“I’m sorry, Sophia,” he says with tears in his eyes. “I am so sorry I didn’t kill him.”
I have never seen my father cry. Not once. Not even when he found me in Jozef’s office. Wet eyes, red faced, yes. But never tears. Until now.
If he can track the most elusive terrorists in the world, why couldn’t my father find me in Istanbul? Why didn’t he search every building, every house, every apartment? If he killed all of Bekami’s men, why didn’t he kill Bekami too?
By late afternoon, the hot room has begun to smell of spices from the downstairs kitchen; the fan in the corner spins the heat and saffron into a suffocating aroma. My mother comes and goes. She seems agitated. Worried. She says little.
On the balcony, I sink against the railing. Outside, the cacophony hits me at once: cars honking, voices, blaring sunlight, the mixed smell of jasmine and exhaust.
Ahead, I see Place de la Victoire—a large freestanding gate, resembling a miniature Arc de Triomphe. In the late afternoon sun, men fill the plaza surrounding it, sitting on benches casually sipping mint tea and chatting.
Using the rail to hold myself up I rehearse the number series: 14-36-53 … 55-65-96. I count prime numbers in Mandarin. I envision my favorite café on Beirut’s corniche. I recall the latitudes of South American capitals. I try everything not to think about Aksel, but he enters my mind like a tempest.
I see his furious eyes looking down at me on the tarmac as he realized I was leaving. Did he think I had lied to him? Betrayed him? If only I could call him … I won’t tell him details … I just need to hear his voice …
I step back inside. My father is doing one-handed push-ups on the Moroccan carpet.
I have two options. I can cross the room and retrieve my phone before he stops me. Or, I can use the hotel telephone, which is closer. I walk across the carpet and lift the receiver from the cradle.
It is an old 1990s model. Most of the buttons are worn away. I dial carefully. One beep. A second. I anticipate his voice. Sophia? he’ll say. Come back, I miss you.
Instead, I hear: This number is out of service—I slam the receiver into the cradle and whirl around.
“Where is he?” I shout.
My father continues his push-ups. “Safe.”
“Why can’t I talk to him?”
He does two more push-ups, then springs his legs forward and stands.
My father pulls out his phone, swipes, then hands it to me. On the screen is a room with a river rock fireplace and polished wood floors, scattered with glass and debris.
“Aksel’s house was wired with a video alarm system,” my father explains. “He turned it on when you returned from the ballet.”
Stunned, I watch Aksel enter the frame. His hair messy and soaked in sweat, his jaw tight, his face expressing devastation, sadness, rage … it must be after the tarmac.
Resting both of his arms on the back of the sofa, he looks unsteady. Suited figures move behind him, cleaning.
Grimacing, Aksel places his hand on the side of his stomach. Wincing, he lifts his shirt and inspects the bandage wrapped around his wounded ribs.
Abruptly, Aksel bends over, snatches up a piece of glass, and hurls it against the wall. He takes a chair with two missing legs and launches it across the room. It shatters against the fireplace.
The icy wind from the broken windows whips past him. He turns toward the hall, his emerald eyes burning in anger. Glass crushes beneath his boots. Swiftly, he yanks down a black duffel from the top shelf of the hall closet, walks back to the demolished great room, and hesitates. After a quick look around the house, he exits the frame. Then the image goes pitch black.
I can’t pry my eyes from the screen. My hand clenches the phone. Immediately, all the fury simmering inside me since we left Waterford boils over.
“Where is he?” I shriek. “We have to go back—”
“Aksel’s fine—”
“Where’d he go?” I can’t see my father through the tears streaming from my eyes.
“Any person close to you, like any person close to us, is a potential target. He left for his grandfather’s home in DC. He’s safe there, Sophia. Don’t contact him.”
“You can’t stop me from calling him!”
“Sophia, he fought Bekami’s men alongside you. If he wasn’t exposed before, he certainly is now. Every time you contact him, you risk putting