Saleem jumped back. He looked from Burim to Mimi.
She was shaking. She dropped the gun and covered her mouth with her hands. She looked at Saleem.
The street was empty. The nearest cars were two blocks away. Two or three lights had turned on in the building windows. Those who slept lightly were beginning to stir. Mimi recovered first. She kneeled over Burim and dug into his pockets, grabbed his wallet, and snapped the gold chain off his thick neck. He moaned softly but offered no resistance.
She stole a glance over her shoulder.
“Let’s go.”
They took off, weaving around buildings and turning into dark streets to put distance between them and Burim.
They were silent as they fled. Panting. Looking over their shoulders.
“Wait,” Mimi finally said. She put her hands on her knees and leaned forward to catch her breath. “I need to stop.”
She looked ghastly pale, even under the yellow glow of a lantern. Saleem knew he must look the same. Things had gone terribly wrong. Burim was not supposed to have seen his attacker. Mimi was supposed to look surprised and helpless at the attack. But Burim had seen their faces, had realized they had duped him, conspired against him.
“Mimi, we need to hide.”
They went to her apartment. She quickly tossed a stack of folded clothes from the chair into a duffel bag.
She’d had no intention of staying here after tonight, Saleem realized.
CHAPTER 51
Saleem
SALEEM AND MIMI WAITED UNTIL AFTERNOON TO GO TO THE apartment building she had pointed out.
“I wait here for you,” she said and pointed to a bench half a block away. She pulled the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands and blew on them. The sun did little to warm her.
Saleem entered the old building. It was an uninviting warren of decay—cigarette butts scattered through the hallways, broken handrails on the stairs, and a flickering wall lamp. Radios and televisions buzzed behind closed doors, but there was not a person in sight.
He checked the apartment number, took a deep breath, and knocked. He took a nervous step back and waited. There was a click, and the eyehole cover slid open. After a moment, the door opened slightly, and a man stood before Saleem with a cigarette dangling from his lower lip. He wore an unbuttoned black shirt over jeans, his silver belt buckle a proud emblem on his waist. Somewhere in his late thirties, he looked the teenage Saleem over and concluded that he was unimpressed.
Saleem swallowed before speaking.
“I look for work, please.”
“Who are you?”
“I want to go to France. I can work.”
The man sucked on the cigarette he held with two fingers, then tossed it into the hallway. He squinted at Saleem as he exhaled.
“Who send you?”
“Mimi,” Saleem said quietly. She’d told him to use her name, afraid he would not get far without it.
“Mimi, eh?”
“Yes.” Saleem heeded her advice and kept his answers brief. The door opened a little wider and, with a nod, Saleem was invited in.
The apartment was larger than Mimi’s but much filthier. There were clothes everywhere, crumpled food wrappers, and a coffee table topped with plates of food and several mobile phones. The television blared. Saleem reminded himself not to stare. The door closed behind them.
“Where are you from?”
“Afghanistan.”
“Afghanistan?” he said, thick eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Why you want work?”
“My family is in London. I want to go there.”
Saleem had second thoughts, his pulse racing. He had just caught a glimpse of a handgun tucked in between the cushions of the sofa. He stayed focused on the man before him.
“You have papers?”
“No papers.”
“You know Mimi?”
“Yes.”