The Amateur Spy

by Dan Fesperman

  “Heard of a Nabil Mustafa? Or a Walid Khammar?”

  “The last one’s familiar, but, hell, they all sound the same after a while. Ten Ahmeds and fifty Mohammeds. Who else?”

  “An American. Woman, late middle-aged. Aliyah Rahim.”

  “Sorry. That one’s a blank.”

  “How are you on out-of-towners? A Greek, in fact.”

  Chris raised his eyebrows.

  “Living here, you mean?”

  “No. But he may have contacts here. A professor. Yiorgos Soukas.”

  “Spell it.”

  I did.

  Chris shook his head.

  “Nope. Another blank.”

  I was beginning to think this was a waste of time. Maybe I should have stuck to chatting about old times.

  “C’mon, don’t be shy.”

  “Another out-of-towner. A German, Norbert Krieger.”

  Chris stopped in his tracks, and I nearly walked past him. We became an island in a jostling current of shoppers.

  “From Munich?”

  “I think so.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “No. Why?”

  “How did his name come up?”

  I wondered how specific I could be.

  “He was seen in Athens. Supposedly handing over a pile of money to someone from here.”

  “Handing it to Omar?”

  “Uh, no. Someone I’m not familiar with. I’m not at liberty to say.”

  I wasn’t sure he bought it, but it didn’t dampen his interest.

  “Whoever it was, keep an eye on him.”

  “Why?”

  He looked around. We stood between a butcher shop and an incense dealer, and the crowds were elbowing past. A slightly fevered expression crossed his face, as if he were suddenly back on duty in Baghdad. Then he grasped my shoulders and spoke into my ear.

  “Not here. The Roman Theatre. Twenty minutes. Buy a ticket and meet me inside, I’ll be up near the top.”

  He then darted into the crowd with the swiftness of a small fish that has spotted a shark. I whirled ’round as if I, too, might need to fend off a predator, but there was only the usual array of grim faces and dour looks. I drew a deep breath, nearly choking on a cloud of sweet gray smoke from the incense shop. Then I set out slowly for the theater, which was only a few blocks away. It was going to be a long twenty minutes.

  The theater, probably Amman’s best-known attraction, looks pretty much like the Roman amphitheaters you see everywhere, as if they were all built by the same franchisee. Or maybe I’d been swayed by Rafi Tuqan’s lecture. It was hard not to think of them now as some ancient chain, like Starbucks, still serving lattes after 1,800 years.

  It cost only a dinar to get inside. Then I began the long trudge up the steps. Squinting into the sun, I scanned the top rows for Chris. He was up to the right in the shade. I waved, but he didn’t wave back. The steep climb made it easy to imagine Romans gasping in their togas as they cursed the summer heat in this forlorn imperial outpost.

  Breathing heavily, I sagged onto the stones a few feet from Chris, who had yet to acknowledge me. As I was about to speak, three boys ran behind us. A man, presumably their father, called out from the stage below as they lit firecrackers and tossed them high in the air, sending their little bomblets toward a scattering of helpless people in the lower rows.

  “Damn kids,” Chris said. “Wait until they’ve passed.”

  “You’re actually worried they’ll hear us?”

  “What’s the expression? Little pitchers have big ears?”

  “You’ve been in Baghdad too long.”

  “You may be right.” A firecracker popped loudly a few rows below. “All the same…”

  We waited until the little terrors had run past us to the bottom, scampering after their father. No one was within fifty feet of us. Chris spoke first.

  “The Romans built these places so that the acoustics would carry even a whisper all the way up here from the stage. Did you know that?”

  “What about the reverse?”

  “Doesn’t work that way, fortunately. The actors never would have wanted to hear all the catcalls.”

  “Then no one down there will hear us if you tell me who Norbert Krieger is.”

  “My sources aren’t exactly up to date.”

  “Does that mean they’re not reliable?”

