Countdown in Cairo

THIRTY-THREE

Bissinger entered several minutes later. He was a thick, compact man of about five-eleven, with slicked-back hair. His brow jutted, his eyes were dark, and his chin receded sharply into his body. He looked like a prize-fighter who’d been knocked out several times but lived to fight again.

“Well,” Richard Bissinger said, “welcome to Egypt.”

“Thank you, I think.”

“So who are you?” he asked. “Other than who you really are, I mean.”

She handed him her passport. He opened it, studied it for a moment, curled a lip, gave her a bemused smile, and slid the passport back.

“Nice work, the passport,” he said.

“Latest thing, in more ways than one.”

“Josephine, huh?”

“That’s me.”

“Well, I read your c.v. this morning, Josephine. You’ve been busy in the last two years. Lagos. Ukraine. Spain. Points in between.”

“Seriously,” she said. “Either a dark cloud follows me or I’m following it.”

Bissinger nodded. “That’s how most of us feel,” he said. “Welcome to the club.”

“You know why I’m here,” she said. “Reports about a Michael Cerny.”

“I know all about that. Transcripts from Langley. Plus local activity. This is a headache. Need to get this wrapped up quickly. Make Cerny disappear and everyone who sails with him. You used to work for him? Cerny?” “He was my case officer when I was on the Ukraine assignment. He was involved in a gunfight in Paris in June, and I thought he was shot to death. So did the Agency. Now we’re getting sightings.”

“Like Elvis,” said Bissinger. “Only more radioactive and not in a Walmart.”

“What else can you tell me?” Alex asked.

“Not much good,” he said. “We’ve had a lid on Egypt for several years. The place is out of control but under control. Know what I mean?”

“We means the CIA?” she asked.

“The CIA. The United States. Western Civilization. All of the above. Right now Egypt is our type of place. Thank God they don’t hold free elections here or we’d all be out on our butts.”

“Not to split hairs,” she said, “but from what I’ve observed over the last couple of years, you wouldn’t be out on your butts so much as you’d be forced to work the same operations with much deeper cover. Am I not correct?”

Bissinger looked at her first with skepticism, then shook his head with approval. “Are you as good in the field as you are with words?” he asked.

“I like to think so.”

“I’d like to think so too,” he said. “If you are, you’re going to like it here. The stated goal is to apprehend Mike Cerny and bring him back in. He looks like he’s about to do a deal with some Russians, and we can’t allow that to happen. So everything is on red alert here, no pun intended. Speed is important. We have an operation planned, and you’re the essential part.”

“What’s he selling?” she asked.

“Technology.”

“Whose?” “American.”

“To the Russians?”

“Maybe to a third party, brokered by some Russians.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Alex asked.

“Show yourself, maybe lure some disgusting Russian thug into a bedroom overnight for some really ugly and abusive sex, be vulnerable, maybe get naked and get slapped around a bit and eventually get killed,” he said without any glint of humor.

“Just another day at the office,” she answered, going with it.

“Yeah, except I’m not kidding.”

After a few seconds, “What?” she finally said.

She stared at him. CIA people I have known, she thought to herself. Where did the Agency recruit these people? From the loony bins of the world?

“Oh, it’s not as bad as it sounds,” he said off her stare. “You’ll catch on. I’m going to put you in touch with the main people we have on the streets here,” Bissinger said. “As you might imagine, our best sources aren’t American. The person you really want to talk to is a Jordanian named Voltaire.”

“Voltaire?”

“Rarely see the man, myself,” Bissinger said. “Voltaire is what he goes by. I’m going to give you the name of a café in old Cairo. It’s a place called Fishawi’s. Go there tomorrow evening around 7:00. There will be two local women sitting at a table in the rear. They’re local assets. One of them will be named Artemiz. They’ll have a bouquet of roses on the table. If the roses are upright in a vase, you should present yourself to them. They speak English. Not the roses, the women. If the roses are turned over, lying flat, security isn’t perfectly in place and you should leave. If that happens, come back here the next morning. If the roses are upright and it’s a ‘go’ for the evening, the women will then guide you to meet Voltaire. When he approaches you, he’ll make a reference to the Zodiac. If you feel ill at ease with anything, don’t respond to it. Tell him he’s mistaken and reject the advance. If you’re comfortable, pursue the Zodiac reference. You okay with all this?”

“I know how the game is played,” she said.

“Need me to repeat it?”

“No.”

