I ordered another beer. The big Greek fellow across the room was now demanding that the channel be changed on the television. The waiter switched to a show with loud music and dancers in traditional costumes. That made the young woman giggle until the big guy told her harshly to shut up.
As I downed the second beer, my confidence continued to grow. Perhaps I was not as powerless in my current arrangement as I thought. Maybe I, too, had some reinforcements I could call on. The aid business, like the spy trade, is rich in such connections. It, too, is a vast marketplace of privileged information. It’s why their world sometimes recruited from ours, and over the years I had met a few people who had later crossed over into intelligence work. So, I asked myself, who among past friends and acquaintances might better know the ways of this secret world? Three names came to mind, all of them with experience in the Middle East. I vowed to get in touch as soon as possible. Then I called for the bill.
Outside, the night was quiet. It was so dark I had to let my eyes adjust before groping my way to the car. Halfway there a voice called out.
“You dropped these back in Athens, Freeman.”
There was a man by the Hyundai. I couldn’t see his face, but he placed something on the roof, then stepped away as I moved closer. I reached atop the car and found the passport and charge card for Robert Higgins.
“Don’t miss your flight back to Amman,” the voice said. By now he was a good twenty feet away, and I heard his footsteps disappear around the corner. I listened a few moments for a car or motorcycle, but there was nothing. Odder still, the episode barely fazed me. Maybe it was the tranquilizing effect of the beer. But I also credited my newfound resolve. In this business, I supposed, there were always people like that, popping up from nowhere, trying to put you in your place. Well, let them. To survive as an independent operative I would call on sources of my own for help and information. The more I knew, the better off I would be.
It was a good thought to sleep on, and I slept well, stirring only once when a car came prowling through the lot. There was a brief flash of headlights between the shutters, and seconds later I heard the car accelerate down the highway.
I rose early and left before the innkeeper returned. The highway was empty, but I knew better than to be deceived by appearances. Never again would I assume I was unwatched or alone. But before returning to Amman, or even Karos, I needed to see the one person I was doing all this for. It was time to visit Mila.
20
I decided to surprise her. No sense alerting our watchers with a phone call to a monitored line.
But as I knocked on the door after an all-day drive I wondered if it was such a good idea. I didn’t know, for instance, what Mila had told Aunt Aleksandra about our present circumstances. This could be awkward.
Mila’s cousin Marica opened the door and cried out in happy surprise. I saw her across the room on the couch, wineglass in hand, seated between two men I didn’t recognize. Aunt Aleksandra was nowhere to be seen. For all I knew this was the same foursome I’d watched leaving the building for a night on the town.
It seemed to take her a second to register that it was actually me. Her mouth dropped open, then she gave a stifled yelp and broke into a huge grin.
“Freeman!”
She nearly spilled her wine bolting to her feet, and in a moment of endearing comedy she turned to and fro, looking for somewhere to put her glass. It was finally taken off her hands by one of the mystery males, who I must say looked less than thrilled to oblige. I stepped across the room and she rushed into my arms.
“My God, I can’t believe it!”
“I wanted it to be a surprise. Glad to see it worked.”
“Is it done, then? Are you finished?”
Her happiness had outrun the speed of my explanation, and it felt terrible to have to reel her back to reality.
“No. I can only stay for a while. I’m on my way to Karos to pick up some of my things.”
“Oh.”
Her embrace lost its urgency, and some of the light went out of her eyes.
“Well, come in, then. Someone get him a drink.”
For a moment she seemed a little flustered. Who knows what she’d told the rest of them about the reason for my absence. Maybe by showing up like this I had inadvertently made her look like a fool.
“Can you at least stay the night?”
“I wish. But no. I’m catching the last ferry. Have to make it back tomorrow morning for a noon flight.”
“Well, stay for a few drinks, then.”
“Here’s a glass,” Marica said. “We should toast you. Mila says you’re doing lots of difficult work. Something about a refugee charity?”
“Yes. Building a hospital.” I glanced at Mila, figuring she would signal if I was straying from her script.
“Best of luck, then. Here’s to Freeman.”
“Thank you.”
Mila then introduced me to the men on the couch, which gave me a chance for a closer look. One was Marica’s boyfriend, Luka. The other one was Petros, and he looked several years younger than Mila. He was trim and fairly handsome, with dark, curly hair and a thin gold chain around his neck. A prototypical Mediterranean man on the make, in other words. Judging from the amount of sun in his complexion, I guessed that he worked outdoors. Construction, maybe.
“They’ve all been keeping me entertained,” Mila said, gesturing at the others.
“Where’s your aunt Aleksandra?”
I immediately felt foolish for asking. The timing made it sound like I thought they needed a chaperone. Maybe I did think that.
“Out with friends,” Marica said. “My mother never misses her card night. Have you eaten?”
