The Cairo Affair (45 page)

“You just like boys,” he whispered back. Omar went to the bathroom in the rear of the apartment to wash up, then out to the terrace to sit beside Sophie. She was calmer now, rested, and as they spoke he remembered Zora Balašević’s advice:
Don’t ever make an enemy of Sophie Kohl.
Then she told him that Rashid el-Sawy had talked to her husband on the day he was killed.

He was shocked by this, then he wasn’t. “What did they speak about?”

“Stumbler, of course.”

Sayyid had arrived and was waiting in the terrace doorway. “We’re going to be up all night,” he told the young man in Arabic.

Sayyid shrugged. “This is the life I chose.”

When they got up for dinner, Omar’s phone rang—it was Mahmoud. “Yes?”

Mahmoud was breathing heavily. It sounded as if he’d been running. “Sir, it—he’s dead.”

“What? Who?” Omar walked inside, past Sayyid, heading for his bedroom.

“The American … Bertolli.”

“Tell me.”

Mahmoud took another breath. “I followed Ali to al-Azhar Park, and he met Stanley Bertolli. Ten, fifteen minutes. That was all. Ali started to walk back to his car, but after turning a corner he stopped and sat on a bench. Like he was waiting for something. After a short while, we both heard it. Quiet, but it was there. A gunshot. Ali got up again and walked to his car. I went back and found the American’s car. Rashid. It was Rashid el-Sawy. He was getting out of the backseat, taking plugs out of his ears, walking away. I waited, then went to check. It … it’s a mess.”

By then, Omar was sitting heavily on the corner of his bed, all strength drained from him.

“What do you want me to do?”

Omar rubbed his face hard enough to make it hurt. He’d done this. He’d tried to provoke Ali, and his efforts had killed a man. He said, “The bastard probably went home. Verify this for me. Okay?”

It took about three minutes before Omar could find the strength to climb to his feet and join the others. Fouada had started placing food on the dining table, Sophie Kohl helping her. Sayyid put away his own phone and stood up. It was time to eat.

After dinner, Sayyid asked for the direction of Mecca, and Omar decided to join him. It felt good praying with the young man; it felt essential. Just because he had lost track of his faith didn’t mean that it had left him. Afterward, he climbed to his feet and returned to the bedroom. Fouada followed to help him change into a fresh shirt. She said, “Are you getting any sleep tonight?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You need it,” she said, placing a hand on his bony shoulder. “You don’t look pretty.”

“You do,” he said, holding her hand, then kissed her cheeks. “Enough procrastination.”

He and Sayyid left together, Omar driving them to a dark residential street corner in Maadi, where Mahmoud waited inside a BMW with scratches on the trunk—someone, Mahmoud explained sheepishly, had keyed his car last week. Omar spoke to Sayyid briefly. He was to go to John Calhoun’s place and search for a book of names—it was, he had realized, the one missing piece, and if it was in Egypt it was either there or in the American embassy. Afterward, Sayyid should continue to a quarry that lay off the road leading to 15th of May City, south of Cairo. Omar admitted that he didn’t know what the book of names looked like, or if it would even be there—but if it was there, then it should be in their possession, and no one else’s. “And if Calhoun’s there?” asked Sayyid.

“Maybe you should just ask him for it. Nicely, of course.”

Sayyid smiled, then drove off in Mahmoud’s BMW. Omar brought Mahmoud over to his car. “You’ll be in the backseat,” Omar told the big man.

“I’m being chauffeured?”

“Something like that.”

They arrived at Ali Busiri’s house, where the streetlights shone against the rain-damp road. Omar parked outside the gate and checked in the rearview—Mahmoud was down and out of sight. “Comfortable?”

“Does it matter?” came Mahmoud’s muffled voice.

He took out his phone and called Busiri. “Omar?” his boss said cautiously.

“Sir, I need your advice on something.”

“What is it?”

“It’s not for the phone. I’m outside.” He paused, then: “Apologies, but it’s important.”

He saw a curtain part, letting out light. It was one of the lower windows—the office, he knew. He rolled down his window and waved. A couple of minutes later, the door opened, and Ali Busiri came out wearing a smoking jacket over a clean shirt and pants, sandals on his feet. He looked as if he’d just come from a bath. After al-Azhar Park, he would have needed one.

