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the radio. . . . Something terrible has happened in Monte Carlo—a shooting, a bombing, but they didn’t have many details.”
    “I’m fine, really,” Marwan said. “Just a little shaken up.”
    In truth, the pain from the wound in his shoulder was almost unbearable, but there was no point in worrying his only brother. Not about this, anyway. There was so much more.
    “Are you alone?” he asked.
    “Of course,” Ramy said. “Everyone else has gone home for the day.”
    “Good. I need your help.”
    “Anything, Marwan. Just tell me what happened.”
    “In a minute,” Marwan said. “First, I need you to book me a flight.”
    “When?”
    “Tonight.”
    “Where to?”
    “Marseille to Casa.”
    “Marseille?” Ramy asked. “I thought you were in—”
    “Ramy, please, I’ll explain in a moment. Marseille to Casa. When’s the last flight leave tonight?”
    “Eight thirty, but I don’t—”
    “No, no,” Marwan said. “I thought the last flight left at ten or thereabouts.” Marwan suddenly spotted what looked to be a patrol car coming up on his left. He eased off the accelerator ever so slightly as Ramy corrected him.
    “Trust me, Marwan. I’ve taken it a hundred times. Flight 256. Royal Air Maroc. It’s a code-share with Air France. Departs at eight thirty. Lands in Casa at ten.”
    The patrol car turned on its lights. Marwan cursed aloud.
    “What is it?” Ramy asked.
    “Nothing,” Marwan insisted. “Isn’t there anything else?”
    Should he pull over? What then? How would he explain the busted-out window? or the fact that his name didn’t match the one on the rental agreement? He could hear his brother typing away feverishly on his laptop. He could picture him checking all the travel search engines.
    “Sorry, Marwan,” Ramy said finally. “If you want to get to Casa tonight, 256 is your only hope. Can’t you stay overnight and catch something in the morning?”
    Marwan was beginning to panic. The patrol car was coming up fast.
    “No,” he told his brother. “I need to get out tonight.”
    “Then we need to get you on the eight thirty. Where are you?”
    He slowed the car and pulled onto the shoulder.
    “Book it,” Marwan ordered.
    “One-way?”
    “No, round-trip.”
    “Returning when?”
    “God only knows.”
    “Okay,” Ramy said. “I’ll make something up. You still have that locker at the airport, right?”
    Marwan didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on the approaching patrol car.
    “Marwan?” Ramy asked again. “The locker in Marseille? Do you still have it?”
    “Of course,” Marwan snapped. “Why else would I go to Marseille?”
    “Hey, hey, relax,” Ramy said. “I’m just trying to help.”
    His brother had to be joking. Relax? Now?
    “I’m just saying,” Ramy continued. “Who are you going to be tonight?”
    “Make me Cardell,” Marwan said.
    “Jack Cardell?”
    “Right.”
    Marwan rolled to a complete stop and turned on his flashers.
    “Fine,” Ramy said. “Aisle or window?”
    Marwan glanced at the pistol on the seat beside him and held his breath.
    “Marwan—aisle or window?”
    Marwan said nothing. He slowly set down the phone and began reaching for the pistol. He could still hear his brother shouting through the phone; he felt the cold steel and tightened his grip on the handle.
    “Marwan? Are you there?”
    His palms were sweaty. His heart was racing.
    “Marwan?”
    The patrol car rushed by.
    It was not after him. It pulled over another car—a red Porsche Turbo—half a kilometer ahead, and a shudder ran through Marwan’s body. But it was not relief. It was revulsion. He couldn’t believe what he had just done. Or almost done. He hadn’t just considered killing an innocent police officer in cold blood, had he? Had he actually been preparing himself to pull the trigger? What was wrong with him? What was he becoming?
    For a split second, it was as if Marwan could stare into his own soul, and as he did, he found it darker than the