The Cairo Affair

5

On Sunday morning Stan made his desire obvious, and after one more bout of sex a fresh wave of guilt threatened to drown her: Emmett was being buried in mere hours. It wasn’t the burial itself, but the fact that the sex had given her a flash of amnesia. Once she got Stan out of the apartment, she rushed to shower his smell off of her skin.

She would go, she had decided during that long sleepless night. As quietly as she’d arrived in Cairo she would turn around and fly out again, complete her journey to Boston, and while she would miss the funeral she could at least don black and try to reclaim some of the relationships that had once made Sophie Kohl that most refreshing of words: normal.

Though many arguments could have swayed her, it was Stan who had inadvertently convinced her. In bed she’d felt the full and overbearing weight of his passion, and she could read his mind in the movement of his hands, the thrust of his hips, the flick of his tongue. What he saw in their future was precisely that: an act of lovemaking—lovemaking, not sex—repeated and repeated until it became common law. Until Stan became the new Emmett.

Did this thought disgust her? No, but what Stan would never understand was that nothing about their relationship had ever been clean and never would be. When he’d first made his feelings clear at the embassy Halloween party, she’d duly reported this to Zora. I have a feeling that if I let him, he would eat me whole.

Then let him was her answer. Live a little.

That’s not me, Zora.

Take a look at yourself, draga. Who is this me you speak of? Did you ever read Jean Genet?

Sophie hadn’t.

You should. He said, “Anyone who hasn’t experienced the ecstasy of betrayal knows nothing about ecstasy at all.”

Sophie didn’t know what to make of this.

And you know, don’t you, that if any suspicions arise in the embassy, you will need allies. Lay the groundwork now.

Had she only slept with him to protect herself? No, not really. She had always been attracted to Stan, but once the affair began she had never been able to find the point where attraction ended and self-preservation began, for when the guilt overcame her in that Dokki hotel she would steel herself with Zora’s words: She was laying the groundwork for her future security.

Certainly their relationship had grown beyond the confines of an insurance policy, but she knew how it had begun, and nothing would ever change that.

She found an Egypt Air flight leaving at nine thirty the next morning with a stop in London, and placed a reservation with her credit card, knowing that anyone would be able to trace her this way, but trying not to worry too much. Soon enough, she would leave all this behind.

She poured another coffee and stood at the kitchen counter, staring at Stan’s old cell phone, thinking. She dug out that cheap business card, then used Stan’s phone to dial. Only two rings, then: “Kiraly Andras.”

“Mr. Kiraly, it’s me.”

“Aha. I was expecting your call.” He sounded genuinely pleased to hear from her, some of the reservation gone from his voice. “I found something of interest.”

“What?”

“His wife’s phone number.”

“His … whose?”

“Mr. Jibril Aziz.”

She frowned, wondering suddenly if Andras Kiraly was playing a game—that might explain his change in mood. “But he’s not married.”

“I believe our information is up-to-date. She is also with child. Seven months, it says.”

Stan had told her that Aziz had no family; Kiraly was saying something else. “Please,” she said, “may I have that number?”

“Mrs. Kohl,” he said, his tone changing, dropping a half octave, “I am willing to give you this, but I think you will appreciate that our relationship needs to progress. I have been free with what information I have access to. I would appreciate some reciprocation.”

“Of course, Mr. Kiraly. I understand. The number, please.”

She scribbled it on a slip of paper, her hand trembling as the realization grew inside of her: Stan had been lying. Maybe about everything.

“A question,” said Kiraly. “Do you know the name Michael Khalil?”

“No,” she said, nearly a whisper, still stunned by how alone she was. “Should I know him?”

“Not necessarily. He claims to be an American FBI agent.”

“Claims?”

“We have our doubts. He had a conversation with Emmett on the day he was murdered. An unofficial meeting on the street. Liszt Ferenc Square.”

“I see,” she whispered, though she didn’t really see. All she could see was the phone number in front of her. Could this number give her all the answers she desired?

He said, “They were discussing something called Stumbler.”

She jolted out of her trance. “Stumbler? They were talking about Stumbler?”

“You know of this?”

“Take a look at WikiLeaks,” she said. “It’s an American plan for … for regime change. In Libya. Jibril Aziz dreamed it up. I think it’s why he met with Emmett.”

“Anything else?”

“It’s difficult, Mr. Kiraly. People here are not as helpful as I thought they would be.”

“I understand,” he said, then: “What if I send someone? I could have one of our people help you navigate the city.”

“No, thank you,” she said, because for the moment she had what she wanted: a phone number. With that, she might find an explanation for Emmett’s murder, or a hint. Maybe she would even learn that she had not been responsible for … for I here for you. Then she could leave in the morning with a clearer conscience, if only a little. “Really,” she said. “I’ll call you as soon as I know more.”

“Best of luck, Mrs. Kohl. And are we to remain silent about your location?”

“If you would be so kind, Mr. Kiraly.”

At twelve, she made the call, but had to hang up because Stan’s cell phone was out of credits, depleted by her call to Hungary. Or maybe it was just a gentle nudge from God, suggesting she take a moment to think about this.

God? What was she thinking?

She went to the kitchen and picked up Stan’s landline and dialed.