He was in no hurry, and he looked very tired. Anxiety did that, Omar knew. It sucked you dry. Busiri came around to the passenger’s side, opened the door, and climbed in, closing the door behind himself. “I hope you’re not asking for love advice,” he said breathily. “I’m a mess with that.”

“No, sir. I wanted advice about the case.”

Busiri nodded, a hesitant smile. “Go ahead.”

Omar fingered the steering wheel, feeling his own anxiety bubble to the surface. “What if I had discovered that someone in our own section was responsible for much of what we’ve been seeing?”

“What? Who?”

“Rashid el-Sawy. He oversaw the murder of Emmett Kohl.”

“What?” Busiri’s hands began to flap around. “Why would he do that?”

“Because Emmett Kohl, like Stanley Bertolli, knew that the Americans were not behind Stumbler. He knew that the Libyans had been killing off the exiles who formed the first stage of Stumbler. To make sure it could never get off the ground. Gadhafi rightly fears the introduction of a second force in addition to the Benghazi rebels.”

“You’re saying those exiles were killed?”

“One of them was found dead last night. In Paris. Dead for over a week.”

He let that sink in a moment, waiting until Busiri asked the obvious question: “This is all very interesting, Omar, but why would Rashid care about it? Why would he want to kill an American diplomat?”

“We received the plans through Emmett Kohl’s wife. Maybe Kohl knew this, maybe he didn’t, but either way the plans made a leap over our border at some point, to Libya, and he was preparing to focus on that.”

“Are you saying that Rashid sold the plans to Tripoli?”

“Last April, he spent a week in Tripoli. I’m guessing he was transporting cash, as he did when he paid Zora Balašević in Frankfurt. In this case, though, he was receiving money—for intelligence he’d sold them.”

“Well,” said Busiri.

“This went on for years,” Omar continued. “As far back as 2005 we were leaking to the Libyans. Remember Yousef Rahmin? That information moved fast. Of course, it would’ve had to—what if Yousef had identified Rashid as being in the pay of the Libyans? No, he had to get rid of Yousef Rahmin quickly.

“And then,” Omar went on, “there was Stumbler. That must have been a surprise for Rashid. Who would have guessed that, armed with the Stumbler plans, the Libyans would kidnap and kill all the exiles? Who would have guessed that the architect of those plans, Jibril Aziz, would suddenly believe his plan was being put into action?” Omar shook his head. “Such bad luck, after years of perfect security. But how did Rashid learn of Jibril?” He paused, just briefly. “I asked myself that, and of course it was my fault.
Our
fault, really. Jibril talked to me, and so I talked to you. I told you everything I knew. And because you trusted him, you told Rashid. Am I correct?”

Silently, Busiri nodded. Like a man with enormous things on his mind.

“Rashid learned that Jibril had gone to talk with Emmett Kohl, and that Kohl suspected the Libyans rather than the Americans. Remember what I said to you? I said that, if this was true, the logical next question was: How did the Libyans get hold of Stumbler? Certainly you would have brought up that question to him. No?”

Another silent nod.

“Rashid was scared,” Omar went on, “so he hired an Albanian murderer. They went to Budapest, Rashid traveling via Munich. He met with Emmett Kohl and spoke to him about Stumbler. I was surprised when I learned this, but it makes sense. He had to go himself, because even a fish as cold as Rashid would have wanted to verify that Kohl was a threat before giving the Albanian his orders.”

Now Busiri was staring out the side window, across the street, so that Omar could not see his face. Quietly, he said, “But isn’t this a lot of effort, just to cover up that he’d been selling some information?”

“I thought so, too,” Omar admitted. “But think about it from his perspective. Think about it now. They’re beginning to pick apart our offices. You’re getting rid of seven people today—tomorrow, how many? Once the elections bring in these idealistic protesters, there will be no patience for anyone who has been selling intelligence to a dictator. Particularly intelligence that helps Gadhafi wipe out his own people. They wouldn’t even have to put him in prison—just let the newspapers find out what he’s done. He’d be dead within the week. The crowds are not very forgiving.”

“No,” Busiri said. “They’re not.”

“So he will do anything to protect his secret. He will murder an American in Budapest. He will murder an American in Cairo.”

Busiri turned back, frowning. “An American in Cairo?”

“I’m afraid so,” Omar said. “Rashid executed Stanley Bertolli. About an hour ago. That murder was witnessed.” He paused. “You can see that he has to be stopped.”

Busiri was scratching at his rough cheek. “Yes, I can see that.”

“Do you know where Rashid is?”

