8
I WATCH HASSAN AS HE moves away from me, clinging to the side of the train—but now it’s my turn to smile. Because I can see something that he can’t. Hala is on the roof of that train, walking toward the very carriage that he’s hanging off. Her gait is careful but relaxed. Now that I’ve caught my breath, I start running again. I can’t catch up, but I can keep the train and our target, not to mention Hala, within range.
“I think he has scissors or a razor—from the barbershop,” I tell her over the comms. I watch him struggle to open the freight car door. He can’t manage it, so he starts climbing the metal rungs that lead up onto the train roof.
“He’s right below you, climbing up now,” I say.
I watch him climb, estimating the moment that his head will pop into Hala’s view.
“Four, three, two, ONE,” I call.
On my count, Hala thrusts out a leg that jabs him in the face before he can even register what’s happened. She follows it with another sharp kick, and I watch her in awe. She never comes close to losing her balance. Hassan tumbles off the train and rolls away down a gentle slope that ends in a trash heap. I veer off and run toward him. Hala clambers lightly down the side of the train and hops off, jogging up to join me.
He’s up and eager to escape again, but he’s hobbling on an ankle that seems to be twisted. I draw close enough to fling myself at his legs, bringing him down with a tackle that hammers the wind out of both of us. But I surface fast, going for his arms, his hands. I grab his wrist just as I feel the whoosh of a straight razor slicing past my face, missing me by millimeters. Hala arrives and helps me to twist the blade out of his hand. I press it lightly against Hassan’s abdomen as we hoist him up.
“Walk with us, no sudden moves.”
Keeping close on either side of him, we guide him into a small shack that sits near the tracks, tired and lopsided. The walls are corrugated iron and inside are a couple of kids, playing. I pull out a few hundred rupees and hand them to the children, indicating they should get lost. They leave fast, slamming the door behind them. It’s dank and dark inside, but with enough light to make out a layer of putrefying sediment on the floor, as well as a street cat with ginger, matted fur. The cat turns and regards us coolly over its shoulder while we push Hassan down into a chair. I remove the razor from his side and place it gently against his windpipe while Hala finds his wallet and snaps pictures of the contents, sending them straight through to Amber.
“What do you want?” he asks. Thin trails of sweat wind down from his temples onto his neck.
“Who do you work for?” I ask him.
There’s a tense silence. I press the razor a little harder against his throat.
“I don’t know names,” he says. “I just do the job.”
“The job? Killing children is a job?” I hiss.
“I knew nothing about that,” he pleads. “I was told to go to the school and open up the drains. For access.”
“Access to plant explosives?”
He squeezes his eyes shut, fearful.
“Who told you to do this? Who hired you?”
His eyes stay shut and his mouth stays closed.
Angrily, Hala thrusts a hand into Hassan’s trouser pocket. On instinct, he grabs her fingers and is rewarded with a sprained wrist. Hala ignores his moan of pain and pulls out his phone. It’s a nice model. She turns it over in her hands.
“How’s the camera on this?” she asks, conversationally.
He swallows. “Good,” he croaks.
“Don’t make me use it to send footage of you to your wife. And your son. And your daughter.”
Hassan whimpers and clamps his eyes shut, fearful. Hala moves closer to him.
“Look at me,” she says. He opens his eyes and finds her gaze drilling into him as her voice drops, close to a whisper: “Kids have a really hard time recovering from seeing their parents die violently.”
I look down, uncomfortable. What she just described is pretty much what she went through in Syria, when her village, mostly full of Palestinian refugees like Hala’s family, was attacked by ISIS. The horror of it is right there on her face and in the weight of her quiet words—just for a moment. But it’s long enough for Hassan to sense the deep truth that underlies her tone. It terrifies him, and tears spill out of the corners of his eyes, mingling with the sweat to form a rivulet of stress that drips onto the floor right by our feet.
Hala still stares him down. Hassan squeezes his eyes shut again as if not wanting to watch himself betray anyone.
“The company is called AAB Enterprises,” he says.
Of course it is. Why do criminals always pick such boring names for their shell companies?
“We need more,” I say.
“AAB Enterprises,” he repeats, desperate. “Check the wire transfer app on my phone. . . .”
We do, and sure enough, that is the name of the company that just sent him a
