The Amateur Spy (41 page)
She nodded slowly, no hint of urgency in her movements. Then she leaned over to kiss the forehead of the man in her lap, who I realized must be her husband, Abbas. That was when I heard the banging of the upstairs door as it opened and the clatter of footsteps on the stairs behind me.
I realized then what I had just unleashed, and as I stared dumbly at Aliyah I knew that my eyes were probably already begging her forgiveness.
“Don’t move!” It was a Metro policeman, gun raised. “Stay right where you are!”
He grabbed my shoulder with his free hand while a second armed man in plainclothes brushed past me toward Aliyah Rahim. All the while she kept her eyes on me, and her expression was that of doomed resignation, as if she had known from the moment we met that I would only bring her harm.
Epilogue
I
suppose that when the mourners filed out of the church into the gray dusk, down the marble steps to waiting limos and television cameras, they must have wondered what all the fuss was about at the building next door. Perhaps their hearts beat a little faster as they watched helmeted men scurry into the alley behind an abandoned pizza joint. Reporters undoubtedly asked a few questions.
But to date the world has yet to learn of Washington’s near miss at the hands of Abbas Rahim, much less of the heroics of his wife, Aliyah, or the belated arrival of some nameless amateur spy who, still dusty from his seasons abroad, was immediately taken into custody as a material witness.
So here I sit, writing this account at the urging of captors who have yet to tell me which government agencies they represent. They refer to this document as “my statement,” and they keep demanding that I finish. Seeing as how they have offered no assurances of my release upon its completion, I am taking my own sweet time.
Mila, at least, finally tracked me down, which speaks volumes about her persistence, her energy, and her commitment to our cause. She even convinced them to let me speak with her, if only for a few minutes on the phone. I learned that for a while she thought I was lost forever. My trail went cold at Dulles Airport, or so the feds wanted her to believe. But she, too, has proven to be an able amateur, and in her usual indomitable fashion she found the cabbie who drove me to the church. Then she reached the first and only Metro cop who made it down into the cellar (until he, too, was hushed up by the Secret Service agents who swooped down in his wake).
Even then, the authorities informed her of my whereabouts and current status only after she phoned a newspaper, two television networks, and a congressman. To my mind, every lie I have told on her behalf has now been repaid in full.
I have reflected quite a bit on Mila and me during the idle hours at my disposal. Much of my focus has been those awful days back in Tanzania. I can easily recall a photo taken of me that week, and in it I look utterly lost. The only comparable image would be one of those old daguerreotypes you’ve probably seen of defeated generals on the field of battle, standing shell-shocked among their dead and wounded. One look at their eyes convinces you they never again could have led an army into battle. Yet the history books tell us they were back on the warpath within days, even hours.
And here I am as well, ready for the next engagement, come what may. The generals had their staff officers and supply trains. I have only Mila. And in reviewing even the most terrible of my past chapters, any sweetness and redemption hiding among the pages are due to her. Not just from what I endured on her behalf, but for what she endured on mine. For that reason, I have decided I can now live with my past. Not easily, perhaps, but with some measure of grace.
But first the authorities must decide what to do with me.
You may wonder what sort of case they have. Roughly the same one they have against Aliyah Rahim, I suppose. We were amateurs among professionals. Practicing without a license, so to speak. Then we were caught at the scene of a potential catastrophe, one that they don’t wish to make public partly because it was us, not them, who prevented it.
But I suspect the deeper problem is that Abbas Rahim is not the kind of scalp they wish to hang on their wall just now. I have learned much about him from my questioners, and it is little wonder they’re in such a quandary. If he were truly foreign, or well financed, or, better still, some sort of religious zealot, matters might be different. Instead he is a respected surgeon who has saved the lives of soldiers and statesmen, a very secular and very aggrieved parent from an affluent suburb of our nation’s capital, albeit somewhat addled by prescription drugs. Until they find some way to dress him up in a more fitting suit of clothes, his wife and I will likely remain under wraps.
Then again, I may be underestimating Mila’s talents as a persuader and agitator. My warders tell me that the journalists she contacted may soon publish their findings. This could explain the recent change in the tenor of my treatment. From the tilt of questions it is becoming clear they are trying to refashion me as some sort of hero, the man who figured things out in the nick of time. If they have their way, you might soon see me celebrated on television as the selfless aid worker who did the right thing for his country.
Freeman Lockhart, patriot at large.
The problem with that version is that I keep insisting on the full truth, warts and all. Minus my one last and best secret, of course.
So here I sit, still waiting, while each passing day makes it a little tougher for them to assemble the pieces in a manner to their liking.
That’s what they get for dealing with an amateur.
Acknowledgments
In my travels during the past few decades, I have crossed the paths of aid workers in many countries, and they have almost universally proven to be among the world’s most tirelessly dedicated individuals. What little they take from their professions—the adrenaline buzz of excitement or the deep satisfaction of worthwhile labor—they repay many times over with their long and often dangerous days in the field.
Several were a huge help to me in researching this book, and I would like to thank them by name. I owe particular gratitude to MacKay Wolff of the United Nations, whom I first met in Zagreb in 1993. He put me in touch with several helpful colleagues and also spent hours telling me about his life as an UNRWA observer on the West Bank during the intifada. Anything I got right about that period is due to his vivid recollections. Anything I got wrong is my own damn fault. Thanks also to Jenni Wolfson, Mica Polovina, and Bradley Foerster for sharing their experiences.
In Jordan, I’m grateful to architect-artist-botanist Ammar Kham-mash for enduring my badgering questions and answering them so eloquently and expansively, and also to editor Ayman Safadi of the
Al Ghad
newspaper for providing contacts and sharp observations. Thanks as well to Mamdouh Bisharat, a.k.a. “the Duke of Mukhaibeh,” for an afternoon of hospitality, and also for letting me appropriate the essence of his beautiful old house on King Faysal Street as a fictional salon for one of my characters. Matar Saqer, at the Amman office of UNRWA, offered helpful insights on growing up as a refugee, as did the many people I spoke with at the Bakaa refugee camp. And I couldn’t have learned how a clinic operates in such a place without having stolen some valuable time from the heroic Dr. Nabeel Heresh.
In Jerusalem, thanks to John Murphy and Rena Singer for several days of hospitality and good advice, to Dr. Eilat Mazar for sharing insights on biblical archaeology, and to Joshua Brilliant for assisting with logistics. An appreciative nod as well to Luis Leon, for recommending an excursion into Hezekiah’s Tunnel.
In Athens, thanks to the Nikolaides family for their gracious welcome.
—D. F., April 2007
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dan Fesperman’s travels as a writer have taken him to thirty countries and three war zones.
Lie in the Dark
won the Crime Writers’ Association of Britain’s John Creasey Memorial Dagger Award for best first crime novel, and
The Small Boat of Great Sorrows
won the association’s Ian Fleming Steel Dagger Award for best thriller.
ALSO BY DAN FESPERMAN
The Prisoner of Guantánamo
The Warlord’s Son
The Small Boat of Great Sorrows
Lie in the Dark
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK
PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
Copyright © 2007 by Dan Fesperman
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Originally published in Great Britain by Hodder & Stoughton Ltd, a division of Hodder Headline, London, in 2007.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Fesperman, Dan, [date]
The amateur spy / by Dan Fesperman.—1st American ed.
p. cm.
1. Arab Americans—Fiction. 2. Amman ( Jordan)—Fiction. 3. Washington (D.C.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS
3556.
E
778
A
8 2008
813'.54—dc22 2007047313
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
eISBN: 978-0-307-26859-4
v3.0
