The Amateur Spy

by Dan Fesperman

  With that course of action settled, I was finally able to sleep soundly, and didn’t wake until after nine. I buried the mouse beneath a jasmine bush at the base of the wall along the front walkway, my fallen comrade in espionage, then washed the dirt from my hands and walked into town to buy supplies for a big breakfast to steel myself for the confrontation at the embassy. After showering and eating, I put the offending bugging device in my pocket, grabbed my car keys, and stepped out the door. Fiona stood in her front garden as if she had been waiting for me to appear.

  “Another trip into the hinterlands?” she asked brightly.

  The question seemed innocent enough, but I was in no mood for curiosity.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you were away for a few days, weren’t you? I was wondering if you’d been out exploring.”

  “Jerusalem,” I said tersely.

  “How lovely.” Her tone remained sweet, which softened me a bit.

  “I would have been better off staying. We could have had dinner.”

  “We still can, you know.”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be around.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  She sounded as if she meant it. But there was an edge of uncertainty in her voice, too.

  “You had more visitors while you were away. A couple of rather quiet men.”

  “Quiet?”

  “Mysterious, even. And, well…”

  She paused, flustered.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve a slight confession to make.” She said it haltingly, but her next words came out in a torrent. “I’m afraid that while you were gone I decided to do a good-neighborly deed and fertilize that plant you put in. Which of course required that I do some digging around, and, well…”

  “You found the gun.”

  “And put it right back.”

  “I know. It was there last night when I got home. Did you tell anyone?”

  “Certainly not. But when those two men came ’round looking for you, well, naturally I wondered if…”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re not just working for a charity while you’re here, are you?”

  “The answer’s a bit complicated.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “Tell me about the two men.”

  “They were driving a black Mercedes.” She gasped and pointed toward the street. “Like the one that just pulled up next door.”

  I turned and saw it idling at the curb. The windows were smoked so you couldn’t see inside.

  “When did they come before?” I asked quickly.

  “Both days you were away.” She was whispering now. “Usually around this time of morning. They tried your door. I asked if I could help, but they just shook their heads and drove away. I thought you might want fair warning, considering, well, whatever it is you’re up to.”

  “Thank you.”

  I considered going back inside, but for what? The gun? So I watched their windshield with arms crossed and waited, while Fiona did the same. Then both doors opened, and out stepped two men, presumably Jordanians, dressed in almost identical suits of charcoal gray. They were in no hurry, so I tried not to act impatient. They came up the sidewalk and stopped just short of the porch. The first one did the talking.

  “Mr. Lockhart?”

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “A representative of the General Intelligence Department,” he said in English.

  “The Dairat al-Mukhabarat, you mean?”

  He nodded, and I thought I heard Fiona gasp again, although no one looked in her direction. It seemed that I had mistakenly identified the source of the bugging device in my bedroom. I suppose I should have known better.

  “You will come with us, please. I was told to reassure you that the appointment will not take long. And we will of course provide you with return transportation once it is concluded.”

  “How long do you mean by ‘not long’?”

  He shrugged. The man behind him hadn’t moved a muscle since they came up the walk. I supposed it was his job to make sure I cooperated.

  “All right, then.”

  “Be careful,” Fiona hissed. She had gone pale.

  “I’m told these little visits aren’t that uncommon.” I tried to sound unconcerned.

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Neither gentleman seemed to mind that she watched my departure. Maybe that was a good sign. Or maybe they didn’t give a damn, which could mean anything. I wondered for a moment if I should leave behind the bugging device, but reaching into my pocket seemed like a bad idea with these fellows watching, although I found it curious that they hadn’t frisked me for weapons.

  “Good luck,” Fiona said.

  I nodded, stepped into the car, and disappeared behind the smoked glass. She was still watching as we rounded the corner.

  The building didn’t look much different from any other office block in Amman, and the security, as with all government buildings, didn’t seem all that imposing. Either the Mukhabarat’s threatening reputation did part of the job for them or they were good at concealing their strength. I had little doubt that if I were to create some sort of scene in the lobby it would be dealt with briskly and forcefully.

  My escorts, flanking me like stout gray bookends, took me upstairs on a clanking, narrow elevator, then walked me down an empty white hallway across a linoleum floor to an unmarked office. The door opened to a heavyset, fiftyish man who might have been a banker, although not a particularly successful one. He had thinning gray hair that needed combing, and wore a dark suit that was at least a size too small. He offered his hand, smiled almost shyly, and gestured for me to sit in a cushioned chair that was far more comfortable than I would have expected. A steaming teapot sat on a desktop tray, which had been painted luridly with a scene from Petra. He did the pouring.

  “Milk or sugar, Mr. Lockhart?”

  “Both, if it’s black tea. I’ll help myself.”

  “As you wish.”

