The Cairo Affair (35 page)

Omar nodded at the walls surrounding Busiri’s villa. “The pay seems to be sufficient.”

“Marry rich,” he advised, smiling. As he opened the door he added a quick “Salaam” and left.

Despite Busiri’s conviction that this wasn’t important, on Thursday Omar left home before sunrise and parked behind a taxi outside the Semiramis Hotel, waiting in the dark. Just after the 4:00
A.M.
Fajr prayers, Jibril emerged from the lobby and climbed into an old Peugeot. The driver, a large black man, chilled his blood. If the Americans wanted to kill Jibril, then a man that size would be an ideal vessel. As he drove behind them, he called and left a message with the office that he would be out sick.

Since he knew their destination, there was no need to remain in sight of the Peugeot, so he lagged far behind, only occasionally speeding up to be sure he hadn’t lost them along the desert road leading to El Alamein on the coast. Halfway to the border, Ali Busiri called to check on his condition, and he forced a nasal sound into his voice as he complained of sinus troubles. “It sounds like you’re in a car, Omar.”

“I’m on my way to the doctor’s.”

When, at around ten, the Peugeot turned off at Marsa Matrouh, he had a moment’s panic.
This
was where they were going to get rid of Jibril. But a glance at his own fuel gauge showed him the truth, and after the Peugeot refueled he did the same thing himself.

They stopped in the city center, and he was surprised to see the men split up. Jibril headed to a small, ramshackle café, his phone to his ear, while the black man took off in the opposite direction and began to window shop among hawkers gesturing at open crates, walking in the direction of the white sand beach. What was going on?

Soon, Jibril was joined by a man in a red-checked ghutra, and they began to talk. While Omar didn’t know the man, he suspected this was another of Jibril’s Libyans, perhaps a splinter from his core network, who could add to Jibril’s knowledge. The meeting was brief, and then Jibril and the black man were driving again.

He considered following them across the border, but he’d reached the limits of his authority and responsibility. He’d made sure Jibril made it through Egyptian territory unscathed, and now it was time to return home.

He didn’t reach Cairo until after nine that night, and by then, with the little sleep he’d had the previous night, he really did feel sick. He was too old for road trips, and perhaps too old for intrigues, and his body was finally starting to protest. Fouada asked where he’d been. When he gave her a tired shrug, she raised her voice to a shrill pitch. Fear was taking its toll on her as well, and he was the only person she could take it out on. In the midst of her tirade, she said, “What could I tell Ali? A woman who doesn’t know where her husband is is no wife. He knows that as well as anyone.”

He raised his hands. “Busiri?”

“Of course. He called here to check on you.”

Why hadn’t he called Omar’s cell phone?

Because, Omar realized with despair, he hadn’t believed his feigned sickness. In the morning, Omar would have to mend that bridge. Then he heard something on the television. He left Fouada standing in the kitchen as he wandered into the living room, and that was when he learned of Emmett Kohl’s murder the previous night.

Again, that chill went through him. If they were willing to kill their own diplomats, then what was Jibril to them? Nothing. Get him into the lawless deserts of Libya and leave the body to be swallowed by the sands. He went for his cell phone and called Busiri.

“Omar,” Busiri said. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired, Ali. What’s this about Emmett Kohl?”

“It seems he was killed.”

“What leads?”

“They’re pinning it on an Albanian. Gjergj Ahmeti.”

Omar didn’t know the name, but Busiri’s quick description of Ahmeti fleshed out a simple enough picture. He was the kind of man the Agency might hire if it wanted to remain at arm’s length from a murder. He was the kind of man any government would be happy to use. “I’m told the American embassy is working furiously on it,” Busiri told him.

“Or pretending to.”

“No, I think it’s in earnest. I called Harry Wolcott to give condolences. He’s a mess. He’s hoping Stanley Bertolli can come up with something. Did you know of Bertolli’s relationship with Mrs. Kohl?”

“Zora told me.”

“We should watch him,” Busiri said. “Information has a way of collecting like dust mites, and it would be preferable if he didn’t learn that Mrs. Kohl was ours.”

“I understand.”

“In fact,” Busiri went on, “we might want to help him out. Perhaps you’d like to warn him that he needs to be looking over his shoulder.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Omar admitted.

After a pause, Busiri said, “Did he make it over the border all right?”