“Good. Voltaire is your key guy. He runs our streets but behind the scenes. His information is impeccable. He’s expensive, but we work with him. Think of me for your white intelligence, Voltaire for the black stuff. Dark, dark black. If any shooting starts, duck. It won’t necessarily be you they’re trying to take out; it’ll be Voltaire. The Islamic fanatics would have killed Voltaire years ago if they were smart enough to figure out who he is and if they could shoot straight, two qualities that they have lacked historically, fortuitously for us.”

“So I hear.”

“That’s right,” he said. “You just took a few stitches in your arm. How’s that holding up?”

“The scab itches.”

“Most of them do,” he said. “By the way, you never mention my actual name, either, the one you see on my business card. In any conversation with Voltaire or anyone else on this operation, I’m Fitzgerald.”

“Fitzgerald?”

He nodded. “I’m an educated sort of swine,” he said. “My father was in this same line of work. And in my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice. He said always use a nom de guerre that you respect and that you’ll remember. That way you won’t get a bullet in your back some night.”

“Got it,” she said.

“Again, good. How do you like Egypt so far?”

“I just got here.”

“So? No opinion yet?”

“Well, you make it sound quite charming.”

“I live here. I know how it works.”

“I couldn’t believe the noise on the street,” she said.

“What noise?” he asked. “It’s a quiet place.”

“Very funny.”

“Ah, you get used to the brutal sound effects, and it’s the least of our problems,” Bissinger said. “People here shout to be heard and shrug because they say there is nothing they can do but join in. That’s the biggest city in Africa outside this embassy. In some areas, the density of people is ten times what it is in New York. People here honk, bang, scream, howl, or whatever they need to do to make it through the day or across the street. The noise is the cause as well as the reaction. Fire a gun and maybe no one will notice. If you don’t like it, shout back at them. If you’re here long enough, you’ll get used to it and you’ll shout at everyone. But there’s an upside: every other place in the world will sound quiet after you leave.”

“I’m also not wild about the part where I’m supposed to get killed,” she said, backtracking.

“What part was that?”

“What you just mentioned.”

“That’s good. I was afraid the part about the ugly overnight with the Russian would have you walking out of here.”

“When do I hear what the real game plan is?”

“When you meet Voltaire, but what I outlined above isn’t far off. So I’ll ask again, how do you like Egypt so far?”

“Want to help me form an opinion?”

“Sure.”

“Then give me a quick overview.”

“Fair enough. Current history begins with the Gulf War of 1991. Egyptian infantrymen were the first Arabs to land in Saudi Arabia to evict Iraqi forces from Kuwait. Know why? The US government paid Egypt half a million dollars per soldier that Egypt sent into the fight. This is all unofficial, of course. But the program worked. When the United States formed alliances to kick Iraq out of Kuwait, Egypt’s President Hosni Mubarak was the first to join. Because Egyptians were some of the first to move into Kuwait during the liberation, Egypt suffered more casualties than reported. But after the Persian Gulf War was a success, Mubarak’s reward was that the United States, the Gulf states, and Europe forgave Egypt around twenty-billion-dollars’ worth of debt. It turned the Egyptian economy around overnight.”

“And the average Egyptian doesn’t know this?”

“Of course not. There are rumors. Mutterings in cafés. But the government controls the press. Hell, the average American doesn’t know it, and we have a free press, so why would the average Egyptian?”

“Point,” she said.

“Corruption within the police departments and the Ministry of Interior is rampant here. Don’t trust anyone within the Egyptian government or any state agency. As a woman in the Arab world, you’ll not only get a hand under your skirt but you’ll get a knife in your back or worse. The state security agencies operate unchecked. They execute criminals without trials when they want to, and there are maybe about ten state prisons hidden out in the desert that exist off the record. Any individual police officer can violate any citizen’s privacy or rights. They can make unconditioned arrests whenever they want. You run into a police lieutenant or captain, it’s a sign of danger, not safety. So if you have to rely on anyone here, use one of us, never one of them.”

She listened with close attention.