  He sounded neither stern, rushed, nor upset. He might have been about to offer a job promotion, for all you could tell from his tone. It was a strange sensation, sipping the hot, sweet tea as he beamed approvingly from his chair by the window. The blinds were open onto a view of the Eighth Circle, where traffic was in lazy motion in the midday sun. Photos of King Hussein and King Abdullah joined in the smile-fest. The intended effect, I suppose, was to encourage conversation, perhaps even glibness. For the moment I was willing to oblige, if only out of nervousness. My fingers were moist against the teacup.

  “I’ve heard about these little visits,” I said.

  “Have you? Then you’ll know there’s nothing to fear.”

  “Depending on what you want, of course.”

  “I hope you understand, Mr. Lockhart, that you aren’t under any obligation to answer my questions.”

  “Just as I was under no obligation to get into the Mercedes?”

  “Correct.”

  “So I can just get up and walk out?”

  “Of course. We’re not detaining you. This is strictly voluntary.”

  “And if I leave, what happens then?”

  “These things are not under my control.” Still the benign smile. “I do not have that kind of authority, and thus cannot say.”

  “So, if my visa was revoked tomorrow, it would have nothing to do with you?”

  “I’m glad you grasp the situation so readily.”

  “Yes. Well, I hope you won’t be too disappointed in me, then. I really don’t know very much about what goes on in your country.”

  “We don’t expect that you possess any state secrets. We’re simply curious about some of your recent activities. What you’ve been doing, who you’ve been speaking with. You keep some interesting company, don’t you?”

  “Depends on what you mean by ‘interesting.’”

  “Well, your employer, to begin with. Omar al-Baroody.”

  Was his own gov
ernment suspicious of Omar? For what? Dealing with people like Nabil, or plotting to protect Arab landholdings in Jerusalem? Hard to believe the Mukhabarat would be too worried about the latter.

  “His charity, you mean?”

  “Or this, perhaps.”

  He picked up a glossy black-and-white photo and placed it by my teacup. Everyone who abducted me seemed to have photos of Omar, and this one was an eight-by-ten of him coming out the doorway of a dingy two-story stone building just off the Third Circle, maybe a block down from the InterContinental on Zahran Street. A sign above the arched front entrance said it was the Amman office for the Department of Antiquities, in the Ministry of Tourism and Antiquities.

  “Have you ever accompanied your friend on one of these visits?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know how often he is spending time there lately?”

  “I wasn’t aware he was spending any time there. But he has mentioned this as one of his hobbies.”

  “Is this, in fact, one of the pursuits he is spending his charity’s hard-earned money on?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “And you would be aware, wouldn’t you, since you’re his second-in-command?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. I would be.”

  “How much access do you have to his books?”

  “The charity’s account books? Complete access. I reviewed them a week ago. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “What about contributions from his two friends, Rafi Tuqan and Sami Fayez?”

  “A thousand dinars apiece, if memory serves. But I’d have to double-check.”

  He frowned.

  “That’s all? Only a thousand apiece?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you said you had reviewed Omar’s books?”

  “I have.”

  “Both sets?”

  Well, at least one of us was learning something new.

  “I was aware of only one.”

  “He said that, did he? To his trusted old friend? He told you that with a straight face? ‘Here, Freeman, here are our books,’ and then let you believe those were the only ones?”

  “Maybe because they are.”

  “Or maybe because you’re covering for him.”

  “I’m telling you what I know, and what I’ve seen. If you know more than I do, that’s not my problem.”

  “Have you accompanied Omar yet on any of his weekend expeditions into the desert?”

  “No.”

  “No?” He sounded surprised. “Has he invited you?”

  “No.”

  “He will. Soon, I would imagine. Then you’ll get the sales pitch. Maybe then you’ll learn about the second set of books.”

  “What sales pitch?”

  “Has he ever mentioned a place near Madaba called Hesban?”

  “No. What sales pitch?”

  “What about Qesir?”

  “No.”

  “Has he ever mentioned something called the Wadi Terrace Project?”

  “No.”

  “None of them has? Not Sami or Rafi or any of that crew?”

  “I don’t even know where those places are, or what you’re talking about. Maybe you could tell me.”

  “What about the Wadi Fidan site?”

  That one did ring a bell, and I couldn’t help but pause before I again said, “No.” Then I remembered. It was one of the digs that had showed up on the CV of Professor Yiorgos Soukas. My inquisitor noted my momentary indecision, and he stared as if waiting for me to come clean. When I said nothing more, he made a note on a pad. Judging from his expression when he looked back up, he seemed to have reappraised the situation.

  “What were you doing in Jerusalem for the last two days, Mr. Lockhart?”

  Interesting that he specifically said Jerusalem, not just Israel. It suggested they either had assistance from across the border or their own set of eyes. Or maybe they were just reading my e-mails.

  “Visiting friends.”

  “Old friends of yours and Omar’s? From intifada days?”

  “Maybe one or two. Anything wrong with that?”