“What?”

“Jibril Aziz. You were waiting outside his hotel.”

There was no point arguing with the facts, so he simply said, “You had me watched?”

“You thought I wouldn’t verify your information?”

“He made it all right.”

“Glad to hear it,” Busiri said. “Maybe next time you’ll tell me this without me having to ask.”

“Apologies, Ali.”

Before heading into the office in the morning, Omar sent a coded message to Paul Johnson, who had become his embassy contact after Amir Najafi’s death in November. They met in a Zamalek café not far from Paul’s apartment, the young, bleary-eyed American clutching desperately at his coffee. “You are looking in the wrong direction,” he told Paul.

“What?” Paul turned to look behind himself. “Where?”

“I am talking about the murder of Emmett Kohl. Tell Stanley Bertolli that you need to look at yourselves.”

Paul frowned, slowly absorbing his words. He leaned close, a high whisper. “What does that mean? Are you saying someone in the
embassy
killed him?”

Omar shook his head. “I don’t know. I am talking about your agency. Here, or back in America—I don’t know.”

“But … but
why
?”

“To keep Emmett quiet.”

“Quiet about what?”

He considered telling the young man the whole story. Stumbler, Jibril Aziz, the co-opting of the civil war raging next door … but, no. Stanley Bertolli would be sharp enough to ask the logical next question: How did the Egyptians know about Stumbler? Then the connections leading back to Sophie Kohl would be child’s play.

“Just tell him,” Omar said. “Tell Stanley Bertolli to be careful.” Then he got up and walked out, leaving the puzzled American to his steaming cup.

4

Afterward, once he’d made his way through the meticulous entry procedure to reach the seventh floor, he found Rashid el-Sawy walking the ministry corridors, looking for Busiri. “Rashid,” Omar said, waving him over. “A word, please.”

El-Sawy joined him in his office and closed the door. While he had been part of their section since the start of Busiri’s tenure seven years ago, coming with Busiri from the SSI, Omar had seldom spoken to el-Sawy one-on-one. The younger man had a way of entering and exiting the building without anyone noticing, and during meetings could maintain an unnatural silence as the men around him shouted and cajoled. Sometimes Omar suspected this was due to embarrassment over his flat American accent; other times he suspected that el-Sawy was calculating how best to dispose of everyone in the room. Over the years he had performed a variety of undercover jobs for the section, often using his American childhood to great advantage; his most common alias was Michael Khalil, Federal Bureau of Investigation. He was one of those loyal dogs who tie their entire future to the fate of another man, rather than to the fate of an office—which, in light of the imminent dissolution of the SSI, had clearly been the wiser choice.

“How are things?” Omar asked.

El-Sawy shrugged. He was a tall man, easily six feet, and he seemed to be aware of this, always preferring to stand rather than sit. “You’ve heard about the SSI raids?”

Omar shook his head.

“The protesters. They’ve started breaking into SSI buildings around town, and of course the guards are just letting them in. They’re collecting files. They say they want evidence of the SSI’s crimes. They’re going to start building guillotines soon.”

Omar hadn’t known this—he’d been too distracted by Jibril. He thought of el-Sawy’s long tenure in the SSI and wondered how many of those files chronicled his visits to torture cells. He imagined el-Sawy was worried out of his mind, but there was no sign of this in his face. “Have you heard anything from Libya?” Omar asked.

El-Sawy frowned. “Why would I have heard anything?”

“Because you tracked me yesterday. I assume it was you. You followed me all the way to the border. No?”

“No,” el-Sawy said.

“I’ve talked to Ali,” Omar went on, despite the denial. “I should have reported in, but Jibril Aziz is a friend. I wasn’t sure I’d get permission to keep an eye on him.”

El-Sawy nodded again, a sharp movement that suggested the subject was finished. “Is that it?”

“Well, yes,” Omar said, feeling vaguely insulted. “I want you to understand that I’m not complaining. You were doing your job.”

“I
was
doing my job,” el-Sawy said, “but not here. I wasn’t even in Cairo. I only just got back. Is that it?” He stepped back to the door.

Did it even matter who had been watching him yesterday? Not really. “Wait,” Omar said. “I want to look at some of the material we received from Sophie Kohl. The Stumbler file.”

“I’ll have to ask Ali.”