“As for the president of the country,” he said, “Mubarak has been in power for almost three decades. He’s survived at least six known assassination attempts and maybe a couple dozen more that got nipped before a shot was fired. Islamic fundamentalists. They don’t like him for exactly the reasons we do like him. He cozies up to us and feels he can live with Israel, his public anti-Zionist yammering notwithstanding. Look at his history. He works both sides of the street. He went to their air force academy half a century ago and became a bomber pilot. Part of his flight training he received at the Soviet pilot school in Bishkek in Soviet Kyrgyzstan. In 1964 he was appointed head of the Egyptian Military Delegation to the USSR. So he started out his career as a Soviet guy. In 1972 he became commander of the air force and deputy minister of war. In October 1973, following the Yom Kippur War, he was promoted to the rank of air chief marshal. In April 1975 he was appointed vice president of Egypt, and following the assassination of Sadat by militants in 1981, Mubarak became the president. For half a dozen years he was a loyal guy for the Russians. Then the Soviet Union collapses, and it’s all roses and valentines between him and Washington. Suddenly he’s our guy. Do we object? Hell no. He might be a hooker, but he’s a hooker who knows how to keep us happy, and we can afford him.”

Bissinger leaned back in his chair.

“Want some hardware?” he asked. “I’d suggest you carry some.”

“Absolutely,” she said.

“Come along,” he said. “This is usually everyone’s favorite part of an embassy visit.”

They proceeded to a separate room down the hallway. In a well-fortified storage area, which he used his own pass to enter, he led her to a closet enclosed in steel, which had several shelves of metal boxes.

“Preferences?” he asked.

“Do you have a Baby Glock?” she asked.

“That nifty little German problem-solver?” he asked. “A Glock 27? Can’t go wrong with one of those.”

“That’s the one.”

“Excellent choice.”

“So? Do you have one?”

“No. No got. Never seen one here. A shame, really.”

“What do you have?” she asked.

“Here’s a hint,” he said. “The Egyptians do a lot of business with Italy.”

“Okay. I like the feel of a Beretta,” Alex said. “Something small and compact. There are a few Colt models that will do.”

“Good call,” he said.

He scanned the boxes, pulled one off a central shelf, unlocked it, and handed it to her. The box clicked open. There was a small pistol within, with a hip holster. She pulled it out and hefted it in her hand. It was an attractive new piece, a Beretta Px4 Storm Sub-Compact pistol.

“Easy to conceal. I’ve used one,” Bissinger said. “It has large frame firepower. This one packs 9mm, thirteen to a clip. Does that work for you?”

She admired it. “Looks like it should.”

“It’s a nice weapon for Egypt,” he said. “It’s corrosion resistant. So you can sweat like a sow all over it with no damage. Sign for it and return it when you leave the country. I don’t want to see it pop up on Egyptian eBay.”

She examined it thoroughly. It wasn’t loaded. She hefted it again in her hand. Slim and sleek, it would indeed pack and conceal well beneath a light jacket. Bissinger gave her two clips, two boxes of bullets, and a two-word benediction.

“Happy hunting,” he said.

She loaded the weapon and affixed the holster on her right hip.

“Is that it for now?”

“Not entirely,” he said. “I’ll walk you down to the lobby; there’s someone else I want you to meet.”

“Who would that be?” she asked.

“Amjad,” he answered. “Amjad is going to be one of the most important people during your assignment here. Come along.”

They took the elevator down to the main floor. When they emerged from it, Bissinger spoke again in lowered tones.

“The guy I want you to meet is our top Egyptian security person. By Egyptian, I mean he’s one of them, but he’s been in the embassy here for years.”

“He’s a local cop?”

“Yes. Rank of colonel. The police here have ranks similar to army ranks. Holdover from when the British ran the place. Anyway, Amjad is one of the top guys in the city dealing with the diplomatic community. You should know who he is.”

Alex was wary.

“I’ve been told they’re not that trustworthy, the local police,” she said.

“Ah, don’t believe everything you hear, unless it comes from me or Voltaire,” he said. “The Arabs are a mixed lot, I admit. But the ones you can trust are the most loyal, steadfast friends you’ll make this side of Valhalla. Then there’s the rest. Those will cut your throat.”

“So this is someone I can trust? Maybe?”

“Ha!” Bissinger said under his breath. “Not a bit. But, hey! There he is. Amjad!”

Not far away stood a thick man in a khaki Cairo police uniform. He was about six feet tall and when he turned, his face was tanned and grave with a moustache. He was a dour-looking big man with a sad expression and dead eyes set back in his head. With his puffy eyelids and sagging jowls, like an old poodle. But he also looked strong and wore a sidearm. He seemed like a man who knew how to get things done and was widely disliked for it.

Then, when he saw Bissinger and Alex, his face transformed. He smiled. “Why, Mr. Bissinger. Charmed,” he said with a slight bow. And indeed he seemed to be just that. Charmed.

