by Ian Barclay
Dartley did not read the names on the stones. He just looked at them all as anonymous men, like every soldier was in combat, looked at the row after row after row of headstones, wreathed in purple flowers, stretching away into the desert sand.
It was here that Dartley chose to mourn the death of Aaron Gottlieb.
Chapter
9
Keegan picked up the off-green telephone connected to the KYX scrambler at this State Department office in Washington, D.C. He identified himself and listened. It was a long call, much longer than the usual briefings Langley chose to give him. Which meant only one thing—the CIA expected that shit was going to fly and that State was going to be hit by some or all of it.
The long and short of it, according to Langley’s version, was that the Mossad had lent a man to the CIA in Cairo and that this was the man who had been killed while trying to assassinate the president of Egypt at a Jordanian resort.
Keegan felt the blood rush to his head, then leave it just as rapidly. He wanted to shout, but no sound came. He felt dizzy and gulped some cold coffee from a Styrofoam container on his desk. His hands were shaking.
“You—you’re telling me you borrowed someone to kill President Hasan?”
“Hell, no, Keegan. Don’t be stupid. The Mossad man went to help an American agent. When our man in Cairo verified that this American wasn’t one of ours and didn’t belong to the Pentagon or NSA, the Israelis figured he was with you. Or maybe the White House. He was doing what the Israelis wanted anyway—taking out Ahmed Hasan. So I don’t suppose they gave a fuck if he was from Mars.”
“You keep on saying ‘this American.’ What American?”
“That’s what we’d like to know, Keegan. Poke around and see what you can find. There’s no knowing if some half-cocked patriot didn’t send someone over there—one of these dingbats on the fund raising side. Check into it.”
“I will,” John Keegan agreed. “You sure he’s not a rogue?”
“We’ve covered everybody. We don’t know who this fella is.”
“I’ll certainly inquire. Other than that, is there anything else we can do at State?”
“Sure.” Keegan heard a harsh laugh at the other end of the line. “Keep your heads down when it starts to fly.”
Omar Zekri shook hands with Pritchett when the American arrived at the hotel room. Pritchett always insisted on Omar getting a room someplace and then waiting for him there, sometimes for hours, when they had anything that would take time to discuss. Pritchett claimed that if he were seen in earnest conversation with Omar, it could endanger the Egyptian’s safety. This was enough to convince Omar. He waited for the American to unwrap and open the bottle of Dewar’s Scotch. Two empty glasses had been set on a table by Omar. He swallowed two mouthfuls of the amber liquid before he spoke.
Omar said, “The Israeli spy who was killed at Aqaba was here in Cairo before he went there.”
Pritchett did not bat an eyelid, but then Omar decided that Pritchett had been expecting something anyway.
Omar went on. “When the newspaper said that this Israeli spy-had entered Egypt as a Beirut Christian banker and spoke Arabic with a Lebanese accent, I recognized him in spite of his ski mask.”
“So?” Pritchett asked noncommittally.
“He was with Thomas Lewis, the American wheat expert.”
Omar smiled at Pritchett’s visible discomfort.
“I think Mr. Lewis went to Aqaba also,” Omar said softly. “To kill Ahmed Hasan.”
“Do you really think Washington is that stupid, Omar, to send an American and an Israeli to an Arab town to kill the Egyptian president? Even your own newspapers are a bit suspicious of Hasan’s claims of an American-Zionist plot against him. I tell you, this so-called wheat expert Thomas Lewis does not work for any branch of the American government. And I’d like you to pass that fact along to your Egyptian friends.”
“Oh, they do not know that Lewis went to Aqaba. I have too much love for my American friends to tell the government here what I know about this thing.”
Pritchett sighed in exasperation and got to his feet. “Listen to me, Omar. Do what you wish. Obviously, we’d be happier if no American was known to be directly involved in this affair. But I’m not protecting one if he is—because I don’t know who the hell he is. We might be best served if Egyptian intelligence did put an end to him before he tries anything else.”