“No. But please don’t go to any trouble. It’s early, and I picked up a few things to eat on the ferry.”
The five of us chatted a while longer. I say “five” but Petros contributed little more than nods and assents.
Luka asked about my work, and I noticed Mila stiffen. I uttered a few vague phrases about helping Palestinians.
“Do you travel much?” he asked. “What are your duties like?”
Mila leaped in to change the subject.
“Speaking of travels, we’re going to Glyfada next week.”
Glyfada was a crowded beach resort favored by Athenians. I couldn’t help but picture Mila stretched out on the sand, her top removed for sunbathing, with this fellow Petros oiled up on the towel next to her, basting himself an even deeper shade of bronze.
“It’s just for the day,” she added, which of course made me wonder if the plan was actually to stay overnight.
“All four of you?”
Now she was blushing. Luka jumped back in.
“Well, we’re certainly not taking Marica’s mother.”
This produced some welcome laughter.
“You know, Luka,” Marica said, “maybe Freeman and Mila would like some time to themselves before he has to go.”
“That would be nice,” Mila said.
I thought so, too, given the direction the conversation had taken. We went down the hall to the room Mila shared with Marica. She gently shut the door for privacy, then sat on the end of the bed with her feet tucked beneath her. I leaned back against the headboard.
“Can you at least tell me how things are going?” she asked.
“Slower than I hoped.”
I didn’t want to get into the details of the past few days, particularly not my little scare with the motorcyclists and having my room trashed. I also didn’t want to admit to her that I had been stalking Omar through the streets of Athens.
“But I’ve got a plan of action worked out,” I added. “Maybe now I’ll get to the bottom of things quicker.”
“And how is Omar?”
“Fine, from what I can tell. They ask about you. Hanan sends her love.”
Mila nodded. The subject seemed awkward for her as well. Both of us were probably wondering if Hanan would still be sending her love once my work was d
one.
“So far I haven’t found out anything that Omar should be ashamed of, even by Black, White, and Gray’s standards.”
“Maybe it will end that way.”
“Let’s hope.”
“And you’re safe?”
“Sure. The usual creeps and watchers, of course. Or I guess they’re usual in this kind of work. Which reminds me.” I had been wondering how to broach this subject without alarming her, but it needed to be addressed. “Do you ever get a sense that anyone is, well, keeping an eye on you here?”
“So it’s not just my imagination, then?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe you could tell me.”
I couldn’t mention the car that was following them the other night without admitting I’d been spying on her as well.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that you should always assume they’re keeping an eye on you. Particularly after some of those phone calls you made. Have you noticed anything?”
“There have been a few times when I’ve wondered. A face in the street that looks familiar. Maybe a car going by. I’m probably overreacting.”
“No. Trust your instincts. Don’t let your guard down. I’ve had a few surprises myself. So stick with your cousin.”
“Even if Petros comes along?”
“I’m sorry. I must have sounded like a jealous fool.”
“Maybe that’s okay, too, in a way. But I wish you wouldn’t jump to the worst possible conclusion. You’re just going to have to trust me.”
“I know. I do know that. Who is he, though?”
She shook her head.
“A friend of Luka’s. They work together. He’s their age, for God’s sake. Or closer to theirs than mine. He’s just fun to have along.”
“As long as that’s all it is.”
I regretted the words the moment they were out of my mouth, but the vehemence of her response startled me all the same.
“Don’t think you can just walk in here and do this, Freeman!”
“Do what?”
“All but accuse me of something, like you expect me to apologize. Especially when you won’t even say what it is you’re really doing, or why you’re really doing it.”
“Why should I expect you to apologize? For what?” It was the Jersey boy’s words coming out in me. I knew that even as I spoke them but still couldn’t help myself.
“Oh, stop. Not now. Not when you’re the one who’s holding out.”
“We’ve covered this ground before, Mila. There are good reasons I can’t tell you more.”
“But you won’t even tell me the reasons. Look, if you’re doing this because you think that, for whatever reason—legal action, publicity, extortion, you name it—those men and whoever they work for could force you to relive all those terrible experiences in Africa again, then okay, I understand. I really do. But you don’t need to feel that way, because no matter what happened I would be with you, just like before. I can help you get through all of it again, however they choose to bring it back. I really can.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“But it can be.”
I shook my head. I could go no further without entering dangerous territory, so I backed away from the edge and sighed deeply. There was no tenable way to keep her from thinking I had sunk into this predicament due to my own weakness, so I just had to live with the idea that she would keep believing it. I suppose that was one reason I had let my jealousy get the best of me. If I could really explain everything, she would thank me. But she might also be destroyed.
“No. It can’t be that simple,” I finally said. “I’m sorry, but that’s how it is. Please just trust me on this, Mila.”
“As long as you’re willing to do the same.”
About Petros, she meant. And she was right, of course.
“Sure. I can do that. Come here. I’m sorry.”
