“Antar might kill Nazzar’s family. He might think Nazzar abandoned him. He has done it before to other families because of other men, men he loved less than Nazzar.”

“Would that be a tragedy?” Benane asked.

“Not if we were there before Antar.”

“That is my idea.”

Sellami sat back in his chair. “Do Nazzar’s parents know he is alive?” he asked.

“His mother. His father is dead. Just his mother,” Benane answered.

“Brothers? Sisters?”

“None.”

“Unusual. So what does this mother know?”

“Nothing, naturally.”

“The unit reported him missing.”

“He was declared a deserter. There is a warrant for his arrest.”

“We should fix that.”

“Not a good idea to fix. It would be poorly timed. They have a good way of knowing this kind of thing.”

“Okay.”

“Talk to Nazzar. The doctor says he is stitched up and there are no internal injuries to speak of. I think it would be better to move quickly rather than slowly.”

“Antar was wounded. He will not be moving yet.”

“When has that ever stopped him? Most of the time he walks around smelling like days-old chicken. I do not think he has any toes anymore. There is also this: Zahaf will not know where Antar died; in a village burnt to the ground there is no way to know. So we will, if we are quick, deliver Antar according to script.”

The sling on his arm was not helpful. The stitches were no doubt a good thing. The bandaging around his waist felt strong, comforting even. The doctor had been excellent. He spoke French, looked German. Aziz answered his questions—Does this hurt? Can you move this?—and nothing more was said between them. The doctor gave him pills for pain, but Aziz kept them under his tongue and took them out when he left.

He was in a room at the back of the house. Its Palladian doors opened onto gardens and an incomprehensibly green swath of grass. He had never, except in movies, seen such a thing. Outdoor lighting powered upward into the trees, great tall canopies that moved gently in a low wind. Blooming vines and groupings of tender plants wound around the periphery. The grounds were so big, he could not see to the end or the side of them. This was how Benane lived. This was what he could not give up, or perhaps what he told himself he didn’t need but his wife did, or his children. There was nothing Algerian here. It was a European estate, a French château without plated gold or ornate rickrack. It was stately, as he imagined Benane himself was.