“You wish me to pass that along?”
“No. All I’m trying to get you to understand is that this Thomas Lewis is not working for us. In any capacity, got that?”
“Oh, I know that, Mr. Pritchett. How do I know? Because I know who he is working for.”
Pritchett sat down.
Omar took his time in refilling their glasses from the bottle of Dewar’s. He sipped reflectively on his straight, warm whiskey. “I think five thousand dollars should just about cover my expenses on this particular aspect.”
Pritchett grunted his assent. “Better be worth it.”
“Jacques Laforque paid me to find Thomas Lewis for him on an emergency basis.”
Pritchett’s expression did not change.
Omar was not fazed by this. “You know how Laforque behaves so self-importantly when he’s obeying orders. He was obeying orders. He was in a hurry. He represents the party behind the Aqaba failure.”
Pritchett smiled. “Is Cairo into disinformation these days? Or does this come from someone else? Maybe Thomas Lewis himself? Perhaps he’s hired you also.”
It was beneath Omar’s dignity to respond to such insults. He knew Pritchett was only playing for time as he sorted this new information in his brain.
“Is Laforque in Cairo now?” Pritchett asked.
“No.”
“But you expect him back?”
Omar nodded. “And Thomas Lewis too.”
When Richard Dartley returned to Cairo, he felt depressed by his failure on the Red Sea. Here he was back again at the starting point, with a few additional strokes against him. One of these additional strokes was the need for a new identification. When he dropped off the car he had hired in Alexandria with the Hertz depot in Cairo, he destroyed his papers in the name of Fairbairn Draper, along with those in the name of Thomas Lewis. Those were two gentlemen he had no wish to be associated with in future. He had a fake U.S. passport and Egyptian visa in the name of Paul Savage. But that name was a safety cushion and he intended to avoid using it if possible. It was just something to show the police if they stopped him in the street. His hair was now fairer—bleached by the sun—and longer, uncomfortably long for him since he was used to it clipped short. He was growing a mustache, wore aviator-style sunglasses, and bought French trendy styles in clothes. He was fairly sure he’d be hard to recognize from a week before. He sure as hell hoped so. There were some people here in Cairo he did not want to meet.
In his new role as a tourist, he spent the day walking around places he had avoided before. He climbed to the observation platform of the six hundred-foot-tall Cairo Tower on Zamalek Island. To the west, he could see the pyramids and the Sphinx, the desert stretching endlessly away beyond them. White-sailed feluccas dotted the Nile, with its ribbon of green vegetation on each bank and the luxury apartment buildings and highrise hotels—the Marriott, Sheraton, Meridien, Nile Hilton, Shepheard. North of the tower, on the island itself, were the grounds of the Gezira Sporting and Racing Club. Across the Tahrir Bridge was Tahrir Square, from which broad thoroughfares radiated out to all parts of the city. Away to the east, the medieval bulk of the Citadel loomed, with silver domes shining in the sun. Beyond the Citadel lay the Mokattam Hills.
With other tourists, he wandered among the bookstores, jewelry shops and boutiques on the elegant avenue of Kasr-el-Nil—not the kind of surrounding Dartley usually found himself in. He spent time in the bazaar of the Khan-El-Khalili and watched tourists bargain with craftsmen in the maze of twisting alleyways. Dartley was not wasting time. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was
accustoming himself to his new role as a tourist. Even when he did understand what was said to him in Arabic, he pretended not to. His previous line of attack in Cairo had not worked—which was, why he had gone to Aqaba—and now that he was back, he would have to try something new. He was not sure what as yet.
He was almost surprised to find himself enjoying what had first appalled him about the city—the noise, anarchy of the traffic, the construction sites everywhere, the crowds, the fumes, the heat. He got a chance to see the beautiful old mosques and walk down wide boulevards lined by parks and vivid flowers. When he was fully satisfied with himself as a tourist, he went to find Omar Zekri.
