The Cairo Affair (26 page)

It wasn’t until they were crossing the 15th of May Bridge, getting the full impact of the gorgeous Cairo vista, the Nile still in shadow beneath them, that it occurred to John that there was something wrong with this FBI man. American agents often drove American makes from the embassy pool, but if they decided to buy their own cars they seldom chose one as flashy as a high-end Mercedes. Then there was the music—a woman’s voice warbling over thin strings—and John said, “You’re going native?”

“Huh?” said Khalil, distracted.

“The music.”

He rocked his head from side to side as he left the bridge and turned right onto the Corniche El Nil, which followed the river south all the way through Cairo. “You don’t like it?” Khalil asked.

“It’s nice.”

“Maybe I should play Bruce Springsteen? Jay-Z?”

“No, no. This is good,” John said, turning to gaze out at the water. His unease grew. Khalil had shown him a badge, but when looked at from a certain angle, he didn’t look like a Bureau man at all. How hard was it to fake a badge? Not hard at all, he suspected.

John’s phone rang, and he took it out.

“Who is it?” asked Khalil.

“The office.”

“Tell them you’ll be late.”

John hesitated, then turned back toward the water and answered. “Yeah?”

Ricky said, “John? John, where are you?”

“It’s not even eight yet.”

“All hands on deck, man.”

“I’m running late,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Get it in gear. Things are falling apart here.”

“What’s up?”

“You didn’t see the news?”

“What news?”

“Stan,” said Ricky. “Stan’s dead. Somebody shot him in his own car, over at al-Azhar Park. It’s a fucking mess.”

John’s hand went cold. He felt Khalil’s gaze on the back of his head. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he said and hung up.

“News?” Khalil asked.

“Stan Bertolli’s dead.”

Khalil continued driving in silence. They were past the center now, on the southern end of town, near the diplomatic enclave of Maadi. Finally, Khalil said, “They were together, you know.”

John didn’t bother asking for clarification. He was overcome by the feeling that he had made a tragic mistake entering this car. Stan was dead, his own apartment had been torn apart, and an armed man who claimed to be FBI was driving him to places unknown.

Khalil went on. “Stan and Sophie Kohl. Lovers. She came to Cairo a few days ago and stayed with him. They’ve been trying to figure out what happened to her husband.” He paused, frowning at the road. “I guess Stan got too close to the truth.”

If only to establish how much trouble he was in, John said, “What truth would that be?”

“That the Agency killed Emmett and Jibril Aziz. Once he got close enough to those facts, the Agency got rid of Stan, too.”

“Bandits killed Aziz. I was there, remember?”

“Did you interrogate them? Were they carrying their Libyan Banditry Association cards?”

Though he didn’t trust this man, he couldn’t help but think about it. He hadn’t tried to find out who those gunmen were, so what if Khalil was right? He thought of Harry, the white-haired Agency bureaucrat who had sent him out into the desert with Jibril. Had Harry chosen his most disposable employee, a simple contractor, to take Jibril to his death? Had Harry been surprised to find him alive on Friday?

At the same time, Harry had asked him to keep an eye on Stan, as if Stan were the suspect one. Suspected of what? Had Harry killed Stan?

Christ,
he thought. That embassy was a mess, and he wanted no part of it. Yet here he was, stuck in a car with a man he didn’t know at all: an FBI agent who drove the wrong car, listened to the wrong music, and spoke too much like a native.

                                                                
Think now

History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors

And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions,

Guides us by vanities.

What good was Eliot now?

“What about Sophie Kohl?” John asked.

Eyes on the road, Khalil said, “What?”

“If Stan’s dead, where is she?”

“It’s a question.”

Khalil said that almost flippantly, as if it no longer mattered. It had, back in his apartment, but now no. Not after the phone call he’d received, and the change in plans. John said, “Who called you? Back at my place.”

Khalil considered this as the buildings around them thinned. He smirked and said, “Your decorator.”