  “It means I haven’t talked to them in ages. Five, maybe six years. And even then Krieger was supposedly no longer a player. It was just one of those names you were told to keep an ear out for, in case he ever got back in business. Not that there weren’t hundreds of others like him. But still.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Oddball philanthropist, that’s probably the best way to put it. Going back maybe twenty years. Before you, Hans, Omar, and I were all doing our good deeds during the intifada. He was known as a soft touch for underdog Arab causes. Well and good, I suppose, until he started bankrolling shady imams in Cairo. Turned out he was helping to keep the Muslim Brotherhood in business.”

  “The precursors to al-Qaeda, weren’t they?”

  “Something like that. In Cairo, anyway.”

  “Can’t imagine that went over too well back in Germany.”

  “Got that right, mate. This was still during the Cold War, remember, when being pro-Arab could also look pro-Soviet. It cost him a professorship at some university in Munich. Not to mention no small amount of embarrassment for the West Germans. In those days they liked promoting the idea that only East Germans were still making trouble for Jews.”

  “What was he, some kind of unreconstructed Nazi?”

  “Not really. Too young to have been in the war, or even Hitler Youth. And not one of those Auschwitz deniers, or anything like that. Although some of his crowd didn’t always have the best reputation in that department.”

  “Such as?”

  “Some outfit calling itself the Islamic Association of Germany. Originally started by some SS officers to rally Soviet-bloc Muslims to take up arms against Stalin. Worked, too, which meant that after the war a lot of Muslims needed to get the hell out of the USSR. So they wound up in Bavaria. Presumably some of them met good old Norbert and won him over to the cause, which by then was anti-Israel. For a while he was one of their biggest contributors. Old family money, some of it. He was also a conduit for others. People who didn’t want their names turning up on any contributor lists, so they let Norbert give on their behalf. Nowadays, of course, half of Europe speaks out on behalf of the Palestinians. Maybe that’s what brought old Norbert out of the woodwork.”

  “How long’s he been out of circulation?”

  “Losing his university post pretty much put him out of business, and that must have been around ’90. Except for a few sightings in maybe ’93 he hasn’t been heard from since.”

  “Why ’93?”

  “The Oslo Agreement. Who knows, maybe he was actually hopeful for peace. A lot of us were.”

  “Me, too. But that hardly makes him a candidate for underwriting bombers and hijackers.”

  “No one ever said he was. It was more the company he kept. Of course, people who lose their jobs sometimes change for the worse. And there’s a lot more anger out there now than twelve years ago.”

  “Still, from what you’re saying, it doesn’t fit his profile.”

  “Unless he’s been duped.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Told he was contributing to something peaceful when it was anything but.”

  Like Omar’s charity, I thought. Maybe that’s what Chris was thinking, too, but he had the good taste not to say it. He had known Omar almost as well as I had and would have been appalled by the possibility.

  “But if that were the case,” I said, thinking out loud, “then why keep it a secret?”

  “Is that what Krieger’s doing? Donating on the sly?”

  “That’s what it looked like in Athens, apparently.”

  “Care to elabor
ate on your sources?”

  “Not really.”

  “Meaning that maybe you’re not exactly on the level, either. Somehow I doubt it’s Omar who has you sniffing around on this. Who’s paying for the moonlighting, Freeman?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “It never is. It’s just that you never struck me as the type.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for that, I guess.”

  “Suppose so.”

  He snickered, as if enjoying our little back-and-forth.

  “Well, this sure beats what I’ve been up to. Kind of a relief to talk about something as simple as a money trail. But if Krieger is back on the board, plenty of people are going to want to know. And as possessor of this information, you should know that things could get a little dicey for you.”

  “You think?”

  “Absolutely. You want my recommendation?”

  “You’re the pro.”

  “Forward whatever you’ve got to your sponsors, your handlers, whatever it is you want to call them, including anything I’ve just told you—minus my name, of course.”

  “And then?”

  “Let it go. They’ll know what to do, if anything.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you’re going to follow my advice.”

