Benane’s house.

“And?” Benane said.

“He says it was a mistake.”

“A mistake.”

“Killing twenty on our payroll: that is his concept for mistake.”

“They were criminals,” Benane reminded him.

“Tahar’s people are welcome to kill the criminals I travel with and you hired, but Tahar’s people were trying—and eagerly—to kill me.”

“But they did not.”

“There were guns. I had a knife.”

“I am sorry for this. Really. I am.”

“We will never get that close to Antar again.”

“I know.”

“That took two years.”

“I know.”

“We had every single sadist in North Africa in this group. It is not going to come easy to assemble it again.”

“We should have just had you kill him.”

“As I had said.”

“Zahaf would not have it.”

“You have to admit, he is unrealistic,” Sellami said, sitting down on a taupe armchair. “Would you bring me something exquisitely alcoholic?” he said into an intercom box on a side table. A green light went on.

“You cannot have someone like Antar killed to the script Zahaf wants. People do not want to kill Antar. The sick fuck is a hero. Zahaf? We could get some villagers to kill Zahaf.”

Benane sat down and put his head in his hands. “I have lost the ability to talk to him.”

“That is what happens. How many whores did he bring in this weekend? Ten, twenty? What was it?”

“He is without conscience.”

“Just like Antar.”

“No.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

A man came into the room with a cart of liquor and bar glasses. He brought Benane a glass of red wine.

“I want Pernod,” Sellami said.

“None is here.”

Sellami looked at the cart. “Vodka, then. Ice.”

They sat drinking in silence.

“You are convinced Antar survived it,” Benane said.

“I saw him kill many men. After he killed them, he ran to a truck, got in, and drove away. I saw it myself.”

“Headed?”

“North. After, he could have turned east, then south, then west. There is no way to know. We were it. We knew where he was. And I am here and Nazzar is here and the rest are food for flies.”

“He cannot go to his family,” Benane said.

“Are they in Châteauneuf?”

“No, they are still in Berrouaghia.”

“There is another problem,” Sellami said. “He was obsessed with Nazzar.”

“So?”

“He will try to find him.”

“Maybe that is not a problem.” Benane said each word slowly.

Sellami sat there thinking.

“Maybe we send Nazzar home,” Benane said.

“So that Antar would follow him there?”

“You seem to think he might.”