“I’ll ask him. Is he around?”

“Who do you think I’ve been looking for?” el-Sawy said before leaving.

It turned out that Busiri was not in the building, and so in lieu of the Stumbler documents he retrieved a file stocked with employees of the American embassy and looked through it until he’d found the big black man who’d driven Jibril to the border. He called Mahmoud and Sayyid to his office and explained that he wanted them to begin surveillance on an American, John Calhoun, who was living in Zamalek. “He may not be around yet, but either later today or tomorrow he’ll get home, and I want to know what he’s up to.”

When Busiri arrived in the afternoon, Omar asked to take a look at the Stumbler file.

Busiri leaned back, the heels of his hands resting on the desk. “Why?”

“Because I’ve never seen it. Jibril described it to me, but I never read the final draft.”

“I’m not sure you need to,” Busiri said. “Jibril Aziz wrote it, and now the Americans are running it.”

“Jibril certainly believes that, but he’s emotional. He’s young.”

Busiri shrugged. “I’ll have it sent over.”

Mahmoud called when John Calhoun got home on foot. “The man’s a mess. Filthy. Barely able to walk. Should we collect him?”

“No, no. Just watch.”

He received the Stumbler file at four and stayed late to read it. He was near the end when Mahmoud called again. “Harry Wolcott just visited him. I think they know we’re here.”

“They’re in a foreign country. They should expect it. Just stick to him.”

When he got home, he found Fouada napping in front of the television. There was a plate of dinner in the kitchen, and he ate quietly, trying not to wake her. His phone, however, rang loudly, and as he answered it he heard her saying, “What! What?”

“He’s at a bar now,” said Mahmoud. “Deals. Expatriate place. Sayyid just went in to take a look. Oh—he’s coming back. What?”

“You’re here,” Fouada said, stumbling into the kitchen. Her hair looked like a bird’s nest.

He smiled at her and said into the phone, “What is it?”

“Sayyid tells me John Calhoun is talking with Rashid el-Sawy.”

“What?”

Fouada opened the refrigerator, saying, “We’re almost out of water.”

Sayyid took the phone. “He’s talking as if they’re friends. They’re with a woman—a friend of Calhoun’s, I think. The three of them at a table. What should we do?”

Fouada took out a half-full bottle of Evian and, seeing what was on Omar’s plate, said, “Don’t tell me you’re eating that chicken cold.”

Why was el-Sawy meeting with the man who had taken Aziz over the border? Was he following his own investigation? “Don’t approach,” he told Sayyid. “Did he see you?”

“I stopped at the door. No, he didn’t see me.”

“Then pull back. Both of you. Let me find out what’s going on.”

He hung up and submitted to Fouada’s mothering, waiting as she microwaved the remaining chicken and steamed some couscous for him. He listened to her stories of the day. Her paranoia, he was happy to hear, had ebbed. Her husband had not been ripped apart by angry mobs. Their place had not been ransacked. She had not been raped. She was beginning to realize that when the world changes, most of it remains the same.

After dinner, he withdrew to the guest room and called Busiri to ask about el-Sawy’s interest in Calhoun. Busiri paused before answering. “Don’t take this badly, Omar, but I’d like you to pull back from the Aziz situation. It’s too personal for you. Rashid is better equipped to deal with it. He’s used to working undercover—he’s nearly American, after all. He’ll find out what happened to Jibril, and then I’ll tell you.”

It was a brush-off, but Omar accepted it. Busiri was right—he
was
getting emotional over this, though no one outside of his skin could have really suspected it. Certainly Fouada couldn’t tell; she just fed him and prepared for bed talking about the lack of water, and how could she have been so distracted to have forgotten about it?

He wasn’t thinking of water, though, and as she drifted to sleep beside him, he remembered Stumbler.

Stage 1: Collect exiles right off the street. London, Paris, Brussels, New York. They disappear in the middle of their lives, no one the wiser.

Stage 2: Reassemble them just outside the Libyan border with a contingency of approximately a hundred American troops—Special Forces, each of North African descent, dressed in civilian clothes—as well as volunteers previously collected from the exile population. Half sit in wait in Medenine, Tunisia, while the other half hole up in Marsa Matrouh. The plan even listed the addresses of two ideal locations, one in each town—houses owned by sympathetic Libyans. They await the signal.