Busiri opened his mouth, then shut it. “I’ll call him. My phone’s in the house.”

“Wait,” Omar said, placing a hand on his knee. “There’s one thing I can’t figure out.”

Unsure, Busiri turned to face him. “What’s that?”

“Where is Jibril?”

“He’s in Libya. Isn’t he?”

“He hasn’t gotten in touch with anyone. I’m beginning to fear he’s dead.”

Busiri shook his head, as if this weren’t to be believed, but said, “Stanley Bertolli believed this as well.”

“He told you Jibril was dead?”

“Yes, but Rashid couldn’t have killed Aziz, too.”

Omar closed his eyes, absorbing this terrible news, then said, “If Jibril is dead, and it wasn’t Rashid, then who? Was it the Americans? If so, then why would they have let him go into Libya in the first place?”

“You told me,” Busiri said, his voice warbly now. “They wanted his contacts.”

“Maybe,” Omar said. “But what if they didn’t care about them? What if Rashid, panicking, made a final call to Tripoli? Told them someone was coming in to organize his old networks and whip the revolution into a frenzy? Told them, too, that if they got this man they would also get his whole network? All it would take was a phone call, or a meeting in a park to discuss it with someone from the Libyan embassy.”

Busiri was chewing the inside of his cheek.

Omar said, “Gadhafi must be paying him a lot of money to be worth all these corpses.”

Busiri didn’t say anything.

Omar let the silence linger for a while, then turned to take in the broad expanse of his boss’s home. “That’s a very nice house. How much did it cost?”

Busiri reached for the door handle.

“Mahmoud,” said Omar, and the big man emerged from the backseat, a leviathan rising from the shadows, his hands already fixing onto Busiri’s shoulders.

If Omar expected surprise, he was disappointed. Busiri gave a single futile push, then dropped back into Mahmoud’s embrace. The big man reached over to make sure the passenger door was locked, then brought out a Helwan 9 mm pistol and made sure their boss got a good look at it. Omar started the car.

“Where are we going?” Busiri asked.

“To a place of conversation,” Omar said.

As they started to move, the door to Busiri’s house opened. The tall silhouette of his wife watched them drive away. After a moment, a phone began to ring. “May I?” Busiri asked.

“I thought your phone was in the house,” said Mahmoud.

Omar said, “Give it to Mahmoud.”

Busiri did so, the light of the phone briefly basking them all in blue, and Omar said, “Get rid of it.”

Mahmoud rolled down his window and tossed out the phone. It clattered against the irregular pavement, cracking down the middle, but continued to ring. Ten minutes later, the wheel of a moving truck pulverized it.

PART IV

THE NEW YEAR

Wednesday, 9 March 2011

1:30
P.M.
Eastern Standard Time (Boston)

8:30
P.M.
Eastern European Time (Cairo)

1

She had been in America, beyond passport control, for thirty minutes, still wearing Fouada Halawi’s dress, and she was overcome by the feeling that she’d entered a world of pale, oversized children. Pudgy white-haired men in T-shirts and padded, primary-color jackets wandered around poking at cell phones; wives and mothers in practical shoes and sneakers lounged at café tables, curbing their well-dressed children. The airport stores shone so brightly, drunk with colors, each storefront flashy and bold, something shiny to attract attention. Compared to Budapest and Cairo, Logan Airport felt like a candy-colored land of enterprise, the filtered air clean and smoke-free.
How,
she wondered,
can anyone be afraid of us?

Then she stiffened inside as one of the children—a boy of seven, maybe, or eight—leaned back against a huge window overlooking the parked airplanes and watched her pass. His face looked so old, his expression so intense, that she hurried her pace, wanting to run from his accusing stare, but at the same time telling herself to calm down. That boy was American, not Czech.

She’d had enough of thinking about herself and what she’d done. She had dreamed about a gun and a wailing man who was at one moment Egyptian and the next Croatian, and when she woke up ten hours later in John Calhoun’s wrecked apartment she had seen it all again in the twilight as yet another call to prayer filled the city. She’d been alone when she woke, and in that quiet time leafed through modernist poets until Calhoun returned from some errand and tried, once or twice, to speak to her, but she hadn’t been up for it. He’d looked so uncomfortable. She told him she liked his books, and he seemed to blush. He answered a phone call and spoke quietly for a moment, then told her Harry was coming over. “Okay,” she’d said, before going back to the mess of his bedroom.