Again, irritation. A tongue rummaged in his cheeks.
“Now tell me why you think I’m in danger of getting killed.”
Another glance down the hall, and he lowered his voice to a high whisper. “Do I have to say it aloud?”
“I think you do, Mr. Khalil.”
He tugged at the lapels of his jacket, straightening it. “You know by now who murdered your husband?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“CIA.” He paused. “Is this a surprise?”
“It doesn’t matter how many times I hear it—it’ll always be a surprise.”
“Emmett was preparing to betray the Agency. He’d learned about an operation in Libya, and he was going to expose it. He told one colleague—direct quote—that he would find a whistle and blow it. Emmett didn’t mince his words.”
She leaned back a little, thinking of how good Emmett was, and how little she’d really known him. “Stumbler,” she said, then shook her head. “But Emmett didn’t believe that. Jibril Aziz believed it, but he didn’t. He wasn’t going to blow any whistle.”
“Did Mr. Halawi tell you this?” he asked.
“How do you know about him?”
A half-shrug. “I just know him. He’s a good man, but that doesn’t make his word gospel. Consider your husband’s position—he’s got a young man, a man with a family, preparing to rush into Libya and get himself killed. What would a good man do? Let calmer minds prevail. Lie to Jibril, get him to go home to his wife, and then go about it the diplomatic way—memos to people who matter.”
“Wait,” she said, and he did just that, his face relaxing as he stared at her through the gap, waiting. She took a moment to think this through. She said, “Emmett’s the one who wanted to write memos, not me. I still don’t understand why I’m in danger.”
Again, he looked back down the corridor. “Well, you didn’t follow the script, did you?” he said as if to a child, full of patience for the nonprofessionals of the world. “You didn’t bow down like a grief-stricken widow and go home. You’ve come to Cairo and started digging. You’ve gone to Stanley Bertolli, an officer of the Agency, for help. Why don’t you figure out how long it took for the Agency to find out exactly where you were and what you were up to?”
“Stan didn’t tell anyone,” she said quickly.
“Do you really believe that?” He gave her a moment to come up with an answer, then said, “Listen, I’m not saying Stan Bertolli isn’t decent, but he’s first and foremost an Agency man. He may not even know what’s going on, but he’s certainly going to follow procedure. It’s in his DNA. His father was CIA, too, you know.”
She didn’t know—he’d never talked about his family, which probably should have told her something. She stared into a space just to his left, a bit of wallpaper, wondering if she could believe this stranger. Stan had been so worried about discovery—and this man, who was he? Kiraly thought he wasn’t who he claimed to be, but maybe the Hungarian was wrong. Weren’t they all liars? “Did you talk to Emmett about this?”
“I didn’t have a chance.”
“You never talked to Emmett?”
He hesitated. “Your husband was dead before I could talk to him.”
Who was lying? Why would Kiraly make it up? “And who are you?”
“I told you, I’m Bureau. We cooperate with our friends in the Agency, but we are quite separate.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I mean, who are you? What’s your stake in this?”
He blinked at her, as if stunned by her question. “Well, a man was murdered, Sophie. One of our people. And it turns out that another section of our government is responsible. It’s sort of my job to be worried about this kind of thing.”
She straightened now, feeling the anger bubble up inside her but trying to keep it under control. She was sick of people being vague and handing her outright lies. “Connect the dots for me,” she told Michael Khalil. “Show me how this puts my life in danger.”
“Connect the dots?” he said, opening his hands. Impatient again. “Okay, Sophie. It’s this way. Your husband wanted to blow the whistle on Stumbler. If he’d done that, it would have been a major embarrassment for the Agency. A disaster. So they got rid of him. His wife—you, Sophie—has not disappeared like she’s supposed to. She’s slipped her handlers and run off to Cairo, presumably to uncover who killed her husband. Do you really think the Agency’s going to sit around and wait for you to connect them to that Albanian thug?”
“Where is the connection?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
“Go ahead, then. If you’ve got all the damned answers, then hand them over.”
