“Because he won’t be here. You’ll never tell anyone that he was here. Do you understand?”
She did, though she didn’t like it, least of all when she saw the squalid condition of the man Sayyid was helping through the door.
They gave him the guest room, the blinds closed, and the planned twenty-four-hour stay turned into three days. By the first evening Fouada had warmed to him. It wasn’t so much Jibril she had warmed to, but the sudden presence of someone who, unlike her husband, was in dire need of her care. She washed him with wet towels and fed him soup the way a mother would feed a baby, or at least the way she imagined mothers fed their babies. On the second evening, Omar found her in the guest room singing a lullaby as Jibril slept.
In between these ministrations, Omar would sit with Jibril and talk, but never about work. He admitted to knowing of Jibril’s father, the great general Mustafa Aziz. “His death, and the deaths of the others, was an abomination. One of these days, Libya will be free of that man, and it will be because of men like your father, who sowed the seeds of change.”
Jibril looked at him, as if judging his honesty. “I’m not sure that’s true,” he said finally. “I don’t think anyone’s having an effect.”
“That’s because you have just had a grand failure. To you, all is destruction and woe. Give it a week, a month, a year. You will be optimistic again, and you will see that your work, as well as your father’s, is chipping away at the foundations.”
It turned out that Jibril’s employers saw it differently. After Jibril had been quietly returned to Harold Wolcott, orders came through from Langley. Jibril was blown, and therefore he was being recalled to Virginia. Before leaving, however, he stopped by and had tea with Fouada until Omar returned home from work. The two men went to the guest room and talked in English in case Fouada was listening, Omar smoking his Winstons. Jibril was less dejected than he had been before, but he had bad news. “Half my network is still in place,” he told Omar. “I got word from one of my Bedouins.”
“The other half?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know how I lost them.”
“It happens,” Omar said. “Even to the best. How many?”
“Eleven,” said Jibril.
After a moment of silence to mourn the losses, Jibril said, “What would you think of working with me?”
“With Harry Wolcott, you mean.”
“I mean me. I’m being moved to operation planning. Sometimes I may need help with details. We’re not as all-knowing as we want people to think.”
Omar grinned.
“It’s not volunteer work,” Jibril said quickly. “I’m talking about exchanges of information.”
“Could you get clearance for such a thing?”
Jibril shrugged. “Asking for clearance might be a mistake.”
“I see what you mean,” Omar said, warming to the idea. “But I would be under no obligations, you understand? If I am uncomfortable—”
“Then it’s silence,” Jibril finished.
Though their business was taken care of, Jibril stayed for dinner at Fouada’s insistence, and over a platter of grilled lamb Omar watched how his wife fawned with the attentiveness of an adoring mother over this skinny little Libyan American.
2
The section blossomed under Ali Busiri’s firm hand. Largely ignored before, they now had a reputation in the ministry, for Busiri had become the go-to man for embassy intrigue. Visitors from the Military Intelligence Services appeared in his office with begging cups in hand. Most Thursdays, GIS chief Omar Suleiman could be found laughing with Busiri over tea. Busiri’s greatest pride came when he heard the timid knocks on the door from officers of the SSI—his onetime bosses had come to sit at his knee.
Before the discovery of Zora Balašević, their section was already running twenty-six sources; Busiri was tapped into thirteen percent of the nearly two hundred diplomatic missions in Cairo. Among the larger nations represented, Russia, France, and Australia fed them a regular diet of national and allied intelligence. Intelligence bred more intelligence, for Busiri gave little away for free. Visitors with requests always came with a pocket full of intel, ready to share with the Oracle.
In January 2009, Busiri came to Omar with a special job. “You will create a line of communication with the Americans.”
“I thought you already had that. You meet with Harry Wolcott, don’t you?”
Busiri smiled, turning his hands palm up. “Occasionally, yes, but I’m thinking of something different. Harry and I have a congenial relationship. I share, he shares, but we have our limits. I’m not sure I believe everything the man says, and he certainly doesn’t believe me, but that’s the nature of such relationships. What I’d like from you is something different. You will offer yourself to them.”
Omar felt a tingle creep over his scalp. “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you understand. You’re being bashful.” Busiri winked. “We haven’t been able to acquire anyone at their embassy, but there are other ways to deal with them. Our primary goal will be to make them believe certain things. If I tell Harry something, he may or may not believe it. But if I tell him something and he verifies it with someone else in our office, someone he trusts, then he’ll pass it on to Langley. You understand?”
Omar did. “What’s our secondary goal?”
“Whatever we like,” he said. “You won’t be a volunteer. You’ll demand payment. Not in silver, but concessions. You and I both know plenty of fine businessmen who would be happy to get into the American market. Perhaps we can help them out. Perhaps they will want to show us their appreciation.”
Omar made his approach through the most unlikely route, the better to be believed. He stood on a crowded bus beside the embassy’s newest employee, Amir Najafi, a contractor with Global Security. He leaned close to the young man’s long ear and whispered in Arabic, “Omar Halawi wants to talk. Tell them that.” Najafi just stared at him, gape-mouthed, as he quietly disembarked.
