There was a light rain falling, a fine mist that sifted down over the rambling stage set of the Old City, the crooked streets and houses like some child’s nightmare backdrop. A breeze blew in from the strait, carrying with it the stench of low tide, seaweed and sewage and exposed dock timbers. A friend, I thought. It was the same thing I’d told Abdesselom. We ricocheted around a corner, and I slipped the Beretta from my waistband, then grabbed the woman’s arm and shoved her against the damp wall. “Who are you?” I asked, jamming the gun up into the soft space below her chin. She reached for her pocketed gun, and I nudged her harder with the Beretta. “Leave it,” I told her. Her face was wet, her breath hot on my face. “Who do you work for?” I asked. “The Americans.” “Fuck you,” I said. “That’s what Brian told me.” She turned her face upward and blinked against the rain. “Same team, different players. Brawn versus brain. We’re the quiet ones.” “You’ll have to do better than that.”