Michael Khalil leaned forward, face close to the crack in the door, and she could smell garlic on his breath. His eyes were big and veined. “Someone like Gjergj Ahmeti, he’s a ghost. You won’t find his name in any records. He’s hired for specific jobs, paid in cash, then sent on his way. So you won’t find a paper trail—the best you can do is find a person who knows what the Agency is up to. The best you can do is track down Jibril Aziz.”
“And how, pray tell, am I going to do that?”
“Let me in, and we’ll discuss it.”
“No,” she said.
“You’re being childish. You saw my badge. I just want to come to an arrangement, Sophie.”
There was noise up the corridor, and he glanced back. She soon saw what he saw—a laughing couple, maybe a little drunk. Germans muttering in slurred accents to one another, his hand on her ass. They paused in their revelry to eyeball Khalil and the slice of Sophie they could see. They passed, but before he could speak again three men arrived in the corridor—Germans, again—singing “Hände zum Himmel.” Khalil, clearly frustrated, turned back to her and whispered, “Let’s meet in the morning. Okay? You’re nervous—I understand that. So I’ll meet you for breakfast downstairs. Agreed?”
She nodded.
“What time?”
She thought, At nine thirty I get on a plane and leave all of this behind. “Ten o’clock,” she said, smiling the way Zora had taught her to do when she was lying. “I’m sleeping late tomorrow.”
He hesitated again, brow furrowing, then nodded sharply. “I’ll be waiting.”
4
As she had done in Budapest, she was going to walk. She’d come here urged by an overwhelming sense of guilt, hoping to find anyone—Zora or Stan or Jibril—who could assure her that she was not responsible for Emmett’s murder. No one was able to assure her of anything. Instead, everything was ballooning out of control. She had entered the realm of coups d’état, of deceit, of murder, of the desert. She wondered where Jibril really was now, maybe living some thrilling and terrifying existence among desperate men fighting for their lives, while back in Alexandria—the Virginian Alexandria—his pregnant wife worried herself sick about him.
That image, as much as anything else, convinced her that she was making the right decision. Emmett had gotten caught up in boys’ games. She had, too, for more than a year, but she’d survived her childish phase and come out the other side. It was time to go home.
She set the alarm on her phone for seven and showered and climbed into bed wearing her last pair of clean underwear. By nine thirty, she would be on the plane. Then she would be in Boston. She turned off the light and closed her eyes. And saw:
A leg kick-kicking in the dirt.
Jackbooted soldiers throwing babies into the air.
Her own voice: It’s mercy. He’ll starve.
A man screaming behind a filthy gag.
The banging that woke her brought immediate terror, for the dream had followed her into the blackness of the hotel room, and the banging on her door had the ring of a boot heel kicking against one of those heavy Yugoslav front doors.
A familiar voice: “Mrs. Kohl? Mrs. Kohl, I must speak to you.”
She clawed at the darkness until she found the switch for the bedside lamp. She gasped for breath, assuring herse
lf that she was the only person in the room.
Thump, thump, thump. “Mrs. Kohl?”
It was Omar Halawi—she would know that hesitant accent anywhere. “A minute,” she said, then wrapped herself in a hotel robe. He ceased his banging, and in the spy hole she saw him, fisheyed, standing rigid, hands behind his back. She opened the door, forgetting the latch, and read the surprise in his face before understanding the reason. Why was he surprised? It was two in the morning—he was lucky she wasn’t naked.
He said, “Mrs. Kohl—”
“Wait,” she cut in, raising a hand. “You don’t have to worry, okay? I’m out of here in the morning. I’ve had enough.”
He opened his mouth, hesitated, then said, “I fear that may not be possible.”
“And why not?”
Again, an open mouth, and she saw that he was missing at least two molars on one side. He lowered his voice, glancing up the empty corridor. “The man who spoke with you.” He shook his head, voice now a whisper: “Do not trust him.”
