“Truly,” Omar said, closing the door and taking a seat in the smoky room. “How’s the family?”
“Very well. Fouada?”
“Excellent.” Omar leaned closer. “I wanted to ask you about Yousef Rahim, from the Libyan embassy.”
The bleakness in Hisham’s eyes deepened. “Any reason you’re revisiting my failures, Omar? That was six years ago.”
Omar shook his head. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m looking into other things, and wondering if this connects.”
Hisham seemed to relax, just a little. Being reminded of that black spot on his record still made him sore. “What’s to tell? It was an easy trick. Yousef was a queer. He’d been visiting boys over in Heliopolis, some dank little underground club. I offered him silence, as well as some compensation.”
“So what happened?”
He lit another cigarette, frowning as he remembered the news of the quick execution in Tripoli. “I don’t know, Omar. I ran it perfectly. No one could have known we were meeting. Full security procedures.” He shrugged. “Maybe Yousef broke down and admitted it to the embassy.”
“You believe that?”
Hisham shook his head.
“Then what other possibilities are there?”
Hisham opened his mouth, thought better of it, then shook his head again. “Ask Allah. You’re the religious one, aren’t you? Or you used to be.”
Omar climbed to his feet. He had been a religious man a long time ago, but he’d lost track along the way. He’d ignored the mosque and, until recently, prayer—that most basic requirement of a Muslim had seemed beyond his means. Praying with that frightened man in Marsa Matrouh, to his surprise, had made him feel lighter. Yet as he walked back to his office even his faith slipped from his mind, for he was thinking about the words Hisham hadn’t had the courage to speak aloud. The only possible way Yousef Rahim could have been uncovered was if someone in this office had leaked to Tripoli.
He had to wait until eleven for an audience with Busiri, whose morning had been full of meetings upstairs, discussing personnel changes. The revolution was trickling slowly down through the departments of the Interior Ministry, and Busiri had received a list of names whose continued employment in the Central Security Forces would be unpalatable to any new administration. He was collecting the files on these employees when Omar tapped on his door. “Omar! You look like hell.”
He came in and settled in a chair. “Fouada’s having sleepless nights,” he said. “Which means I’m having them, too.”
“I’m sure she’s worth it,” Busiri muttered, his eyes back on the files. “Did you know we have to say good-bye to seven people right in this office?”
He passed over the list of names, and Omar read it. He knew all these people, knew the ways in which they had, over the years, abused their position. He passed it back. “Nothing unexpected there.”
“But still,” Busiri said, and turned the paper facedown on his desk, finally giving him his full attention. “What news?”
Omar cleared his throat. “I’d like to know what Rashid el-Sawy is up to.”
“Rashid? Why do you ask?”
“Because last night he met with Sophie Kohl. He tried to convince her to work with him to find Jibril Aziz.”
Busiri looked around his wide desk until he’d spotted his Camels. He lit one. “Did Rashid tell you this?”
“Mrs. Kohl did.”
He nodded, smoke wafting around his head, as if he already knew they had talked. Perhaps he did. “Any idea where she is now?”
“Isn’t she in her hotel?” Omar asked, full of innocence.
“Apparently not.”
“Then she’s with Rashid.”
Busiri shook his head.
“Why was Rashid meeting with her?”
“He’s following leads on his own. I’ll be sure to ask him. Why were you meeting with her?”
“I wanted to question her about her husband’s murder.”
“Anything interesting?”
Omar nodded slowly. “She told me she’d been staying with Stanley Bertolli. Did you know about that?”
“Of course.”
“Apparently,” he said, breathing steadily to make his lie come off more smoothly, “Mr. Bertolli believes the solution to the mystery of her husband’s death lies not with the Americans, but with someone else. The Libyans, perhaps.”
Busiri’s eyebrows rose sharply. “Libya?”
Omar nodded, palms up, as if the proposition were just as ridiculous to him. “He thinks that the exiles who disappeared were taken by the Libyans, not by the Americans. Libya gets rid of the exiles, and Stumbler dies before it can start. The question is: How did the Libyans find out about Stumbler in the first place? This is the question Emmett Kohl wondered about. If Bertolli can figure that out, then he’ll be able to find Kohl’s murderer.”
There was only a moment’s pause before Busiri recovered. “But we know, don’t we? Zora Balašević’s ethical sense was about as lasting as Hosni’s portraits are now. She sold to us. She sold to Libya.”
It was an answer he had expected, for he’d gone through the various permutations of this conversation all night long. It was the only explanation he could have offered.
“Maybe I should get in touch with Paul Johnson, then,” Omar suggested. “I could tell him to pass that on to Bertolli.”
Busiri waved the proposition away. “I’m meeting with Bertolli this afternoon. I’ll tell him myself.”
“You’re meeting him?”
“He requested it.”
Omar nodded.
“Anything else?”
Omar shook his head and climbed to his feet. He took another walk down the corridor, and in the break room found Sayyid and Mahmoud talking on the sofa, a small television playing Al Jazeera. He nodded at the two men, then turned up the volume until it blared the gunfire of Libyan rebels into that small room. He sat close to Mahmoud while Sayyid pretended to be watching television. “I need you to watch someone today. Do not lose him.”
Mahmoud nodded gruffly, then said, “Who?”
4
He left a half hour early and was home by five, where he found Fouada in the kitchen surrounded by the pungent aroma of freshly fried falafel. Sophie Kohl was resting on the terrace. “I’m beginning to find her dull,” Fouada whispered to him. “Nothing like Jibril.”
“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, al
l 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.
The Cairo Affair Page 35