To Dartley’s satisfaction, Omar did not recognize him. He even tried to sell him a small stone statue of a cat which he claimed had been found in a tomb dating back to King Tut’s time.
“Where can I find Laforque?”
This question stopped Omar in mid-sentence. He tried to peer around the sunglasses to see the eyes. “Mr. Lewis? What a pleasant surprise.” The stone cat was slipped into a side pocket. “I don’t think Monsieur Laforque is in town at present. I will inquire. Where can I contact you?”
Dartley smiled a cold smile and poked the Egyptian hard with his fingertips in the solar plexus. “You little shit! I ought to kill you!”
It hadn’t been much of a blow, but it winded the plump Egyptian.
“Thing you better never forget, Omar, is you’re sitting out here, an easy target any time I take a violent dislike to you. Now I got the notion you’ve been crossing me up. So how long do you think I’m going to put up with that? Come on, tell me. You’re a good judge of character, Omar. How long would you say I’m going to put up with crap from you?”
“Mr. Lewis, please understand, I have never done anything to—”
“I asked you a question, Omar. Answer it.”
“No more crap, Mr. Lewis.”
“That’s better. When do you expect Laforque to come back?”
“I don’t know,” Omar said truthfully. “He stays at the Hotel des Roses when he comes, under his name.”
“Does Pritchett at the American Embassy know about Laforque looking for me?”
Omar hesitated a moment. “Yes.”
Dartley laughed. He had come to see that intrigue was an essential part of life in Cairo, and that for this reason, no one could hope to operate unnoticed by professional observers in spite of the huge size of the city. Instead of hiding, from now on Dartley intended to use people. If Laforque’s stupidity gave away France’s secret involvement to U.S. intelligence, all the better!
“Come with me, Omar. I want you to hire a car for me under an Egyptian name. There’ll be some cash in it for you.”
Omar Zekri watched the American drive off in the hired car. Omar was frightened. He was used to threats, he was even used to occasional beatings, but he normally knew how far he could go and expect to survive. He survived because people needed him. At some moments they might want very badly to kill him for something he had done, but his future use to them outweighed the immediate satisfaction they would gain from killing him right away. Omar knew Awad and Zaid would not kill him—he feared torture and maiming from them. Pritchett and Laforque didn’t even dare push him around; they needed him more than he needed them. But this American called Lewis was a different matter. That one would kill him and not think twice about it. Like throwing a cigarette away.
Why hadn’t he asked Omar more questions? Tried to catch him in lies? This American did not even bother to play the game of pretending that they could deal straightforwardly with each other. With him, it was do this or you’re dead. It was only a matter of time before he decided—rightly or wrongly—that Omar was responsible for something he didn’t like and killed him for it. As the American had openly said, Omar was an easy target. Omar couldn’t change that. The nature of his business dictated that he be easy to find, and he made himself available by following regular rounds every day without fail. Those who knew him were aware he would be in a certain place at a certain time of day. An easy target.
But Omar hadn’t lived this long by standing passively around and letting things happen to him. Omar believed in preventive action—not by himself directly, of course. It was always easy to find muscle.
Pritchett’s attitude decided him. The CIA man had definitely not suggested that this American called Lewis be liquidated, but he definitely had said it was no concern to the embassy what happened to him. This Thomas Lewis would be no loss to anybody.
Omar was also a little worried about the fact that he had been contacted by Laforque, Lewis and the Israeli spy who got killed at Aqaba. An outsider might reasonably make the mistake that Omar too was involved in the assassination attempt on Ahmed Hasan. After all, he had met all three participants. It would be hard to believe he did not know what they had in mind—especially since he had said nothing about them to his Egyptian intelligence contacts. Who would believe he had thought them after atom secrets and that it had never occurred to him they were out to kill Ahmed Hasan? No one would believe it. Omar’s involvement with any of this must never become known to Egyptian intelligence.