  I shrugged, noncommittal.

  “Then maybe I’ll do a little asking around, if you don’t mind. And if I hear anything more, I’ll pass it along.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Just do me one favor in return.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t get back in touch. Not even by e-mail. My employers might frown on it. If you hear from me, don’t answer.”

  “Fair enough.”

  He nodded and stood. It seemed clear I wasn’t supposed to follow. Then he walked slowly down the steps, back toward his life on the front lines. Or maybe I was the one now heading in that direction, just on another front of the war.

  26

  So here’s what I knew: Omar was taking money—perhaps a lot of it—from an old German once infamous for contributing to radical Arab causes and mixing with questionable characters. Maybe this time the cause was just, but the secrecy of their handoff in Athens, not to mention the Mossad’s possible interest, seemed to argue against it. At the very least, Omar would have mentioned the donation by now if it were on the up-and-up or was intended for the hospital.

  Exactly where a Greek professor of archaeology fit in was another matter. Maybe Omar had met him while visiting a dig in Jordan. But plenty of people from all walks of life in Europe these days were sympathetic to the Palestinian cause, and surely not all of them were discriminating when deciding where to donate money.

  At the Amman end of the chain there was Nabil Mustafa, who not only had a connection to Hamas but broke bread with gunrunners and visited the likes of Walid Khammar, a figure of interest to local security officials. Then there was his prosperous-looking visitor from America, Aliyah Rahim. I had Googled her in a spare moment, but found nothing of interest except that she might have a role in a Washington charity that seemed to have nothing to do with the Middle East. There was also a curious factoid about a man who might or might not be her husband, a Dr. Abbas Rahim. He was one of the surgeons who had saved the life of Ronald Reagan after the assassination attempt by John Hinckley. Hardly the stuff of wild-eyed radicalism. But if that was her, then how come she had lied to me about what Nabil and she were up to at Bakaa?

  From all these threads I suppose it would be easy enough to weave a loose fabric connecting Krieger to the bomb makers of Hamas, with Omar functioning as some sort of conduit. And if I were to turn over my findings to Black, White, and Gray, that’s probably exactly what would happen.

  Here was my problem with that conclusion. In my travels over the years I have seen scoundrels of every possible stripe. Warlords and gunrunners. Smugglers and racketeers. Mercenaries and true believers. And, of course, there was the pirate king Charles Mbweli, who would forever stalk the darkest fields of my imagination.

  I suppose that Nabil might be shoehorned into one of those roles, humble family man or not. His piety alone made him potentially vulnerable to hothead meddlers in Bakaa. With a little scholarly coaching from some radical holy man, he might be coaxed to justify any manner of frightening actions. But I had my doubts.

  Omar was an even poorer fit. In my sketching out of possible conspiracies, he was where the lines ran crooked. You needed only to look at the life he had built, and how he had built it, or at his secular lifestyle, his pragmatic wife. Even his grasping son, tooling around Abdoun’s cafés and hookah bars, argued against Omar’s participation. Why risk losing everything over a few bombs, especially when even the palace was smiling on your good fortune?

  Unless, of course, there had always been a different Omar behind the facade, one I had never really known. If such a man existed, Jerusalem offered my best hope for finding out. Hans Wolters had known us both for as long as anyone else. And there was also David Ben-Zohar to consult, the old soldier and patrol commander now working in the security business. As a onetime adversary, he would view Omar with skepticism, and in his line of work he might even know why the Mossad had taken an interest.

  Luckily, Hans responded promptly to my e-mail. I opened his answer Wednesday morning:

  “Come over anytime. Shabbat is always a good day to try me, since both sides tend to stay quiet. But later is fine, too. Just name the date.”

  We set up a rendezvous for the following Monday afternoon at an Arab home on the Mount of Olives.

  Ben-Zohar also answered, and in his curt, close-to-the-vest manner he suggested I call when I reached Jerusalem. Maybe he would have time for lunch. Perhaps meeting someone like me was bad for business.