We met in the middle of the bed, both in need of comfort and reassurance. The half-light of dusk cast a gloom on the scene, especially since we knew I had to catch the ferry soon. Too much damage from too few words, with too little time to repair it.
We talked for another half hour, mostly low-key. I gave her the e-mail address I’d set up in case she needed to tell me something she didn’t feel comfortable discussing over the phone. Then we returned to the living room. This time around, Petros didn’t seem half as alluring, so I guess I’d accomplished at least that much for my peace of mind. I just hoped I had done some good for Mila as well, but I wondered. Shortly afterward we said good-bye and I headed for the subway to the ferry port in Piraeus.
On my way out of the parking lot I glanced across the street to where I’d seen the black sedan the other night. It hadn’t been there when I arrived, but damned if it wasn’t there now. I couldn’t see the Jersey boy for the smoked glass, but at that moment a cigarette lighter flared, as if to pointedly let me know that, yes, he was there.
I broke into a run. But before I could even reach the street the engine started and the sedan eased smoothly away. No squeal of tires. No sign of panic. Just a casual dodge by someone showing me who was in charge.
I tried to swallow my rage. Shouting in anger might bring Mila and the others down to investigate.
“Go ahead and watch her,” I wanted to scream. “But keep your distance.”
Then, for a fleeting moment, I was back in the role of jealous husband, wondering exactly what this snoop would be seeing in the days ahead.
21
Washington
A full minute passed while Aliyah waited for Abbas to speak again. She was still crouched on the floor, knees cramping while she watched his face for any sign of what would come next.
It gave her time to consider every possible consequence, and she was surprised to realize they still had so much to lose. The aftermath of Shereen’s death had convinced her that nothing else could ever be so painful or costly, but now she wondered. They still had their son, their home, and their many years together. All were now at risk, awaiting the verdict from her silent husband as he gazed down with eerie calm.
Perhaps a logical explanation was still possible, some strange but reassuring set of circumstances that would add up to something other than a crazy plan to blow up a church. Or maybe it was nothing but an intellectual exercise, an odd form of therapy in which the planning had become an end in itself.
If so, then why sign a lease? Abbas had never been the type to squander money on a mere abstraction.
At last he spoke, in a steady voice that neither scolded nor accused. The coolness made his pronouncement all the more shocking.
“You cannot stop me, Aliyah. You can tell whoever you like—that is out of my hands. Even the police, if you wish. Then someone will come take me away, and nothing will ever happen. But I won’t stop voluntarily. Not for you, not for anyone. Because I am doing this for Shereen.”
She nodded slowly while wondering what to say. Her response was crucial. Push him away now and he would redouble his efforts at secrecy. Then her only alternative would be to turn him in, as he had suggested. With that in mind, she seized upon a sudden inspiration. She spoke slowly, and tried mightily to match his even tone.
“What makes you think I want to stop you? Don’t you think I want the same thing?”
“No. That’s not possible. It’s not your way. Even if it was, you can’t help me. It would complicate everything.”
“What choice do you have? I have to help you now.”
The pain in her knees had grown sharp enough to bring tears to her eyes. She wanted to cry out, but didn’t dare, not while they were out on this ledge where the slightest push might send him to oblivion.
Abbas sighed, in either impatience or exasperation. That was when she knew she had a chance. It was her only alternative—enlist in his mad scheme in hopes of somehow diverting it before it came to fruition or led to his arrest. Their arrest, she reminded herself. The stakes couldn’t be higher.
�
�You are certain?” he asked, a note of skepticism in his voice.
She again sensed a need for just the right words. Sound too assured and he wouldn’t believe her. Abbas had always mistrusted instant conversions, and Aliyah was the deliberate sort who reached decisions by degrees, after careful consideration. Yet wavering might also be fatal.
“No,” she said. “I’m not certain. Although I’m getting there. I think I’ve been getting there all along, from the time I started to figure out what you were up to. Maybe that’s why I haven’t said anything ’til now. I can promise you one thing. I won’t try to stop you, even if I’m not sure how much I want to help. But I can only keep that promise if you share your thoughts along the way. About everything. So you must tell me about all of this.” She held up the awful book, still open to the chapter on bomb making. “And you can start with why you’ve leased that building across the street from the senator’s church.”
He seemed taken aback that she had pieced together so many details, but he didn’t ask how.
“Fair enough.”
He held out a hand to help her up. She suppressed a cry of relief as she stood. Most of the feeling in her legs was gone, and it was all she could do to walk.
“Make some coffee,” he said, “and we’ll talk. I’ll tell you what I can. But first, tell me one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Why? Why would you want to help? And don’t say it is because of your grief, or your talks with Annie Felton. You see her to reduce your anger, not to build it up. This will take you in the exact opposite direction. Why, then? Why choose my way?”
The Amateur Spy Page 23
