Chapter Sixteen (excerpt)

Dressed in an old tracksuit and worn-out sneakers borrowed from the holocaust survivor, Tim blended effortlessly with the locals in Saint-Denis. To some, he looked like a down-and-out fruit vendor; to others, a retro-chic Slavic drifter. In either case, he was not a target for mugging — even in a place notorious for being one of Europe’s hubs for thefts and robberies, where the police rarely ventured. For now, that was what mattered most.

From Rue du Dobropol, where he’d fled from the police, it was only a few hundred yards to the nearest metro station. He navigated the side streets and alleys at a steady jog. Once aboard the metro, a quick transfer brought him to the relative safety of the banlieues on Paris’s northern outskirts — a place governed by the rules of the streets rather than the laws of the police or gendarmerie. Rules Tim had always scoffed at and looked down upon, but now adopted with surprising ease. Rules like: don’t rob the poor, and never collaborate with the cops. Heaven, Tim thought to himself.

He assumed that by now, Nina had already been interrogated and left alone, so he decided to call her.

“Nina. Are you okay?” he asked, not giving her a chance to answer. “Listen. When they let you back into the apartment, go straight to the fridge. My phone — the one I forgot in Cairo — is there, hidden among the lettuce. Please, turn it on. You know my password. Open Google Maps, check the location history, and find out where the phone was on April thirteenth, the day I had surgery in Cairo. Six p.m., local time. Let me know the exact location.”

“I’ll do it,” Nina replied, her voice still shaky. It was clear the police hadn’t been gentle during her questioning.

Tim, who had over an hour to think on the metro, began piecing together the murder of Mia, her discoveries, and the sudden police decision to frame him for the crime. Initially, they’d ruled it a suicide. Now, however, it seemed to be part of a larger, interconnected story — a conspiracy, though he couldn’t yet figure out how it all fit together. One thing was certain: since his surgery in Cairo, everything had spiraled out of control, and events had started unfolding that he’d never encountered before in his life.

Sure, Tim had always enjoyed skirting the edge of legality, occasionally leaping over the line and staying there until the last possible moment. But those transgressions had always been in the realm of financial, tax, or economic laws — rules he saw more as guidelines for the gullible than anything serious. Despite the many creative ventures he’d undertaken for clients around the world, he’d never had to deal with the police, let alone run from them.

Of course, there had been run-ins with hot-headed Central Asian oligarchs who threatened him with antique pistols and massive Turkmen wolfhounds; theatrical Arabs, perpetually offended by something; the Chinese triad, which illegally employed North Koreans; and, naturally, the Russians. They were particularly fond of meeting on yachts in international waters off the coasts of Cyprus or Syria, recounting tales of unfortunate ‘accidental’ falls out of windows.

“Hi,” Nina whispered when she finally called him back. The minutes had dragged on endlessly, and in the meantime, Tim had already begun to imagine the worst-case scenarios: Nina arrested for tampering with evidence — the phone certainly qualified as that — for interfering in the investigation, or something equally disastrous. But now, hearing her voice, he felt a wave of relief wash over him.

“Are you okay? Are they still interrogating you?” he asked.

“No, we’re done. They’ve already left the apartment. They broke the door down. Everything’s a mess. What are we going to do now, Tim?”

“Keep your voice low. There might be a bug somewhere,” Tim warned cautiously. “Did you find out where my phone was?”

“Yes, in Cairo. At the Nile Ritz-Carlton Hotel. Then it moved to Al-Azhar Hospital. Does that mean anything to you?”

Tim was silent for a moment, his thoughts racing. He’d hoped his worries were nothing more than paranoia, the product of illness, imagination, or coincidence. Maybe the phone had ended up somewhere else entirely — Vienna, Berlin, New York. He hoped Capo hadn’t been in Cairo at that time. Maybe this was all just a misunderstanding, and soon he’d be back on Dobropol, working on the Lebanese project and reading a written apology from the police for the inconvenience of accusing him of murder and forcing him to flee.

But Capo had been there.

Had Capo really operated on him? Tim’s thoughts darted in all directions. Could it have been mere coincidence? After all, they had met in Cairo, and Google Maps wasn’t always precise. Yes, that must be it, he thought. It had to be a misunderstanding. It had to. He could still fix this. He could salvage the project and get Capo on his side, despite the misplaced phone. His mind oscillated between the obvious facts and a desperate denial of reality. He didn’t want to face the truth. He refused to believe this was truly happening.

“Tim?” Nina whispered, her voice trembling with fear.

“Yeah. Thanks,” Tim said, clearing his throat.

“Are you okay? What’s wrong? What does this mean?” Nina pressed. She knew Tim’s tone too well — something was seriously wrong.

“No, no, everything’s fine,” Tim replied with a forced cheerfulness that only deepened Nina’s concern. Whenever things were truly dire, he would adopt this unnervingly upbeat, fake voice.