  I decided to cross the border next Monday morning to meet Hans, then try to catch up with Ben-Zohar the following day. I freed up the time by telling Omar I had further personal business.

  And if Hans and Ben-Zohar couldn’t help? Then I supposed that I would steal into the office late one night for a final, exhaustive sweep of the files, page by page, pulling an all-nighter if that was what it took to wrap up my business. One way or another, the end of the trail was in sight.

  In the evening I phoned Mila. By now I no longer cared if our calls were monitored, as long as I got to hear her voice. Or maybe I still felt a need to atone for some of the stupid things I’d said in Athens.

  There was no answer. Then I remembered that this was the day of their beach getaway to Glyfada. It was only seven, and they were probably fighting heavy traffic on the return trip.

  But later calls were also unsuccessful. At 10 p.m. her aunt finally answered.

  “They are not here,” she said. A bit curtly, I thought.

  “Didn’t they go to Glyfada today?”

  “Yes. I am sure they will be back soon.”

  “All right. I’ll try again.”

  “Must you? I am going to sleep now. I will leave a message that you called.”

  My patience ran out at midnight, and I called again.

  In a beleaguered and drowsy monotone, Aunt Aleksandra repeated what she had said at 10.

  “They are not here. I do not know when they will return. I have left her a message.”

  “Tell her it doesn’t matter how late. And please make sure she sees it.”

  “Yes, she will have your message. She will have all of your messages.”

  Click.

  When yet another hour passed I resigned myself to the idea that Mila wasn’t coming back to Athens tonight. I then recalled the taunts of the watcher in the dark sedan and the cozy scene I’d witnessed from the shadows on that first night outside the apartment. Four heads in one small car, two up front and two in the back. And by now, of course, the fellow named Petros had grown even more handsome than I remembered, and was somewhere on a darkened beach, or a shuttered room by the sea, speaking endearments in Mila�
�s ear in flawless Athenian Greek, offering her cigarettes and shots of ouzo as he slid closer, reaching for the buttons of her blouse.

  At some point later I fell asleep, once again to the sound of the mouse, which was back on duty with renewed fury. By now I considered him both companion and intruder, a status akin to mine. Maybe that explains my dreams that night. In one, it was me down there behind the baseboard, scrabbling to get out even as I paused to eavesdrop. In another, Black, White, and Gray took the place of the mouse. They were in hiding, shrunken to the size of microdots while awaiting the right moment to emerge. Then I dreamed of Mila. She was back in her cousin’s car with Petros, except now Black was at the wheel, showing the ravenous teeth of a rodent.

  In the morning I brewed a pot of coffee, made some toast, and fried an egg. Then I tossed the food into the garbage uneaten. The phone had yet to ring. So much for all our talk of trust. So much for hefting this burden of secrets all these years on Mila’s behalf. Or maybe Aunt Aleksandra hadn’t left a message after all. I tried the number in Athens. This time not even Aleksandra answered.

  I bolted from the house in a rage, and by late afternoon I was furious at everyone. At Black, White, and Gray. At Mila. And of course at Petros. It was with all that stewing in my mind that I resolved to enjoy myself with my old colleague Nura and whoever else she brought along. At worst I now had an excuse to drink heavily.

  I was supposed to meet Nura at the InterContinental, and I arrived early. Walking into the posh lobby I was reminded of Aliyah Rahim. According to Nabil, this was where she had heard about our charity, by spotting some literature about us. With time to kill, I decided to check out his story.

  Over by the concierge’s desk was a small stand displaying pamphlets for nearby tourist sites and local shops. The only one hinting at any charitable connection was a flyer for Bani Hamida’s craft and carpet store, which benefited the Bedouin women who made the products. The concierge noted my interest.

  “Anything I can help you find, sir?”

  “Yes. Do you have any information on the Bakaa Refugee Health Project?”

  She creased her brow.

  “And what is the nature of this organization, sir?”