He toyed around with telling the Cairo authorities about Laforque, but decided not to for the same reason he had not done so before—his own position in the affair would not be believed by them and he would be worse off than if he had kept his mouth shut.
Now this Thomas Lewis was back in Cairo, threatening him and forcing him to hire a car for him. While this man Lewis was in the city, things were not going to stay quiet, die down, fade away, evaporate… Things were going to get much worse. And Lewis was already involving him.
Omar stopped at a public phone. He had to try three times before he got through, losing his coins each time, but he persisted until he succeeded.
Zaid answered at the other end of the line.
John Keegan’s superior at the State Department, F. Conrad Bigglesley, told his secretary he was not taking any calls and closed his office door.
“John,” he said, “we’ve been reviewing your report of possible French involvement in the Aqaba incident. I’ve passed your memo to me to various other levels. To tell the truth, reactions vary. But a few very similar comments came back from nearly everyone. Ill summarize them for you. The French would never work with the Israelis on something like this—their mutual distrust would make it highly unlikely. The second thing that struck nearly everyone forcibly was the suggestion to you that this American might be associated in some way with the Department of State or even the White House. That strikes most of us as grasping desperately at straws. It makes us almost certain he’s tied to Central Intelligence or Military Intelligence or the NSA. He may not be a salaried employee. He might be one of these dreadful freelance people they favor doing business with. I like your suggestion that he could be some kind of rogue employee, and I think your Langley contact was a little too quick to deny this possibility. In other words, we all think Langley is trying to pull the wool over our eyes.”
John Keegan had expected this. “I think that’s a very sensible set of reactions, Conrad, based on past experience. The only thing we have to be wary of, then, is whether we’re putting too much reliance on past experience, and by doing so, possibly missing a new development. And, I should add, a new development our friends at the Agency will be able to justifiably say they gave us timely warning about and were ignored.”
“Are you telling me that you believe the French government is involved in trying to assassinate the Egyptian president?” Bigglesley asked with an edge in his voice.
“I don’t see why we must be put in a position in State where we have to believe or not believe. I’d like to keep an open mind on this.”
“That’s fine, John,” Bigglesley snapped, “just as long as you keep your open mind to yourself.”
“If you say sa.”
“I do.”
Keegan tried another angle. “Surely the Agency contacted the White House staff independently o
n this. What does the National Security Adviser have to say?”
“He disagrees with the Secretary of State.”
Keegan laughed. “Nothing new there.”
Bigglesley assumed a paternal air. “That’s what I’m warning you about, John. You tend to throw your opinions around without testing the air. That can easily be misinterpreted. You could find yourself trapped in alliances that would do your career no good.”
“So what do I do?” Keegan asked with resignation. “Tell Langley they’re full of horsefeathers?”
“Absolutely not. Pretend to go along with them, as if we believe every word they’re feeding us.”
“Very well.”
“Good.” Bigglesley was pleased. “I must say Alice looked delightful at the Paraguayan Embassy cocktail party.”
Yes, and you couldn’t keep your goddam paws off my wife, Keegan felt like saying.
But he didn’t.
Ahmed Hasan was back to his old ways, tearing back and forth between the presidential palace and the Citadel, always surrounded by his armed bodyguards. The speed, suddenness, and chaos of these moves were what protected Hasan most effectively. Dartley watched from his parked car at four points for two of Hasan’s trips, coming and going. It began to look like he would have to wait for Hasan to break his routine again.
Time was beginning to work against him now. Sooner or later the government agents would get lucky and pin him down. His only hope was in the recklessness of Ahmed Hasan himself. Hasan had stood erect on the stern of the launch while everyone else on board had sought cover. On his return to Cairo, there seemed to be no extra security precautions in place. Plainly Hasan liked to live on the edge… play with fire. He might even taunt a would-be assassin with his seeming accessibility. Certainly he was not running away or hiding himself more than he had done before.
