“I am not affiliated in this way that you say. I have friends who are Hamas, and sometimes I work with them. That is as far as it goes.”
“Friends who blow themselves up?”
“Friends who run feeding stations and health clinics. Who work just as hard as Dr. Hassan and expect less in return. I do not believe in killing in the name of God. The Prophet Muhammad, his name be praised, did not believe in it, either.”
“What about your friends? Do they believe that?”
For the first time he seemed uncomfortable.
“You will have to ask them.”
He stopped. We had reached another set of stairs, and it was obvious he preferred to continue alone. But he was still in the mood to talk, and his next question was a big one.
“Tell me, Mr. Lockhart. What do you believe?”
“What is my faith, you mean?”
“If that defines what you believe, then yes.”
I had been asked this question in one form or another many times during my travels. Oddly, it was one of the first things Mila wanted to know. At the time she was wary of anyone with deep religious or nationalist convictions, having seen such passions tear her country apart. The warmed-over Presbyterian faith of my childhood was hardly worth mentioning, and from there I had drifted into halfhearted agnosticism. Mila found that reassuring, and the very nature of my job convinced her I wasn’t blinded by patriotism.
Nabil’s inquiry seemed more like those I had fielded from devout recipients of aid. They wanted to know what fueled my sense of mission, and whether it involved spirituality. When I was younger, and freshly launched on the world’s beaten path, I tended to say, “I believe in salvation.”
Christians often took this to mean that I was on their side. Muslims, Hindus, and others took it as reassurance that I was devout but wasn’t going to pit my god against theirs. Nabil would probably see right through such vagueness, so I chose levity as a fallback.
“Sometimes I believe in nothing. Other times I believe in God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, although not necessarily in that order.”
“So you make light of your faith?”
“I thought that faith was the light.”
He shook his head slowly, with a doleful expression. I felt strangely disappointed that I hadn’t measured up.
“You should have more faith in your maker, if only for the protection it offers body and soul. Not just for you, but for everyone you love.”
I suppose that comment reads like a lecture when I state it here, but he said it in the gentlest of tones.
“I’ll think about it.”
He nodded.
“Tell me, Freeman Lockhart. In your work for Omar, will you be spending much time in Bakaa?”
“I should think so.”
“Then you should go carefully, and carry a weapon with you. A firearm.”
It was about the last thing I expected him to say, and it threw me enough that I again resorted to glibness.
“You mean like the one your friend Hakim carries?”
“A small one. One you can conceal.”
Was this some sort of veiled threat? A way of scaring me off his trail? Or was it simply more of his advice, an offshoot of his plainspoken piety. First God, then a gun. A Palestinian version of “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition.” I was intrigued, but not convinced. Everyone here was treating me as if I would run at the first sign of danger.
“I’m not so sure Omar wants me walking around armed. Might send the wrong message.”
“Then maybe Omar is as naive as you about what goes on in Bakaa.”
“Maybe. But it would also irritate the authorities. They’re not too thrilled about foreigners buying guns.”
“There are ways to avoid their interest.”
He slipped me a well-worn card, someone’s name and cell phone number next to an address in Bakaa.
“You should see this man. Even if you buy nothing, he may teach you something.”
“About what?”
“Just go and see him. I will tell him in advance of your interest.”
I was on the verge of another question, but Nabil preempted me.
“Good luck in finding an apartment.”
He turned to go. Still puzzling over his remarks and his motives, I watched him ascend another set of stairs until he disappeared.
Oddly, the encounter did little to dampen my spirits. If anything, it raised the stakes with a frisson of danger. Who were these other pursuers Nabil had referred to? Who was Walid Khammar? And what was I supposed to learn from some black-market gun dealer, other than the street price of an AK-47? Plenty to keep me busy, in any event. Any contact of Nabil’s seemed worth following up if only because, by extension, it was also a contact of Omar’s.
I flagged down a taxi and found myself checking to see if anyone was following. There was only the usual traffic, faces hidden behind the glare of windshields, although at moments like this my shortcomings as an amateur seemed painfully apparent.
With some time to kill before my appointment, I dropped off the shopping bag at the hotel and phoned Mila, hoping to reassure her with my upbeat mood.
She picked up on the first ring.
“Greetings from Amman! How are you holding up?”
“Not so well. They came back.”
My spirits crashed back to earth.
“Black, White, and Gray?”
“Someone they sent. To work on the phone.”
“The one we’re speaking on?”
“Yes. Improvements to the line, he said. He told me not to touch any of his work. Not that I could see any difference after he left.”
“So they’re listening to us right now. Somewhere.”
“Everything we say.”
I had already assumed a need for discretion whenever I called home. But it seemed worse that they had made a point of letting us know. The international line hissed with malevolent potential.
“I can’t stay here,” she said suddenly. “I’m leaving for Athens.”
“To your aunt’s?”
Mila sighed. Perhaps because I’d just revealed her destination.
“Sorry. But they probably already know about that.”
“Probably.”
“When are you leaving? Or do you not want to say?”
“They’ll know when it happens, but I’m not sure. Maybe today. I’m already packed.”
