The Amateur Spy

by Dan Fesperman

  He sighed and looked at her intently, as if wondering whether to trust her.

  “We should not be speaking in this way.”

  “I won’t report you, if that’s what’s worrying you. I’m not so certain about the means myself. In fact, what if I were to tell you a great secret. Do you think you could keep it, especially if you thought it might save lives?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then find out for me what I need to know. How to wire and put together a bomb, and, just as important, how to take one apart without setting it off. Can you do that, and then meet me again?”

  “I don’t think this is a safe place to talk about these things. Maybe somewhere else, and in a few more days.”

  “Should we set up another appointment, then? What about Thursday, three days from now?”

  “I will try. But aren’t you in a hurry?”

  “Did someone tell you that?”

  He shrugged, seemingly uncomfortable about answering. Either he didn’t know or he was hiding something. Maybe Khalid II wasn’t so easy to read after all. In that case, she had probably said too much. But at this point he seemed to be her best hope.

  “Let’s say four o’clock. Just tell me where. Preferably not at your office. I don’t want to bump into the American again.”

  “My house, then. Across from the office, but a few doors down. Just ask for me by name. People will know.”

  “Even if I ask for Khalid?”

  He reddened. Such inexperience. If she had really wanted help in a hurry she would have been furious by now.

  “I will be looking for you,” he said. “No need for you to ask anyone.”

  “Very good. I’m at the InterContinental if you need to reach me. How can I reach you if there is a change in plans?”

  “I am probably not supposed to tell you that.”

  “Probably. But you took me to your office and told me where your house is. So I already know at least two ways.”

  He again seemed flustered.

  “I’ll give you my number.”

  She took out a pen to write it down, but he stopped her.

  “Probably better not to put it on a piece of paper. In Bakaa, no one’s secrets are safe.”

  “Not even yours?”

  She said it as a tease, to lighten the mood, but his face was deadly serious, and his next words surprised her.

  “Especially not mine.”

  Yes, he might well be more complicated than she had thought. But she would just as soon see Khalid II as anyone else, at least until she had a better idea of what they had planned for her. She then recalled that the next contact was due to get in touch shortly after this appointment. So during the taxi ride back to Amman she switched off her cell phone, and when she reached the hotel she asked the desk clerk to block all calls to her room.

  That ought to hold them at bay for a while, she thought. At least until Thursday.

  25

  On my way to meet Chris Boylan I finally got to see Sami Fayez’s salon. It was up a musty stairwell, and the moment he opened the door I knew I’d come to the right place for informed gossip. Several conversations were going at once, and the portly Sami roamed the sunlit floor between them, an impresario of gab as played by Sydney Greenstreet, minus the fez and flyswatter.

  I was mildly surprised to see that a few of his guests were drinking Turkish coffee, and Sami noted my reaction.

  “They are Christians,” he explained. “So of course you will have coffee, too.”

  He snapped his fingers toward the doorway of a small kitchen. Instantly a pot clattered, followed by the sound of gushing water.

  There were three rooms across the front of the house, all with high ceilings, tall arched windows decorated with panels of stained glass, and sluggish ceiling fans that looked as if they had been spinning since the 1930s.

  Rather than spruce up the space, as someone in Manhattan or Paris might have done, Sami let the old cracks and blemishes speak for themselves. The only lighting was a bare bulb dangling from the ceiling of each room on a long, frayed cord. Yet there was almost a stagy feel to the place. It was more restoration than relic, a living museum. Maybe that’s why some of the conversations sounded almost scripted, like role-players at a tourist site. At Colonial Williamsburg you got powdered wigs and tricornered hats. Here the players came outfitted with worry beads and olive-wood canes.

  Most of the guests were older than me. At the end of a long couch was the curmudgeonly Ali, in a brown sweater vest that smelled strongly of tobacco. He thumped a cane against the floor to punctuate a diatribe against government intransigence.

  “No one at that stupid ministry ever returns my calls!”

