I scramble back into position, bracing myself this time so that on the next turn I won’t let go of Hamid. I can feel him breathing, shallow, barely there, his eyes only half open now.
Hard left. The tires squeal. Hard right, then right again. But the motorbike won’t give up. In fact, it’s gaining. They’re going for Yael now, pulling up on her side, the passenger leveling the submachine gun. I try to shout a warning, but just as my mouth opens, there’s another burst of orange flame from the barrel, a long succession of shots, the sound impossibly loud, like the universe itself being ripped open. The dashboard in front of Yael comes alive, pieces of it popping up and dancing on end as bits of plastic fill the air like confetti. Yael flicks the wheel to the left, and the motorbike leaps out of the way and onto the sidewalk, too quick and agile for her. Then it disappears from view.
There is no explosion as I would have expected. Only the crumple of metal and flesh against metal and concrete, sudden and fatal. A few pieces of the motorbike skitter down the road after us, as if not ready to give up the chase. We come to a stop half a block later.
The quiet and stillness of the world surprises me. But there’s no stillness for Yael. She’s out the door the second the car stops, hobbling back toward the wreckage behind us, clearly wounded but clearly not badly enough to stop her. I keep my hands pressed to Hamid’s wounds but am able to turn my head far enough to see her limp up to the concrete base of a streetlamp. The motorbike and driver are piled against it like heaps of unrecognizable trash. The figure of the passenger lies in the roadway.
There’s a pistol in Yael’s hand now. Has she taken it from one of the pursuers? Did she have it in her jacket? I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to watch, but Yael never fires. It’s obvious even from here that she doesn’t need to.
I hear her limping back to the car, her shoe dragging across the cobblestones. “You can stop doing that,” she says, leaning into the car, the pistol held loosely in her hand.
I look to Hamid. He’s perfectly still now, mouth wide, eyes closed, and I peel my hands away from his dead body. Air catches in my throat.
Yael’s voice is stern, businesslike. “Don’t you dare cry. We don’t have time.” She’s gripping the car door for support and presses a hand to her side. Blood creeps from between her fingers.
I scramble out of the backseat and try to scoop an arm under hers to keep her from falling over. She pushes me away and drops the gun to the ground.
“You’re hurt. I’ll call an ambulance.”
“An ambulance? And how to explain the presence of three dead men and a wounded Israeli?”
“I’ll drive you to a hospital, then.”
“The car is too shot up. Steering’s gone.” She pinches her eyes shut in pain. “I have a number I’m to call if this happens. The embassy sends someone. We’ll see whether they get here before the cops do.”
“I’m staying with you.”
“You’ll end up in a French jail. You won’t get your father back.”
For a moment, I stare at her. “Get my father back?” I shout. “Hamid’s dead, Yael. The only lead I had is dead.”
She grabs my arm and squeezes hard, half in pain, half to make her point. “And I’m sure Hamid’s mother will be very upset, but as for you, you have something better now. Do you not see this?”
The truth is I don’t see it. But then I turn to the bodies behind me on the road and realize she’s right. The men who wanted Hamid dead are more valuable than Hamid himself. Or would be if they weren’t twisted corpses lying amid the parts of their motorbike.
She answers my question before I can ask it.
“They have papers, Gwendolyn. Passports, ID cards. They have mobile phones with names and numbers and pictures of everyone they know. Start there.”
I feel her body shudder against mine, and I help her down onto the car seat. She curses in Hebrew, and a small cry sneaks out.
“I’m staying right here until you get help.”
Her hand reaches out and grips my jaw, then twists my face toward hers. I feel her breath, hot and wet, coming through bared teeth. “You little sentimental shit. Either all this—Hamid, the blood, the fucking bullet in my side—means something, or it was pointless. You will be hard, Gwendolyn, and continue on alone, or you will be nothing. Which will it be?”
Her grip releases, and I stagger backward. For a long moment, there’s only the sound of the Paris night and Yael’s labored breathing.
Then I decide.
*
The left leg of the driver is still pressed into the concrete base of the streetlamp, fused with the engine block and rear wheel of the bike. I probe the pockets of his jeans until I find a thick wallet, then move to his jacket. There’s no structure to his torso anymore, no rib cage, just what feels like raw, warm meat. I find his phone and passport and put them in my jacket pocket. The body of the passenger, the man with the gun, lies in the roadway about ten feet away. It’s more intact but folded in half the wrong way. The crash knocked his shoes off, but the messenger bag is still looped around his chest. It’s there in his bag that I find his passport, along with extra magazines for the gun, a bottle of Pepsi, and an apple. I never do find the second one’s wallet or phone.
In the distance, the high-low wail of French police sirens. I look back at Yael, who is standing again, watching me, both hands now holding her side. She’s leaning against the car door, maybe waiting until I’m gone to fall over.
Two blocks from the scene, the police sirens are louder, but the streets are still empty. The only vehicle I see is a windowless white van that speeds past me in the direction from which I’ve come.
BERLIN
Twelve
Connecting to Tor Servers:
Svaneke.gcqtor01.BigBertha (Slovenia) Anonymousprox.altnet01.Rhymer (Japan) SoixanteDix26.fortef07.Carre (Canada) Unnamed.Unnamed01.Alterform (Thailand) <<Congratulations! You are now connected to Tor Anonymous Chat!>> <<Entering Private Mode / Secure>> <AnonUser Red is now connected> AnonUser Scholar: jesus h where the hell u been?
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