  “Nothing at all. Pleased to hear it, in fact. I was beginning to think you were totally clueless. And what are they up to these days, these old friends of yours?”

  “This and that. Eating and sleeping. Living and dying.”

  “What about with regard to Omar?”

  “They haven’t seen him in years.”

  “You’re sure about that?” His previous tone of certainty seemed to wane a bit.

  “Quite sure.”

  “Maybe we’re thinking of different people. This one, for instance.”

  He held up a photo of an Arab woman. Judging by the scenery, it appeared to have been shot on a narrow street of the Old City. She was fairly young, late twenties perhaps, and pretty in a harried sort of way, with her hair out of place and her clothes rumpled. She was talking to a young man who had his back to the camera. I didn’t recognize her, and I didn’t recognize the young man. He was too small to have been Hans Wolters, and he definitely wasn’t Omar.

  I shook my head.

  “You’re telling me you’ve never met?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever heard the name Basma Shaheed?”

  “I have.” It was the woman who was helping secure houses and properties in Jerusalem. “Is that her?”

  “Possibly.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “We do. But apparently you don’t. In what connection have you heard her name?”

  “I’m told she is a friend of Omar’s.”

  “But you’re certain you’ve never met her?”

  “Positive.”

  “And you’ve never seen a second set of account books, apart from those officially presented as those of the charity?”

  “Correct.”

  He took on a bemused look and shook his head.

  “My problem with all this, Mr. Lockhart, is that I believe you’re telling the truth. Especially since you apparently brought back no appreciable amounts of cash from Jerusalem. Frankly, that surprised us.”

  So was that what the customs people had been looking for in my luggage?

  “I told you, it was strictly a social visit.”

  “Names, please?”

  I decided to mention Hans, if only because it almost certainly wouldn’t get him in trouble—as a matter of course, he talked to people who were far more dangerous than me. But I wasn’t going to mention David Ben-Zohar if I could help it.

  “Hans Wolters was the only one who knows Omar. He was our old boss with UNRWA. He’s a peace activist now. Some sort of background negotiator.”

  “Yes, we’re aware of him. And had he met recently with Miss Shaheed?”

  “If he had, he didn’t tell me.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes. And I believe he would have said so.”

  “What about Mr. Chris Boylan? Tell me about your meeting with him.”

  Now this was a surprise.

  “He wasn’t in Jerusalem.”

  “I didn’t say that he was. In fact, you saw him in Amman last…” He consulted his notebook. “Last Tuesday. At the Roman Theatre.”

  Had they been following me? Surely Chris, being a professional, would have noticed, particularly since he was being so careful at the time. I decided to test the detail of their knowledge.

  “Yes. I met him outside. But he didn’t want to pay, so we never went in. We walked down to the Agora and talked there.”

  “Of course. We’re aware of that. So why were you seeing Chris Boylan?”

  He hadn’t challenged my error. Maybe because he was testing me. Or maybe because his information was secondhand. If so, there was only one other person in Amman who knew I had met Chris. All the questions Nura had asked so tenderly in her bedroom now came back to me. One prod after another, designed to elicit information. What a vain fool I had been, risking what I valued most for a vengeful r
oll in the hay. And look what it had brought me. Paid in full with another betrayal to match my own. I suppose I’d earned it, but my nervousness nonetheless began giving way to anger.

  “I was seeing him because he’s another old friend. I have lots of them around here, as you seem to be well aware.”

  “You haven’t seen him in what, sixteen years?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So why the sudden need to see him now?”

  “I was back in the region for the first time in a while and heard he was, too. So, naturally, I looked him up.”

  “Naturally.” He pushed my teacup closer. “Here. If that’s the best story you can come up with, you obviously need more refreshment.”

  I looked down at it with suspicion.

  “What did you do, put something in it?”

  He chuckled.

  “Of course we did. Black tea and sugar and milk. There is no such thing as truth serum, Mr. Lockhart. And as I said earlier, we would never hold you here against your will. Your participation continues to be strictly voluntary.”

  “In that case, maybe I’ll go now.”

  I stood.

  “Splendid. I will have the driver take you directly to the airport. And I can assure you with complete confidence that all your personal belongings will be shipped to your forwarding address within a day of your departure.”

  “And my departure will be strictly voluntary.”

  “Naturally.”

  I sat back down, chastened but still angry.

  “Look, it was really all quite innocent. Why don’t you ask Chris?”

  “I don’t think his employer would be very happy about that. He’s in a rather sensitive line of work, you know.”

  “We didn’t talk about his work.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Old times.”

  “Old times with Omar?”

  “Old times with everybody. Just like I did with Hans Wolters. The Israelis and the West Bankers. The bullets versus the stones. The lions versus the Christians. A jolly good time for one and all.” My voice was rising. “Chris and I probably would have had a beer together, but seeing how it was Ramadan and we were downtown—”

  “No need to get upset, Mr. Lockhart.”