Aziz stopped breathing.

“No doubt you miss her. It has been difficult.”

Aziz stayed still. He could not bring himself to nod. This woman, she would know he was not Nazzar. This woman, she would be his undoing.

“Perhaps not. Sellami told me you are a man without feeling.”

The sound of a dog scratching outside came into the silence. A woman’s voice said, “No.” The mechanical gearing of a golf cart came close and then fell away.

“I am a man of feeling, Colonel Benane,” Aziz finally said. “I felt when I killed mothers—in your service. I felt when I killed girls—in your service. And I will no doubt have with me those mothers and those girls when I see my own mother tomorrow morning.” It was foolhardy to talk to this man this way, but Aziz was more tired than he ever thought was possible. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them a few moments later, Benane was no longer in his chair. Aziz looked around the room for him in consternation. He was off to get henchmen, klashes; perhaps he was readying the place where Aziz would be given over for kdoulou esslah. Aziz wanted the chambers of Ben Aknoun; it was his due. But no, Benane was on his knees. He was at Aziz’s knees, and this time the man was weeping. His sobbing had been too long coming. Aziz could not understand most of what he was saying. Benane continued for a short time only, but he was still overcome when he pulled himself off the floor and walked hurriedly out the door. The last noise Aziz heard was sniffling, then a cough, in the hallway.

Chapter 24

24

Aziz dialed Brooks Street. “The number you have dialed, six one seven, two nine one, seven eight six four, has been disconnected. Please check the number and try again.” He had dialed at different times for days now. It was always the same. Mourad had changed the number, not left it off the hook by mistake.

Aziz decided to write his brother at work. This meant getting the address again. He had no memory of what the dispatcher on the pay phone had given him. Now he worried she would answer, recognize his voice, and refuse to tell him what she had told before.

He weighed what he should say. It all felt risky. Then it came to him. He asked the old man selling books to make the call for him. The sound of his ancient voice—surely that would inspire respect. Yet all the old Yemeni had was Arabic. But he could read. As long as the sentences were short.

Aziz wrote the English words using Arabic letters, because the old man could not read the Roman alphabet. He sat with him outside the cell-phone store for several mornings while the old man peddled his books.

E-X-C-U-S-E

That was an excellent word in Arabic.

M-E

Also good.

I N-E-E-D