  “That is the most hopeful sign of progress I have heard in years,” rejoined the smiling Shakeel, in the role of agent provocateur.

  A while later they moved to the topic of loose women, loudly speculating on whether the parliamentary prudes of the Muslim Brotherhood would try to ban a singer named Topaz from the next Shubaib Festival. The consensus was that they certainly hoped not. If she was the enemy, then bring on the attack, in all its fleshpot glory.

  “You see,” Sami told me, “it is the same with men everywhere. As soon as we tire of politics, we talk only of women and football. But what are your interests these days? You’ve had time to settle in—how do you see things here in Jordan?”

  “I’m surprised at how little it’s changed since ’91. Nice to see the king still has some popularity.”

  “Yes. I worried for a while that Abdullah would not be able to keep a lid on things. He has made mistakes, of course. That is the way of any young man in a hurry. But the people have accepted him. The fact that everyone is making money helps, of course.”

  “I noticed. All your friends seem to be doing all right. Omar, for one.”

  “You sound as if that is not necessarily a good thing.”

  “Do I? I don’t mean to. Omar deserves to live well, and he’s obviously trying to give some of it back. But I do worry about some of the people he has surrounded himself with. I wonder what they’re in it for. Present company excluded, of course.”

  “He has little choice. Politics in Bakaa is a blood sport, so you have to have contacts on all sides unless you wish to be seen as a partisan. And of course when someone like Omar comes along in Bakaa, offering his friendship, it is not only his checkbook they’re interested in. They want part of his reputation, because they know that the security services are always looking over their shoulders. That’s one reason I avoid the place. Too many informers out there for my taste. Rivals reporting on rivals. But I shouldn’t worry about Omar. He knows what he’s doing.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Who in particular worries you? No, let me guess. Nabil Mustafa?”

  “Sounds like you’ve been listening to Dr. Hassan.”

  “Who is probably the second name on your worry list.”

  “Dr. Hassan?”

  “Of course. An old hand with Fatah. If you say his name to anyone with the Muslim Brotherhood, be sure to stand back so the spit will not land on your shoes.”

  “But he’s so…”

  “Stodgy? Arrogant? Yes, he’s a regular old snob. He discovered long ago that it allowed him to mix well in polite society. He has even been invited to the palace. It was a party for more than a thousand guests, but still. If there’s anyone Omar keeps a close eye on, it’s probably Dr. Hassan.”

  I filed that away, then moved on to the name I’d seen on the downtown mailbox where Nabil had paid a visit.

  “What can you tell me about a fellow named Walid Khammar?”

  “What of him? Is he also a new associate of Omar’s?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s one reason I’m asking.”

  Sami stole a glance toward his other guests, and then lowered his voice.

  “Let’s go into my study.”

  We walked to an office in the back. The only window was a small, cracked pane of glass overlooking an alley.
A huge oak desk faced the doorway, but Sami sat instead on an overstuffed couch in front of a battered coffee table, and directed me to a wing chair on the opposite side. An older woman followed us in with a tray. Sami watched in silence as she poured syrupy coffee from an hourglass pot, and then she left without a word.

  This was probably where Sami did his thinking and planning, moving the pieces of his real estate chess game. On the wall behind the desk was a framed, yellowed map of Amman in the 1920s. Propped on the desk were several photos of Sami with the late King Hussein. Everybody who was anybody in Jordan prominently displayed such snapshots in their homes and offices, but his were less formal than most. In one, the king wore the same black leather jacket that he had worn in the motorcycle poster, and he looked genuinely relaxed. Sami’s photos with Abdullah, on the other hand, looked like everyone else’s—Sami in a suit at a royal birthday celebration. Sami with a cocktail glass at some charity gala.

  “What makes you think Omar is involved with Walid Khammar? You have seen them together?”

  “Not exactly.” I certainly wasn’t going to admit to spying on Nabil, so I improvised. “Someone at Bakaa mentioned him in the same breath as Nabil.”