Bissinger handled the introduction of Colonel Ahman Amjad to Josephine from Toronto.

“I have my car outside,” Colonel Amjad said. “I could drive you.”

“I really don’t mind walking,” Alex insisted.

“I insist,” the colonel said. “You must be tired.”

Alex was about to refuse again, but her feet were killing her and the jetlag was catching up. Then there was the din and grittiness of the walk over, the catcalls from men in trucks and taxis. She thought better of it.

“All right,” she said.

The colonel gave her a bow. “I’m honored,” he said.

He led her to his vehicle, an unmarked police car. He held the door to the backseat open and she climbed in. He came around, slid in, and started the car. The ignition sputtered and resisted slightly, and for one horrible stretch of seconds, Alex wondered if that was how Carlos’s car sounded before it turned into a flaming execution chamber.

The car failed to start. She was ready to bolt.

Then Colonel Amjad turned the ignition a second time. The engine kicked in. He pulled out of the secured embassy parking and into traffic on the motorway along the river. Traffic was moving faster than a crawl now, a propitious sign.

“You are American? From where?” he asked, glancing into his rearview mirror as they drove.

“Canadian, actually.”

“Ah! Canada!”

“You’ve been there?” she asked.

“I’ve been to America and I’ve been to Canada,” he said proudly. “I have one brother in Vancouver and a half-brother in New York.”

“That’s very nice,” she said. She couldn’t get a range on him. Was he snooping or being sincere?

“Maybe next year I go and visit again,” he said. “I don’t know.”

He hit some traffic and started to work his horn, not that anyone paid any attention. Another driver started to give him a threatening gesture but backed off immediately when he noticed the police uniform.

“Well, I’m sure you’d enjoy your trip,” she said. “I hope you’re able to visit.”

He shrugged while driving. Then, seeing an opportunity, he switched on a small blue flashing light on his dashboard. Traffic ahead of him gave way and Colonel Amjad edged through it like a weasel.

“There is a phrase in Arabic,” he said. He then gave it in Arabic. Alex didn’t understand. Arabic was still beyond her dossier. “The phrase says, ‘Let every man eat bread,’ ” Amjad said. “We are also so busy here. Police. One thing stops and another starts. Very hard for me to travel and get away.”

“I understand,” Alex said, who wasn’t sure if she did.

He found the exit from the motorway, and they were back at the hotel within a few minutes. After her initial reservations, Alex was satisfied with the trip, and with Colonel Amjad. A chauffer was a great thing, a police escort something even greater.

Colonel Amjad pulled into the semicircle in front of the hotel. The doormen knew enough to stay away until the proper moment. The colonel turned around from the front seat.

“May I give you some advice?” he asked. “For your personal safety? About Cairo.”

“Please do,” she said.

“When walking on the street, walk as far away from the cars and motor scooters as you can,” he said. “Bad people, they pull up right next to you, grab your purse, and drive away. Or, with a single Western woman, they force you into the car. Stay close to the buildings. Don’t give money to beggars. Some of them will stalk you and send their family members to follow you home and harass you for more money.”

“Simple urban precaution,” she said. “Thank you.”

He nodded politely. “Yes, you could say,” he said. “And maybe,” he said, giving a nod to her head, “if I am not being presumptuous, you might purchase a headscarf or two. It will help you fit in. Even in Western business clothes, for a woman the hijab is a good idea.”

She thought about it. “Good advice, Colonel,” she said.

“Are you really Canadian or are you American working undercover with the embassy?” he asked.

She laughed. “Got to admit it!” she said, not missing a beat. “I’m a spy!”

“You are?”

She laughed again and shook her head. “You flatter me, Colonel. I’m a visiting scholar and a personal friend of Mr. Bissinger at the embassy. Everything I know about spies I saw in James Bond movies.”

“You are very pretty. You could be a Bond girl.”

“That would pay better than what I do as a teacher, Colonel. You flatter me again.”

“So be it,” he said. “It is my pleasure to be at your disposal while you are here.”

She gave him a final smile.

“If at any time you feel there is a threat or a danger, please call me. I insist. Here,” he said. He wrote out his cell phone number and handed it to her. “I oversee security for the Americans, Canadians, and British. I am often at the big hotels.”

She thanked him again. “And I’ll get myself some scarves.”

Then she was out of the car. He pulled out of the driveway and back into the endless Cairo traffic. From the corner of her eyes, she watched the car disappear.

“What a creep!” she thought to herself.