“Who’s my decorator?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

They left Cairo to the south, veering inland from the Corniche El Nil to connect to the Autostrad-Al Nasr, following signs toward 15th of May City, just east of Helwan. The buildings had fallen away, and to their left the rolling desert spread out, whitewashed by the low eastern sun. He thought of the ride through the Libyan desert, but now he was the passenger, in the sacrificial seat, while Michael Khalil was running the show.

Could he stop this car without killing them both? He might be able to, for the Glock was hidden away in Khalil’s holster, but the question was:
Should
he stop the car? Khalil might not be who he claimed to be, but did that mean he was working on the wrong side? What
was
the wrong side? Was Harry his enemy? Stan? This woman he’d never met—Sophie Kohl?

“Where are we going?” John asked.

Khalil gave him a sidelong glance as he accelerated around a slow-moving truck, gravel spilling out from under its tarp and pinging against the car. Khalil cursed under his breath, passed the truck, and said, “We’re going to get our prize.”

“Which is…?”

“That book you lost.”

They passed a large factory complex and took a left off of the highway, heading toward a loose collection of sand-colored buildings that looked like another factory, abandoned. As they drove, another Mercedes passed them heading back to the highway, and Khalil showed concern, slowing and trying to peer at the driver, but the tinted windows revealed nothing but bright reflected sun. Once it had passed, Khalil slowed to a stop and stared into the rearview until the Mercedes turned right onto the
autostrad,
heading north toward Cairo.

“What is it?” John asked.

Khalil began to drive again. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

“You’re really not going to tell me anything, are you?”

“Just help me out, and I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

Long before they reached the abandoned buildings, they took a right, and Khalil muttered “Fuck” under his breath as they headed deeper into the desert. Though this road was paved, rocks had blown into it, and he had to take it easy, swerving occasionally to get out of the way of stones big enough to damage his transmission. They drove south, parallel with the
autostrad
still visible on their right, and then took another left down a road that sank into a valley of low dunes. Soon they could see nothing behind them. Ahead, the road curved to the left until, eventually, it simply stopped. At the end was a scratched white BMW, empty, and farther ahead, beyond the road, a large tarp shelter with a post at each corner and a single post in the middle, so that the roof pointed at the hot sky.

Under the shelter, they could see the shadowy forms of three people. Thinking of Libya, John said, “I don’t like this.”

“You think I do?”

“We should call the embassy.”

Khalil shook his head but didn’t bother explaining himself. He opened his door, letting in a gust of hot, gritty wind, then took the Glock out of his shoulder holster. “Don’t worry, okay?”

“You’re not very reassuring.”

“I’m not here to be reassuring.”

“Why am I here?”

“Don’t be a pussy. Come on.”

Khalil got out, and after a moment John followed. His eyes hurt—he’d forgotten his sunglasses—and he held a flat hand against the side of his head for shade.

As they approached the shelter, the figures beneath it grew more distinct. Three men—two standing, and one sitting in a foldout chair. None of them was moving. They were just watching. Then one of them moved—a tall man in a white button-up shirt and brown slacks emerged from under the tarp, the light making him briefly glow. He was Egyptian, young, and had thick eyebrows. Like Khalil, he carried a gun. There was something familiar about him.

“Who’s that?” John asked.

“It’s all right. He’s okay.”

As the young Egyptian approached, the other standing man walked slowly from one side of the shelter to the other. The man in the chair didn’t move at all.

“Salaam,” said the Egyptian.

“Salaam,” Khalil answered.

Frowning, the Egyptian asked a question in Arabic, and Khalil’s answer contained the words “John Calhoun.” John’s presence, he saw in the Egyptian’s face, wasn’t welcome, but he was not ordered back to the car. He wanted to run, but two men with pistols weren’t likely to miss a back as large as his.

Together, the three of them continued toward the shelter. Khalil asked questions, but the Egyptian seemed to be telling him to wait for his answers.

By then they were close enough to make out the other man pacing under the tarp. He was an old man, thin, his cheeks bristling with white hair. He stood at the edge of the shelter, watching them approach, and he wasn’t smiling. Khalil hesitated and asked another question: something sharp—not anger, but fear. In reply, the younger Egyptian placed a hand on Khalil’s shoulder and pushed him forward.

John said, “I shouldn’t be here.”