I imagined her bags lined up by the door, the house shuttered, appliances unplugged. If I had called tomorrow would she still have been there? I knew she didn’t want a confrontation now, with our new audience, but I had to ask.
“Were you planning on telling me sometime?”
“Of course.”
I envisioned the color rising in her cheeks, a Balkan cloudburst brewing behind dilating pupils.
“Nice to know,” I said, and immediately regretted my sarcasm.
“You’re one to talk when it comes to hiding things.”
For a second or two I wondered if she had somehow discovered my biggest secret. Then I realized she was only referring to my current assignment.
“Mila, please.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t spill your secrets. How can I when I don’t know them?”
“It’s for your own good. Trust me.”
“I want to trust you. But it’s not easy. Not when I know nothing.”
“I know. I’m sorry. When I’m done I’ll tell you everything.”
Or almost everything. There would always be one item to hold back. I wondered how I could have been stupid enough to believe this would go easily, with no cost to either Mila or me. Just look at what had already happened. Karos was to have been our refuge. I had promised her a castle, and then lured the enemy through the gates.
We said good-bye, and I sagged onto the bed. The professionals would call what I was doing the double game. But it wasn’t a game at all. It was a dangerous trial, a test requiring balance, skill, and artful deception among
people who were all too real. No matter what course of action I took, the consequences would also be real. For all of us.
14
By the time I arrived at the house on Othman Bin Affan Street I was no longer morose. I was steaming. Why were my employers being so heavy-handed? Maybe one of Mila’s phone calls had touched a nerve. They probably saw it as a way to keep us on our best behavior. But for the moment all I wanted to do was lash out.
A property manager was waiting on the sidewalk. Or that’s what he said he was. He was a meek little fellow with baggy trousers and rolled-up sleeves, already mopping his brow even though the temperature was comfortable. He fingered a set of worry beads.
“Good morning, sir. Welcome in Jordan. I am Ahmed. You are Freeman Lockhart?”
“Yes. I’m here to look at the place.”
“Oh.” He frowned in apparent confusion. “I was told you were taking possession.”
“And who told you that?”
“The owner, sir. I only collect rent and arrange repairs. Have you not signed the lease?”
I was probably supposed to say yes.
“No.”
“Perhaps there has been a misunderstanding.”
He worked the beads faster.
“Why don’t you show me the place? If I like it, I’ll take the keys. Maybe my employer has made arrangements they haven’t told me about.”
“Yes.” He seemed relieved. “Please, let us go inside.”
It was pleasant enough, a stout and attractive single-story house built in the 1930s. The walls were made of large stones the color of the desert, chiseled in an age when builders still employed artisans. High, arched, mullioned windows let in plenty of light. They had green metal shutters you could close against the heat. Surrounding the house was a walled garden with tall junipers, a palm tree that had seen better days, and a thicket of sweet-smelling jasmine draping across the wall onto the front sidewalk.
The kitchen had been modernized, with propane burners, an oven, and a mid-sized fridge. The bedroom, tucked in the back, had a decent view of a neighbor’s garden.
The furnishings were stately—rich Oriental rugs and dark wood—and the location was perfect, near the shops and restaurants on Rainbow Street, with Othman Bin Affan leading straight downhill to the center of town. It would do fine.
“The phone is already connected, sir.”
“Of course.”
“Actually, sir, that is quite unusual. It often takes weeks.”
“But I have important friends.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ahmed looked apprehensive again, so I decided to ease up on him.
“It’s perfectly satisfactory,” I said. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll move in today.”
“Yes, sir. Here are your keys, and my number. Please call if there are difficulties.”
“I’ll speak highly of you to my employers.”
“Very good, sir.”
He finally let go of his beads.
“And by the way, what contact number do you have for them? My employers, I mean. I’d like to make sure you have the right one.”
He reddened, clutching again at his beads as he edged toward the door.
“I’m afraid they always are in touch with me, sir. That is the way we have always dealt with each other.”
“Of course.” But he was already out the door.
The first thing I did was check every drawer, cabinet, and closet for microphones. After what Mila had told me, I was assuming the worst. My handlers must have anticipated as much, because there was a surprise waiting in the mahogany wardrobe in the bedroom. It was a laptop computer, state of the art. I plugged it in and booted up.
It appeared to have a full complement of standard software, but I could find no evidence of any messages. Maybe I needed help from a techno geek. Preferably one who wouldn’t turn me in to the government.
I shut it off and resumed my search, checking behind every picture frame and mirror, underneath tabletops and carpets, mattresses and cushions. Nothing. By the time I finished it was nearly noon. If I left now for the office I could get a good start on Omar’s accounts. I would move my things from the hotel later. Then the phone rang.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Lockhart?”
“Speaking. Who is this?”
“Of Othman Bin Affan Street?”
“You must know that it is.”
“I have a DHL delivery for you, sir. I will arrive in ten minutes.”
I sat on the stone porch in the shade of the junipers, watching midday traffic pass on its way downtown. A woman’s voice called out in English from the house to my right.
“Hello, there. Am I to take it that you’re my new neighbor?”
Her accent was British, and she looked around forty. Brown hair streaked prematurely with gray and pinned into a bun. She wore a sleeveless blue blouse buttoned in the front, knee-length shorts, and gardening gloves covered in fresh black dirt.