  “May I ask the context?”

  “I’m not sure I understood the conversation well enough to say.”

  Sami inspected me closer.

  “You’re very good at this.”

  “At what?”

  “Trying to get something for nothing. You should use those skills down in the bazaar. Buy something nice for your wife. But seeing as how this is your first time as my guest, perhaps I should respond with more generosity. Tell me, though, is this purely for your own use?”

  “I can’t think of anyone else who’d want to know.”

  “Oh, I can. Walid Khammar is the sort of fellow who…well, let’s just say that whenever something disturbing happens—the errant missile down in Aqaba, for example, or those idiots caught sneaking into Israel with a grenade launcher—he often gets a call from our friends on the Eighth Circle.”

  “You mean the—”

  “No need to say it aloud. Not when all we’re doing is engaging in a little friendly conversation. You might alarm the guests. Speaking of which, will you please shut that door behind you?”

  I did as he asked. Then he paused, listening for any breaks in the murmuring conversations beyond the door.

  “No one thinks Walid would actually get up to something like that. But he might know people who would.”

  “Someone like Nabil?”

  Sami tilted his head like a dog who’d heard a strange noise.

  “I doubt that’s Nabil’s style. That’s why I’m surprised to hear he has been associating with—excuse me, ‘mentioned in the same breath as’—Walid Khammar. Although Nabil is certainly a pious young man, to hear Omar tell it. And Walid has been known to seek the company of pious young men, of a certain political stripe.”

  “Hamas, you mean?”

  “You have been snooping around, haven’t you? Maybe I’m the one who should be asking questions.”

  “I’m just repeating what Omar told me. Or what Dr. Hassan told Omar.”

  “Dr. Hassan again. As you said, he certainly thinks highly of himself. But I suppose he has earned that, after twenty years of working in the trenches. Playing doctor to all those thousands.”

  “I doubt his patients would call it playing.”

  “You’re absolutely right. I should be more charitable. Please, drink your coffee. Fatima will be serving juice in a minute, so you might as well empty the cup or you’ll hurt her feelings. By the time you’ve left she’ll have made sure your bladder is ready to burst.”

  I sipped down to the gritty mud.

  “What more do you know about the doctor?”

  “Nothing of interest, really.”

  I suppose I had reached the limits of Sami’s generosity, unless I had something to offer in return. A dismissal seemed at hand.

  “I should return to my other guests,” he said. “And didn’t you say something about another appointment?”

  “Yes. I’m meeting an old colleague downtown.”

  “Care to share his name? Perhaps he is an acquaintance of mine?”

  “I doubt you’ve met.”

  “Very good, Freeman. Very frugal of you. And please do come again.”

  Although next time I’m sure he would expect me to bring more to the table. In Sami’s information bazaar, my introductory offer had just expired.

  It was a short walk to the Husseini Mosque, but with fifteen minutes to kill I took my time, heading slowly around the corner to King Faysal Street. Only two days remained before Ramadan’s last sundown, the market crowds were growing larger as families began stocking up for Friday’s Eid al-Fitr celebration.

  The beggar women sat at their usual corners. I stopped to buy toothpaste from one, drawing a mute nod of appreciation from a black-veiled head. Crossing the street toward the checkerboard marble plaza of the mosque, I spotted the wavy blond hair of Chris Boylan, who easily stood out in the crowd. He had yet to see me coming.

  Even from afar he looked careworn and distracted. He was deeply tanned, but had lost weight, and his shoulders sagged. A war zone can do that to you. It was probably a relief for him to be somewhere he didn’t have to worry about kidnappers or bombs.

  “Chris!”

  He smiled broadly and called out in his Kiwi accent.

  “Bloody long time, mate. Thought you’d given up on the charms of the Near East.”

  “I had. Our old pal Omar brought me back.”

  “I’d heard you two were back in tandem. Is he coming, too?”