The ruse was easier to set up than he would have imagined. Through Najafi he was passed on to Stanley Bertolli, who during their conversation in a small hotel room in Dokki quizzed him on the why of his offer. Omar’s explanation was as pedestrian as it was believable: He’d been passed over for promotion one time too many, and was ready to start working for himself. Did Omar have a preferred contact? Indeed, he did: the green Najafi. “He’s not Agency,” Bertolli protested, but Omar insisted.
As the relationship developed, Omar handing Najafi information given to him by Busiri, it occurred to him that he wasn’t just doing a service for their section—some items he passed on dealt with other departments. Military and interparliamentary relations were discussed. Trade and commerce were detailed. Analyses of internal dissent were passed on. Busiri had turned Omar into a tool for the entire Egyptian government. Omar couldn’t even imagine what his boss was getting in return.
Yet the stress of this heightened deception quickly wore on Omar. In early February 2009, at fifty-eight years of age, he suffered a minor heart attack, and while he was laid up at Dar Al Fouad his doctor put him on drugs and told him to cut down on the stress in his life and quit smoking. He quit smoking.
Later that month, Omar returned home to find Jibril Aziz sitting with Fouada, drinking tea and eating cake. They hadn’t spoken since 2005, and he was shocked by the sight of a well-fed, almost cherubic Jibril. Fouada was beside herself with pleasure. “Jibril is married now. Can you believe it? I’m telling him why he has to have a child immediately, no hesitation. Tell him I know what I’m talking about.”
“She knows what she’s talking about,” Omar said as he gave the younger man a hug.
Fouada wanted to go out to El Kebabgy for dinner, but seeing Jibril’s hesitation Omar suggested they have their meal delivered. She didn’t seem to care either way—her little boy had returned.
After eating, the men withdrew to the living room, where Omar had pulled the curtains closed. “You are lo
oking good,” Omar told Jibril in English, his fingers twitching as he fingered an imaginary cigarette. “She loves you, you know. Sometimes three days of nursing is all it takes.”
“You’re a lucky man,” Jibril said, and Omar was struck by how diplomatic that sentiment sounded. He wondered how much four years in the Office of Collection Strategies and Analysis had changed the shivering wreck he’d met at the Libyan border.
“This call is not social, yes?”
Jibril shrugged. “Half and half. I was wondering if I could bounce a few ideas off of you.”
“Depends on the ideas, does it not?”
Omar settled back in his chair and listened to the castles Jibril had been building out of air—for that was how he understood Jibril’s job. Dreamers sitting at their desks, transcribing their fantasies into reality. What a life, he thought as he listened to Jibril’s dream of a Libya rid of the man who had murdered his father. He had done his homework, analyzing the various exile groups, their strengths and great weaknesses, as well as the conditions that might bring them together. At the time, there was no evidence that a spontaneous uprising could occur in Libya, so it was up to a third party to light the fuse. America, apparently.
Initially, this did not sit well with Omar. He argued that any more American incursions into Muslim lands would break the camel’s back. It would give final justification to groups like the Muslim Brotherhood, which plagued Egypt, potentially triggering Islamic coups throughout the Arab world.
“If it’s done correctly,” Jibril explained, “no one need find out. The story will be that the exile groups, united by their desire for democracy, returned to overthrow the tyrant.”
“Democracy?”
Jibril thought a moment. “Freedom.”
That word was at least more palatable. “What is it you think you need from me?”
“Some insight,” Jibril said. “We’d have to use Egypt and Tunisia as launching points. Tell me how Mubarak would react. Tell me how Ben Ali would react.”
“Depends on what they knew.”
“I don’t think anything could be held back.”
Omar considered this. While he suspected the two autocrats would be happy to get rid of the Brother Leader, it occurred to him that they would be too terrified to support a regime change. “Have you thought about the repercussions? Mubarak knows the kind of trouble he has here. The public watched him support your country’s invasion of Iraq—in their eyes, an unforgivable mistake. The economy is in very bad shape, and we have been forced to take orders from the International Monetary Fund. Food prices have skyrocketed, and we have started to cut back on public services. We are sick with corruption—this is an illness we had long before Mubarak arrived in 1981, but with the economy in shambles it has gotten worse. And now the people are marching in the streets. More than half our population—sixty percent—is younger than thirty, and they are out of work. The Kefaya movement has given them courage, and we are expecting trouble from some kids on Facebook, calling themselves the April 6 Movement—they have gained seventy thousand members. Imagine, for a moment, what all these young, angry men would do if they saw the Libyans tossing Muammar into the street. How safe would Mubarak be? More importantly, how safe would Mubarak feel?”
“But it’s different here.”
“Yes, but Mubarak and Ben Ali would certainly view it with trepidation.”
Jibril’s expression changed, as if he’d been drenched in cold water.
“Yet I suppose it could be accomplished,” Omar mused. “Libya’s borders are porous. If the exiles can get in on their own and gain control of one or two ports along the coast, then there would be no need for American troops to set foot in Tunisia or Egypt—the exiles can simply let them in themselves.”
“They would have to gather somewhere,” Jibril said, nodding as he considered this. “Marsa Matrouh, maybe.”