Christ, it was starting up again. She just wanted to get out of here. “He’s FBI.”
“No, he is not FBI. And his name is not Michael Khalil.”
While Kiraly had told her this with that unsure deference that made her so comfortable, Halawi had said it with such stern conviction that her heart caught in her throat. “Then what is he?”
“He works for my superior, Mrs. Kohl. He is not FBI.”
She stepped back, repulsed as much by the man as by his information. She, too, was whispering now: “It doesn’t matter. I promised him I would meet him, but I’m leaving in the morning. I’ll never see him again.”
“You are on EgyptAir 777, leaving at nine thirty. Yes?”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
“If I know this, then Mr. Khalil does as well. So, too, does my superior.” He gave her a moment to comprehend that simple logical sequence. “Please, you must come with me.”
She took another step back, and he stepped to the doorframe but did not enter.
He said, “I do not think he will let you leave.”
“Of course he’ll let me leave. I’m nobody.”
“It’s not who you are, Mrs. Kohl. It’s what you know.”
“But I don’t know anything!”
He held up both hands to calm her, then glanced up the corridor again. He whispered, “I was wrong. Jibril was wrong. All of us were wrong.”
“About what?”
“About everything. This is not about Stumbler. It’s about…” He faded out a moment, frowning, as if unsure of the word. “It’s about betrayal.”
Betrayal. Finally, something Sophie Kohl understood. She said, “Tell me about betrayal.”
He took a breath through his nose, and she heard the clotted sound of a cold coming on. He didn’t look all that well, either. He sighed. “It would be a breach of security to share with you at this point.”
“It would be a betrayal.”
“Exactly.”
“Wouldn’t it be a betrayal to hide me from your superior?”
“Maybe not,” he said, as if that explained anything at all. “Please,” he said. “Gather your things. I can keep you safe.”
She didn’t want to go, but in less than five minutes she had dressed as he waited in the corridor. She lugged her bag, trying to keep up with him. They did not take the elevator, instead using the stairwell to reach the rear of the ground floor. Before they stepped out, he said, “Don’t go into the lobby. There’s someone who will recognize us both.”
“One of your people?”
“One of Stanley Bertolli’s men,” he said.
“Stan’s not going to hurt me,” she told him.
Lips tight, he shook his head. “I am more worried about who’s watching Mr. Bertolli’s man.” Then he opened the door.
She let him lead her back through glass doors and across the courtyard with its pool and garden, then they reentered the building and squeezed around a soiled room-service cart to reach a service elevator. Silently, they took it down into the guts of the building, the doors opening onto an underground parking lot. A car was waiting, behind the wheel a young, tough-looking Egyptian with thick eyebrows. She caught the name Sayyid as they got into the back and Halawi ordered the driver to go. He drove quickly past rows of cars and up ramps until he flashed a badge at an old lot attendant and they finally pulled out into light traffic. While she was initially able to tell their direction—north and then west across Qasr Al Nile Bridge, all the way across the southern tip of Gezira Island and then into Dokki—she was soon lost in Cairo’s tangle. That was when it occurred to her that she didn’t really know these men at all. All she had was the word of a woman she’d never actually met. They could be kidnappers. They could be al Qaeda. They could be CIA.
As they were entering Dokki, she said, “What is it your boss thinks I know?”
Halawi hesitated only briefly. “The identity of your husband’s murderer. Or, the person who ordered the murder.”
She sat up. “You know?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you think he did it? Your superior?”
“I cannot say for sure.”
“You don’t know much, do you?”
He didn’t bother answering that.
“How long are you hiding me?”
He considered the question. “Maybe until this evening. Maybe Tuesday. No later than Tuesday, I think.” He was turning, looking out the rear windshield as they wove through traffic. “I am taking you to my home. I would like you to stay inside until this has been settled. My wife will take care of you.”
“Wife?” she said, surprised, for she had assumed he was a bachelor.