  “’Fraid not. Maybe next time.”

  “If there is one. Never thought I’d say it, but I might have finally had my fill of the Orient. One more tour of duty and I’m cooked.”

  “Iraq?”

  “Belly of the beast. And the beast gets hungrier by the day.”

  “You look it.”

  “And you don’t. I hear you married well. She the one who keeps you looking like this?”

  Maybe I blushed, or maybe he knew it was the sort of remark that always got my goat. In any case, he laughed.

  “I take it this isn’t just a social call,” he said.

  “Not strictly. How’d you guess?”

  “It’s the same way I work whenever I’m starting fresh somewhere. Look up a few old hands and assorted spooks to see what they’re hearing.”

  “Which are you, old hand or assorted spook?”

  “Little o’ both, mate.” He gripped my arm and nudged me into motion. “Let’s walk, long as we’re talking shop. This isn’t Baghdad, but it’s not Manhattan, either.”

  “Tell me what you’re up to.”

  “Keeping my head down. Not much to tell otherwise. Or so my employer would have me say.”

  “Sounds like you’re in deep.”

  “Got the bug in Afghanistan. Spent a year helping the UN look for where the warlords had stashed their guns, and ended up working with a lot of Humint operatives, army and otherwise.”

  I didn’t need to ask what he meant by “otherwise.”

  “Some don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground. They show up in khakis and aviator glasses at the wheel of a big Chevy and can’t figure why they’re not blending into the scenery. But the good ones are a real trip. Helpful, too. And once you’re splashing around in the same tub, the water gets comfortable. So you sign on with somebody, and they send you someplace where you might actually know a thing or two. Which for me means this part of the world. How ’bout you? Is this charity of Omar’s on the level?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because you’ve got the look of somebody who just got his membership card but is still wondering whether he joined the right club.”

  Chris was good that way. But I didn’t want to open up too much, if only because I wasn’t all that sure about his club.

  “Seems to be on the level. I’
m still doing background checks on some of the players.”

  “And you want my help.”

  “Yes.”

  “Depends on what you want to know, I guess. Where do you want to start?”

  “Hans Wolters. Any idea where our old boss is?”

  “Hans is keeping himself under wraps, although he’d probably come out of hiding for you.”

  “Under wraps how?”

  “Dug in on the West Bank. Doing his version of shuttle diplomacy between local factions.”

  “Which ones?”

  “You name it. Hamas, Fatah, right-wing settler groups, the nonaffiliated. People who would never talk to each other, but who might let Hans do the talking for them. Which is why he lays low. Steers clear of all police, and certainly avoids any sort of official-looking American. Except you, of course.”

  “Am I official-looking?”

  “Nothing personal. After a few months in Baghdad every American starts to look official.”

  “How would I reach him?”

  “Drop an e-mail to his sponsors. Keep it brief and noncommittal. They’ll forward it.”

  “Got a name?”

  “I’m trying to remember. One of those pie-in-the-sky outfits. The West Bank Peace Network, that’s it.”

  “Talk about an oxymoron.”

  “Try ‘WBPeace dot org.’ And if your message ends up at Warner Brothers, then you’ll know my memory’s gone to hell. He’ll probably be thrilled to hear from somebody who isn’t insane.”

  “Is that the way you feel?”

  “Been here twenty-four hours and I’m still getting used to the idea I’m not about to be blown to pieces. I’m good for another six months, tops.”

  “And then?”

  “Maybe someplace comparatively sane. Like Afghanistan. Not that Afghanistan will be any better in another six months.”

  “Why don’t you come here? Plenty of professionals in Jordan, from what I hear.”

  “Jordan’s no given, either, you know. Never has been. Lately it’s trickier than ever. Lots of funny business spilling over the border from Loonyland in Iraq.”

  “Anything I should know about?”

  “Nothing specific. Just general bad vibes. Creeps with nothing better to do. Maybe you’ve met some and don’t even know it. Got any names to run past me?”