“It would take careful planning,” Omar said. “Preparation. The groundwork would have to be laid. But it may be possible.”
Jibril brightened.
“Muammar’s people will not be sitting still. Remember this. Remember how they caught you. Only four years ago. They are not amateurs.”
Jibril didn’t need to be reminded of anything.
“Did you ever find out how you were discovered?”
Jibril shook his head. “Never.”
They hammered at it until late in the evening, and, knowing that it was only a draft proposal, Omar felt no compunction about helping construct this castle. He soon realized that he was enjoying it. Finally, as they were getting ready for bed, Omar asked for the name of this plan.
For the first time, Jibril hesitated.
“Remember our agreement?”
Jibril smiled, almost embarrassed. “Stumbler.”
He laughed, for it sounded ridiculous. “Your idea?”
“A random name pulled off the computer.”
“Computers,” Omar said. “They will be the death of us all.”
By the time he next heard from Jibril, two years later, he and Fouada had almost forgotten about the young man, for their country had been turned upside down. Hosni Mubarak was under house arrest in Sharm el-Sheikh, and the nation was being ruled by Field Marshal Mohamed Hussein Tantawi, chairman of the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces.
The legions of Central Security foot soldiers, most of them uneducated country folk, had splintered, leaving real security to the army as the demonstrators continued, even after Mubarak’s ouster, to rip up asphalt and build barricades, demanding more. Busiri’s old employers, the SSI, were the protesters’ primary target, and everyone knew it was just a matter of time before the State Security Investigations Service was dissolved completely, its administrators jailed and placed on trial. No one believed the protesters would stop with the SSI, and the Central Security Forces, whose disheveled conscripts had become the black-clad enemy of those heady revolutionary days, was certainly going to be next. Everyone would be out, and many would be forced to mount vain defenses in kangaroo courts.
In the corridors you could hear the hum of paper shredders, and the officers had trouble looking each other in the eye. Some whispered hastily hatched ideas of flight, though only a few—notably Hassan Ghali and Rifaat Pasha from Special Operations Command—had actually disappeared. Then there were the unspoken ideas, the plans to build small fortunes before the purges, perhaps by selling secrets. To combat any sudden loss of patriotism, security was beefed up at all the exits, and by then entering or leaving the Interior Ministry building had become worse than boarding an international flight. The day after Jibril’s call, on February 23, former policemen demanding their jobs back set fire to cars and one of the buildings inside the Interior Ministry complex.
The chaos, coupled with a suddenly enormous workload, served only to exhaust Omar, who kept checking and rechecking his blood pressure. Home was hardly a relief, for a tight paranoia had taken hold of Fouada.
“See those men? Under that streetlamp. They’ve been there for three hours, Omar! Look how long their hair is! They’re taking revenge. Where’s your gun?”
Though her words flowed from a wellspring of paranoia, she was right to be worried. His trips to and from the office were often stalled by impromptu checkpoints set up by angry revolutionaries.
With all this going on, how could he even think of Jibril Aziz? He might have been reminded of him when the Day of Revolt occurred on February 17 next door in Libya, but that unprecedented demonstration of popular dissent had given him no more than a passing feeling for the young man who had slept in his guest bedroom and been loved by his wife. So when his phone rang a little before midnight on February 22 and he reached over, his pillow damp from the sweat of a nightmare he couldn’t remember, it took a moment for him to realize who he was talking to. “Omar, it’s me. Jibril.”
Omar got out of bed, padding out of the room in bare feet, whispering, “Jibril?”
“It’s me.”
“Where are you?” he
asked as he continued to the kitchen and turned on the light. He was dressed in underwear, feeling the chill, but he didn’t want to go back to get his robe; he didn’t want to wake Fouada. “Are you here?”
“No,” Jibril told him, then hesitated. A transatlantic gap followed, then Jibril said, “They’re doing it, Omar.”
“What?”
“Stumbler. They’re doing it.”
It took another moment for him to reel back his memories to two years ago, that late-night conversation. At first, he didn’t quite understand Jibril’s anxiety. “Thank you for the information.”
“Omar, listen. What time is it there?”
“Midnight.”
“Right, right. Sorry. But pay attention. They’re doing it now, not five days ago. Are you following?”
Then, like a light being turned on, he saw it. Now, meaning five days after the Day of Revolt. Meaning: Libyan corpses in the street. Meaning: a swift overthrow of a regime being softened by the bodies of Libyan citizens. “I find this hard to believe,” Omar said finally. “As far as I know they have said nothing to us. They have not laid the groundwork.”
“They don’t have to, Omar. Ben Ali is gone. Mubarak is gone. No one’s going to stop a band of exiles from crossing the border. If the Benghazi ports aren’t open yet, they soon will be.”
He closed his eyes, trying to envision all of this, and it was frightening how easily it came to him. He opened his eyes, seeing 12:09 on the microwave. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to look into it,” Jibril said with a young man’s conviction. “There’s a man in Budapest who might be able to find out more. I think he’ll help.”
“Who?” Omar asked, a tingle already tickling his scalp.
The Cairo Affair Page 26