“Listen,” he continued. “Go to that Algerian phone shop down the street, across the boulevard — you know the one. Debloc, or whatever they call themselves. Buy an old Nokia. Not a smartphone, something really basic, 3G. Get a prepaid SIM card. Don’t show them any ID, pay in cash. Wrap a scarf over your head, make it look like a hijab, and speak with an accent. Limp a little. Pretend to be a poor Muslim woman. I’m going to turn my phone off now so no one can track me. Just text me your new number when you’re done.”

“Tim,” Nina said softly, her voice heavy with sadness.

“I’ll explain everything. Just do this for me now. I’ll turn my phone on when it’s safe.”

“Okay,” Nina said, her voice trembling, tears barely held back.

Tim hoped Nina would make it to the phone shop in time. The sun was setting, and it was already close to seven — the hour they closed. He patted his pockets for a cigarette but, of course, found nothing in the old tracksuit. Hunger gnawed at him, exhaustion weighed him down, and fear churned in his gut. He was shaken, on the run from the police, and, to top it off, he didn’t even have a cigarette.

He wandered the streets of Saint-Denis, threading his way through poverty, hustlers, outcasts, and misfits. The tall projects loomed overhead, offering the fugitive some semblance of cover. Tim kept his hood low, his eyes darting for a tobacconist or a corner shop where he might buy cigarettes — or, if he was lucky, something to eat. He hadn’t had breakfast, as was his habit, and now the gnawing hunger sapped his energy. The cold began to bite, too; the tracksuit wasn’t lined and felt cold and plasticky against his skin.

The sun dipped below the horizon, leaving his malnourished, nicotine-deprived brain to spiral between thoughts of Capo, Mia’s murder, and mundane but pressing questions: Where would he sleep tonight? Where would he go from here? Not tomorrow — today.

He wandered down trash-strewn streets, past burned-out cars. Some were stripped bare inside, draped in tarps, and occupied by the homeless. Graffiti sprawled across garages, façades, and vehicles, while clusters of migrants huddled beneath whatever shelter they could find, preparing for the rain. A few overgrown patches of what had once been lawns hinted at makeshift vegetable plots, though most of the space had been turned into parking lots.

At the end of an alleyway, wedged between a crumbling apartment block and the back of a row of garages, he spotted a small, red-painted tobacconist. A few old men — likely regulars — loitered out front, their silhouettes bathed in the harsh, flickering glow of neon signs that stabbed at Tim’s weary eyes.

“Do you have anything to eat?” Tim asked the shopkeeper.

“No,” the man replied, gesturing with his eyes toward the newspapers and cigarettes. “Can’t you see?”

“Then just a pack of blue Gauloises, please. And a lighter,” Tim said, his spirits lifting at the prospect of nicotine’s sweet solace.

The craving had grown unbearable, the kind he’d only felt during transatlantic flights when he had to endure twelve or thirteen hours without smoking, followed by the tedious wait for luggage and the slog through customs. In California, he’d often risked a fine by lighting up in prohibited areas outside the airport, which infuriated him. Land of the free? More like fascism, he thought bitterly.

With trembling hands, he grabbed the pack and the lighter, so focused on his relief that he almost forgot to pay.

“Hey, you need to pay, sir,” the shopkeeper said with a thick accent, snatching the cigarettes back. “I don’t know where you’re from, but around here, you pay first,” he added, his tone tinged with xenophobia, though he himself looked like he might not be French.

“Sorry,” Tim muttered.

He pulled out his phone, switched it on, and unlocked it with his fingerprint, holding it up to the terminal for payment. Things are looking up now, he thought. At least I’ve got smokes, even if I can’t eat.

The terminal beeped, confirming the transaction. He reached for his hard-won treasure and imagined the first drag — the best drag — embracing his throat and comforting him like warm fingers wrapped around his lungs.

But something was off.

The terminal’s beep echoed in his battered mind, bouncing around his undernourished neurons and disrupting the euphoria he expected. A bitter note crept into the sound, unraveling his relief and replacing it with panic. Something was wrong. He had made a mistake, but he couldn’t quite grasp what.

The beep reverberated in his head, louder and louder, drowning out the anticipated pleasure of smoking. Tim stood frozen in front of the shopkeeper as the unease swelled, clawing toward the reason — the cause for his growing fear. Something was very, very wrong.

“No,” Tim barely managed to whisper, his voice cracking as he doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees.

“Are you okay, sir?” the shopkeeper asked, his voice more annoyed than concerned. “Don’t you puke here. Who do you think is going to clean it up? Go do it in the street.”

Tim didn’t wait for another word. He bolted out of the tobacconist’s, abandoning his prized cigarettes and lighter, and ran as fast as his exhausted legs would carry him. He wove through the crowded streets, dodging people, makeshift market stalls, and stolen shopping carts piled with the worldly possessions of the homeless. Street vendors hawked fake designer bags, watches, vegetables, and even street food.

While running, Tim pulled out his phone and frantically deleted all his payment cards from the app, one by one, until they were all blocked or canceled. But he knew it was too late. The damage was done. The police now had his location. He had betrayed himself. Patrols would already be notified: Saint-Denis, Quinsonnas Street, tobacco kiosk… (continues)