Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(17)

The waiter came out and, unasked, poured my third cup of coffee and brought Zarif another espresso. If I drank any more, my heart would be leapfrogging over my ribs.

When the waiter returned inside, Zarif said, “But now something has led you here. To Mexico.” His voice was mild again.

“Have you heard of an American named David Fuller?”

Zarif shook his head.

“Fuller runs an organization called the Hope Project. Its mission is to help endangered Iraqis—especially those who helped the Americans—get out of Iraq. Fuller has people working for him around the globe—the US, Canada, Europe, Mexico. When I asked for his help, he had an artist create an age-progressed sketch of Malik. Then he sent the word out, telling his people to keep watch for Malik.”

“Wasn’t that risky? You don’t know why this man, this Marine, was looking for him.”

“Fuller spoke with very few people, and only those who have been with him for a long time. People he knew would be careful. And discreet. Angelo Garcia—” You cannot resist pain. “Angelo was one of the men he trusted.”

“Was?”

“He’s dead.”

I studied Zarif, trying to gauge if all this was truly new to him. But Zarif could have taken the place of a sphinx if he’d been so inclined.

“I am sorry for your friend. But what does this have to do with the Jameh Mosque?”

“Angelo saw Malik there,” I said. “Last month.”

Zarif frowned. “And you believe him? That this child came all that way from Iraq to our little mosque in a sleepy suburb of Mexico City. How could he manage this feat? And more importantly, why would he?”

“Angelo sent a photo. There’s no question. Malik was with a man, a Caucasian, inside your mosque. As for why he ended up there . . . I don’t have an answer for that.”

Zarif rested his still-burning cigarette in the glass ashtray. Smoke spiraled up like a signal for help. “And now this Angelo is dead. And you must think his death had something to do with this small thing he did, sending you a photograph.”

“I know it did.”

“How did he die?”

The day had warmed as the sun moved into the western sky, and now the air was so heavy, I felt I could push it away with my hands. Bees buzzed among the flowers, and a flock of pigeons landed on the cobblestones nearby, cooing softly, their heads bobbing. I took a gulp of cooling coffee and let the caffeine run counterpoint in my blood.

“He was tortured to death.” I laid my gaze on Zarif. “They dumped his body outside my hotel room last night. I’ve been on the run since.”

Zarif had gone very still save for a flash in his dark eyes of what I guessed to be anger. He didn’t touch the espresso, which was no longer steaming. “And now you have brought this danger to my doorstep. Almost to my mosque.”

“That is why I asked you to meet me away from there.”

Zarif picked up the cigarette and sucked in a long drag. He huffed out the smoke and tapped away the ash, taking his time. “Why didn’t this man, this Angelo Garcia, just come to me and ask if I’d seen the boy?”

“He said he did. You told him no.”

There followed a long silence as Zarif eyed me through the smoke. For the first time I noticed how weather beaten his face was, how spare his gestures. The distance he held in his eyes. I’d seen this look before, many times. It was in the eyes of the men who returned from a tour in the Iraqi desert where they’d spent their days staring through a sniper’s scope or kicking down doors. Men who had been unable to let down their guard for so long that suspicion had merged with their flesh like a second skin.

Zarif blinked first. “I remember that now. I believe I also told him that we got so many visitors that I could not be sure who might have come and gone. I told him that I would ask around.”

“And did you?”

“No one had seen him.”

“Except, apparently, Angelo.”

A faint flush crept into his face, and he looked down at his cigarette. “Apparently.”

Some emotion whispered just beneath his skin, barely detectable. A white noise of reaction, impossible to read.

But one thing I did know—he was lying.

The part of me that was big into self-preservation urged me to stand up, thank Zarif for his time, then walk away and disappear onto a bus or taxi. To put as much distance as possible between the two of us. His behavior had been strange from the get-go. And now he was lying about something.

But I could not leave without learning everything I could, even if—especially if—what Zarif was lying about was whether or not he’d seen Malik or knew anything about him.

I played out a little rope. “What are you uncomfortable about, Zarif?”

He stabbed the air with his cigarette. “Tell me this. If what you are doing is honest, if your reasons for looking for the boy are sincere, why did you not come straight to me once you believed he’d been seen at our mosque? Or ask to speak to our imam? If you are worried about this boy’s safety, that would make sense, wouldn’t it? To ask us directly instead of wasting time?”

“Angelo tried that.”

“A second request would have carried more weight. Especially if you’d said you were concerned for the boy’s safety.”