“I am indeed.” I stepped forward. “Freeman Lockhart. I would shake hands, but—”
“Oh, yes. I decided to take this beautiful day off and plant some bulbs. Not sure it’s even the right time of year. I’m just now getting the hang of the planting cycles. Fiona Whitt. Are you moving in for good, or just passing through? The tenants always seem to come and go at that house.”
Her curiosity was bolder than I was accustomed to from Brits, which made me wonder if she had ever been an aid worker or a correspondent. People who spent years on the move and under duress learned to quickly cut to the essentials.
“Here for the long haul,” I said, sticking to cover. “I’ve gone to work for a little NGO providing refugee aid in Bakaa.”
“Omar al-Baroody’s new NGO?”
“I didn’t think it was that well known.”
“I’m not sure it is. A friend told me about it. Sami Fayez.”
“The one with the salon downtown.”
“Sounds like you’re already plugged in.”
“You certainly are.”
She laughed. A nice laugh. And then she blushed, ever so slightly. She had a pretty face, just beginning to show the sags and creases of aging, which I might not have noticed if I weren’t so attuned to my own. Being married to a younger woman does that.
“I ought to be plugged in,” she said. “I’ve been here six years.”
“And you’re just now learning the planting cycle?”
Her longevity made me wary. I wondered if she worked at one of the embassies.
“I’m new to the gardening part. Been too busy ’til now.”
“Diplomatic posting?”
“Just a scribbler, I’m afraid. Came here on holiday and never quite made it back. So I pick up work where I can get it. Travel pieces, mostly. For magazines, some of the guidebooks. With a little photography on the side. Lately I’ve gotten steadier work from the Ministry of Tourism.”
“Nice.”
“It seems that the king happened to read one of my pieces. They’re very image-conscious here. Very keen on keeping a good rep in the West. So now I don’t have to scramble quite so much.”
“Looks like you scramble pretty well,” I said, nodding toward her house.
“The house is the secret to my success. Rent free. Belongs to a retired British military officer who hasn’t been ’round in ages. Old friend of my mum’s.”
It crossed my mind that someone with her connections might have been asked to keep an eye on me. Was I another job on her freelance menu? Or maybe she was just being friendly. I could already see this was one of the drawbacks of the trade. You couldn’t really trust a soul. This morning that had seemed bracing. Now it was maddening.
“What else keeps you here?”
“It’s a pleasant way of life, really. The people are friendly and, frankly, it’s easy to make your mark. It’s one of the appeals of a small country, especially one that hasn’t lost all its old charm. Jordan still has plenty of fallow ground. Just look at your frien
d Omar.”
“The West Bank boy with friends in high places.”
“Exactly. Even I have some palace contacts. Whenever I need an aerial photo they fly me ’round in a military plane.”
“Sounds like you’re practically royalty.”
She laughed.
“Not exactly. And the bigger attraction is the climate. Especially this time of year. Still plenty of sunshine but some nice cool evenings coming. In fact, you better make sure your heat’s working properly. These old places are beautiful, but the stone walls and floors make it chillier than you’d think.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Nice meeting you.”
“Likewise. Oh, and by the way, there’s a lovely flea market just down Rainbow Street every Wednesday. It starts in late afternoon, although I suppose for Ramadan they’ll be moving the hours back ’til after sundown.”
“Sounds nice.”
“Once you’re settled, stop by for a drink. Long as you don’t mind gin. I’m afraid that and a little wine are all I’ve got.”
She gave me a shy smile before returning to her garden, and I decided she might make a handy ally, after all. My evidence? Gut reaction. Sometimes that’s all you’ve got.
The DHL truck pulled up shortly afterward. The driver left the engine idling and approached with a stiff, flat envelope, light as a feather. Further marching orders? I signed for it and waited for him to drive away. Then I looked around for any evidence of nosy neighbors—Fiona included—and, seeing none, took the package inside.
There was cutlery in a butcher block on the counter, and I slit the edge open with a boning knife. There was no note, no message. Just a single unlabeled CD, which I slipped into the laptop. After a few grinding noises from the hard drive, the screen flashed to life with a message, which lingered only a few seconds:
“E-mail all correspondence to Black. Modem will dial automatically.”
I tried it out, plugging the laptop into a phone jack and clicking onto the e-mail icon. The only item that appeared on the screen was a box with an address line and some room for text. Maybe I was just supposed to type in “Black.” As soon as I typed the letter “B,” the computer supplied the rest of the name.
I wrote a brief message—“Parcel arrived, house fine. This is a test.”—clicked on “Send,” and watched the whole thing disappear off to who knew where, so apparently the modem had activated automatically. I spent the next five minutes trying every trick in the book to find out what Black’s e-mail address was, but there was neither an address book nor any record of what I’d just sent. A decent hacker probably could have pierced this veil of secrecy, but I couldn’t. I discovered to my pleasure that I did have Internet access. On second thought, probably every move I made online would be monitored. I’d glimpsed an Internet café at a bookstore not far from here, and I resolved to use it.
The Amateur Spy Page 15
