“Miller and I came up together. Listen. You—uh, the carpet, I just have to take that to the lab, no real reason, just dotting i’s and what-have-you.”

Mourad nodded. He had recovered himself sufficiently to remember his original charge to himself to say as little as possible.

“I’m not even gonna write this one up; I mean, take down your names, and the whole thing. The carpet—I mean that will go under a number with an unnamed CS.”

Confidential Source. Mourad nodded again.

“Good, then.”

Mourad nodded.

“So. I’ll just let you people go about your business.”

Mourad and Heather nodded.

“No hard feelings.”

“No,” Mourad said.

“No,” Heather said.

Aziz and Ghazi said little on the bus to the bus. Aziz had a shopping bag and one suitcase. Ghazi had nothing. He looked awful. The wounds were behind a ski mask, but a cut on his eyelid too small to bandage was seeping. Passengers tried to sneak looks at them. Aziz knew his expression was the one that made him look like a crazed lying pickpocket. He guessed Ghazi was thinking something close to what he was thinking—that better, upward, was over. Aziz’s mistakes tumbled in his mind. He should not have gone to Rafik at the start. Having gone, he should have left after weeks, not stayed for years. He should have never visited the U-Stor-It the first time and certainly should have left Rafik after he did. He could have told Mourad about Rafik. He should have ignored Ghazi about going back to the U-Stor-It. And he should have never fucked with the belligerent Kamal. Having provoked him that night in the rain, he should have left Brooks Street the next day.

Ghazi was not blameless, but that was hard for Aziz to see, looking at his gummy eye and raw red lips, injuries he had saved Aziz from by kindness, his everyday constant concern for how Aziz was doing. Aziz needed a better job, so Ghazi pestered the boss. Aziz was tired, so Ghazi closed Del Fuegos. Aziz imagined John Hill at the lunch shift, and no sign of them.

Mourad believed Bridges was out there watching, or, more likely, had sent someone to watch. He looked everywhere when he came home from work and when he left for work, and he could see nothing, but he knew these were not baboons like back home that you could see plain. These were Americans, and they knew how to watch without bringing attention. They may have even bought the house across the street—he had heard from talk at work that the FBI did this, that they bought houses and waited and watched for years.