Omar Halawi’s home turned out to be a fifth-floor walkup on a narrow, treeless street. Graffiti marred one of the buildings. The three of them went up together, both men opening doors for her along the way. When they reached his apartment, Halawi knocked, and after a moment a woman in her sixties opened the door. She was pleasantly plump, black hair shot through with gray, and she had a wide mouth that formed a warm smile. “Salaam,” she said, nodding at Sophie.
“Salaam,” Sophie answered.
Halawi whispered, “She speaks no English.”
It was a small apartment, smaller than she would have expected from a member of the Egyptian secret police—for that, she had gleaned from his insider knowledge and the way he had at least one young tough at his beck and call, was what he probably was. His home was claustrophobic the way old people’s homes always seemed to be, stuffed with trinkets of a long life, things without function or, in many cases, much aesthetic beauty. They seemed to serve only as reminders that the resident had once lived life rather than just watch it go by.
The wife’s name was Fouada, Halawi told her, and she brewed tea nervously while Halawi and Sayyid stepped outside for a talk. Sophie, feeling exhaustion returning all at once, said, “Fouada?”
The old woman turned to her, hesitant.
“Sleep?” Sophie said, placing two praying hands against the side of her tilted face. The rush of understanding seemed to give Fouada great pleasure, and she quickly ushered Sophie back to a guest bedroom that smelled of lavender. There were fresh folded towels on the dresser, and she was given a tour of the spotless bathroom. “Thank you,” she told the woman. “Shukran.”
Fouada smiled, clapping her hands together, saying, “Afwan,” and then more words that breezed by. Still fully clothed, Sophie lay on the hard bed and closed her eyes. A brief rest before undressing, she thought, then wondered what Emmett would say if he could see her now. Would he be surprised? Might he even be impressed? She was soon asleep.
5
1991
Zora drove them down the mountain, north toward Novi Sad, and then headed west, occasionally skirting the Danube as they passed through towns that she named along the way—Sremska Kamenica and Ledinci and Rakovac and Beočin, whose cement factory was fed by an offshoot of the Danube. She pointed out histo
rical tidbits: Sremska Kamenica had been the home of Jovan Jovanović Zmaj, “greatest Serbian children’s author.” Ledinci was a young town, built after World War II to house the inhabitants of Stari—Old—Ledinci, which had been burned down by the dreaded Ustaše. In Rakovac the Croatian fascists had killed ninety-one citizens. Beočin created the first Serb schools in the Vojvodina countryside. She then pointed out another town, Čerević, where the Ustaše had killed eighty-seven.
Sophie thought of the concentration camps, the one for men, the one for women, and the one for children. She thought of ankles and the sharp corners of brick buildings.
As they made their way through small towns in that tiny Yugo, they listened to Zora’s roll call of atrocities. “They no rest until they exterminate every Serb. It is moral crime to let that to happen.”
When they didn’t answer, Zora looked at Sophie in the rearview. “You no believe me.”
“I believe you,” Sophie said, knowing it was the only thing to say. They were deep in the countryside, farms stretching as far as the eye could see, in a country where they couldn’t speak the language. They were depending on Zora for everything. But that’s what they’d been doing for the last four days, and hadn’t she only given them kindness? She remembered Viktor’s assessment: I’ll fight with her, but I know she’s right about everything.
From the passenger seat, Emmett winked. Nothing to worry about. All fine.
They were soon in a region Zora called the “Serb Autonomous Oblast of Eastern Slavonia, Baranja, and Western Syrmia,” but was firmly inside the territory that Croatia was claiming for itself. As they passed a sign directing them toward Vukovar, she told them about Borovo Selo, a town just north of Vukovar. “They make big deal out of attack our boys do on Croat policemen, but that was retaliation. A Croat government minister—for fun, you know—use antitank missiles to blow up three Serb homes. This is what they think of us. Weekend sport. Since referendum on Croat independence, they do what they like. Eighty-six Serbs in Vukovar just disappear.” She paused. “You know what that means. We all know.”
The Cairo Affair Page 31
