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“I don’t care,” I say. “Tell them to do it.”
Jeremy tries another long stream of Arabic. The guy at the doorway seems to relax, still holding his AK-47—still in a bad position, and not aiming at me—while the guy kneeling says something to the guy on Jeremy’s back, followed by some arguing and snapping at each other. Then the fellow with the AK-47 shrugs, puts the rifle down, and steps into the crowded entryway.
I let out a breath. Then, without any more debate, the second guy puts his pistol on the floor and steps back, joining the other standing man.
That leaves just the angry, bearded, armed man on Jeremy’s back. The pistol is still pressed against Jeremy’s neck, but I feel a lot better with just one target to worry about. I stop waving my MP5 and take two steps forward, aiming the rifle at his forehead.
He nearly spits at me.
“Jeremy…”
“Amy, it’s a family honor thing, a macho thing, a—”
I say in my best low and fierce voice, “You tell him if he doesn’t drop that pistol in the next three seconds, I’m going to make it a blood-and-brains-on-the-wall thing.”
“Ricky?” A man’s voice is calling out from deep inside the house. “Ricky? Is that truly you?”
I flash my eyes to the doorway, where a plump, older, smiling man is approaching. His hands are empty. Good. I go back to staring at my target as the new man and his heavy cologne come to join us. He’s fifty or so—thick mustache, thick black hair, dark-gray pinstripe suit and vest. A gold pocket-watch chain dangling out front.
Still flat on the carpet, Jeremy says, “Hello, Nassim. We seem to be in a bit of a bother here.”
Nassim smiles down at Jeremy and says, “Ah, my boys. They are eager ones, but sometimes so very, very impolite.”
He barks out a command, but the man on Jeremy’s back doesn’t move. He says something back and Jeremy whispers, “Oh, that’s not good.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Nassim speaks up. “My apologies, young lady. It seems my nephew Tariq is a bit more…traditional than his cousins. He believes we are buckling under a woman’s eye.”
I make a quick decision and lower my MP5. “Give Tariq my deepest apologies. Tell him I mean no disrespect, but that I am honor-bound to protect and defend the wounded warrior underneath him. Tell him again I apologize and that I now know my place.”
Nassim nods, then speaks to his nephew. Still angry, Tariq looks up at me but then removes the pistol from Jeremy’s neck. He slips it into a waistband holster and starts to rise.
I shoulder my MP5 and offer Tariq a hand to help him up, and I think he’s surprised by my offer, but he takes my hand and I help him to his feet.
Then I let go, swivel hard, and use my right elbow to punch his nose.
He cries out, stumbles over the form of Jeremy, and slams hard to the ground. I step over Jeremy, disarm Tariq, and stick his pistol in my own waistband.
All the men are staring at me save for Tariq, who has his hands up to his bloody nose.
I shrug.
“Sorry,” I say. “I slipped.”
Chapter25
IT’S EARLYevening in Paris and Nadia Khadra is heading home after another long day at the Institut Pasteur at 25–28 Rue du Dr Roux. She is a microbiologist by trade and has worked at the institute for three years. The famed facility has spent decades studying infectious diseases from diphtheria to influenza to yellow fever.
She descends into the Metro station and patiently waits for her train on the clean and orderly train platform. For the past year, the institute has been quietly working on another deadly infectious disease—and Nadia considers the day she learned that to be the luckiest day of her life.
And the day she met the wealthy, bearded, and determined older Arab man who financed her was her second-luckiest day.
She pays 1.90 euros for a one-way ticket. The boxy, white-and-green Line 12 train glides in on its rubber tires right on time, and she joins the other commuters entering its sliding doors.
In less than a week, Nadia reflects, she will be riding the subway system in New York City, and she shudders at what she will find there. Friends of hers at the institute have told her that the subways in New York are dirty and loud, with pickpockets and thieves all around. She hopes she will have the bravery to do what must be done.
Half an hour later, Nadia gets off at the Marx Dormoy station and briskly walks up into the open air of the Goutte d’Or section of Paris. It’s a relatively poor neighborhood, with more than a third of its residents from North Africa—like her family, originally from Algeria—and she makes enough money at the institute to move to a better neighborhood, but she won’t. She has fond memories of growing up here with hermaman,who was a seamstress in a number of the so-called sweatshops working out of dank buildings and warehouses, and she will never leave what is known in Paris as Little Africa. She never knew herpapa—never cared to know him; for all Nadia knows, the man is dead.