Khalil turned on him and snapped, “You just fucking follow, understand?”

John did, but more slowly. He was in no hurry to enter that shelter, for by then he’d noticed that the figure in the chair had not moved at all. Nothing.

The old man—Egyptian, too—didn’t bother stepping into the light. He waited for Khalil to reach the edge of the shelter and spoke softly to him in Arabic. There was no “salaam,” just a rattle of quiet words. The old man held out his hand, and Khalil handed over his Glock, grip first. The old man looked over Khalil’s shoulder at John, his face twisting in a sudden spasm of annoyance, and said a few words to the younger Egyptian, who walked over to John. John stepped back, for he’d made the connection: This was one of the two shadows from outside his apartment on Friday night. This was the one who had followed him to Deals.

“Come on,” the Egyptian said to him, accent heavy. “You don’t need to be here.”

John didn’t doubt that, for by then he’d seen enough. He’d been able to make out the form in the foldout chair, a heavyset man with his head tilted back. His shirt was a tangle of red, and from the angle John could just barely see that there was no nose on whatever was left of the man’s face. The sand all around the chair was brown but no longer wet. Sticky, he guessed. And while he couldn’t see them, he could hear the angry buzzing of flies.

As the Egyptian walked him back to the car, John waited for things. He waited for a gunshot in the back of his head. He waited for more distant gunshots—Khalil, or the old man, being killed. If nothing else, he waited for the sounds of argument from the shelter. There was nothing.

Finally, they reached the scratched BMW, and the Egyptian let him into the rear seat. John slid inside, immediately sweating in the stuffy heat, but the Egyptian closed the door again. There was no way to roll down the window. He settled back and waited as, outside, the Egyptian took out his phone and made a call. John could hear none of it.

Who were these people? He was quite sure now that Khalil wasn’t FBI. If he was, then he was on the take from the Egyptians. What did any of this mean? Was he ever going to make it out of here alive? Despite himself, he thought of Maribeth, who wanted someone who would survive the year. She’d been right to hesitate when it came to him.

Outside, the Egyptian finished his conversation, then made another call. As he spoke, he came to the car and opened the front door. He slid into the passenger seat, the phone still to his ear, and said to John, “What happened to Jibril Aziz in the desert?”

“He was killed by bandits.”

The Egyptian spoke in Arabic a moment, translating his answer. Then, back to John: “How do you know they were bandits?”

“I don’t know for sure. They wore green. If that helps.”

The answer was relayed. The Egyptian got out of the car and slammed the door shut, then finished his conversation. As he hung up, he raised his head to look in the direction they had driven from. John turned around to peer through the dirty rear windshield at a Mercedes with tinted windows kicking up dust as it joined them. It was the same Mercedes that had passed them on the way here. A driver got out. Another Egyptian, but much larger, more menacing, and—
yes
. It was the second shadow, who Harry had pointed out from his window. John’s Egyptian opened his door. “Come on.”

John got out and followed him to the Mercedes. The big driver was heading away, toward the shelter, but from this distance John couldn’t tell what was going on under there.

“You will drive her back to Cairo. Understand?”

“Who?”

“The keys are in the car,” the Egyptian said, then jogged off to catch up with the other man, both of them heading toward the shelter, to Khalil and the old man and the corpse in the chair.

John opened the driver’s door and peered inside. In the backseat was a woman—very pale, with straw-blond hair. She was somewhere around forty, he guessed, but it was hard to tell because she looked like she was in shock, rolled up on her side, fetal. Her eyes were closed, but he could hear her clotted breathing behind the tangled hair that hung over her features. Though he suspected the answer, he asked, “Who are you?” Then he opened the rear door and got in beside her. He checked her pulse—fast but not dangerous. There was blood on her forearm, but no sign of wounds. What had they done to her? In the well was a large purse. “Can you hear me?” he asked, placing a hand on her shoulder, gently shaking.

She opened her eyes, blinking, and used a hand to brush away hair. She didn’t sit up. John noticed a red mark in the meat between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, and he suspected that by tomorrow it would be a bruise. She peered at him, trying to focus. “Hi,” she whispered.