The Cairo Affair

3

After the Semiramis, he called Busiri and drove over to his opulent villa in Maadi, an upscale neighborhood full of embassies and foreigners and affluent Egyptians. Quiet, unlike Omar’s place in the twisting cacophony of Giza. It was nearly ten when he parked outside the gate. He didn’t get out. Five minutes passed; then Busiri stepped out the front door and crossed the dry lawn, wearing the same suit he’d worn to the office that day, but no tie. He opened the passenger door and got inside. “It’s late, Omar,” he said with a hint of impatience.

In great detail, Omar told him of Jibril’s plans.

“So he really does believe America is doing this?”

“He does, but Emmett Kohl doesn’t.”

“What does Kohl believe?”

“The opposite. He thinks someone is shutting it down.”

“CIA?”

“The Libyans. If so, then the question is: Who told the Libyans?”

Busiri frowned, considering this. “You say the embassy has given him a guide?”

“I don’t know who, but I can have Mahmoud keep an eye on him.”

“No,” Busiri said, shaking his head. “We’ll need Mahmoud for other things. Sayyid, too. This is going to be another busy week. It doesn’t matter who’s taking Aziz in—it just matters that he’s going in.”

“You’re not going to pursue this?” Omar asked.

“I’ll go upstairs and talk with our masters. But I don’t think they’ll believe it. Other than a few public statements about the will of the people, the Americans resisted the temptation to meddle here.”

“Mubarak was their friend. Gadhafi isn’t.”

“Friends?” Busiri asked with a wry smile. “In international diplomacy?”

“Well, someone who gave them what they wanted more often than he didn’t.”

Busiri rocked his head, as if this were a marginally better description. “Well, we’ll see what our masters think.” He patted Omar’s knee. “I appreciate this.”

“It’s my job,” Omar pointed out.

Busiri sniffed. “Maybe, but you needn’t have been such an excellent co-worker. After all, you did expect to be sitting at my desk when Abdel retired.”

The subject had never come up between them. “Decisions were made. I’m not complaining.”

“It’s a thankless job, you know. The pay is atrocious, and those friends you see filing in and out of my office? Wolves, every one.”

Omar nodded at the walls surrounding Busiri’s villa. “The pay seems to be sufficient.”

“Marry rich,” he advised, smiling. As he opened the door he added a quick “Salaam” and left.

Despite Busiri’s conviction that this wasn’t important, on Thursday Omar left home before sunrise and parked behind a taxi outside the Semiramis Hotel, waiting in the dark. Just after the 4:00 A.M. Fajr prayers, Jibril emerged from the lobby and climbed into an old Peugeot. The driver, a large black man, chilled his blood. If the Americans wanted to kill Jibril, then a man that size would be an ideal vessel. As he drove behind them, he called and left a message with the office that he would be out sick.

Since he knew their destination, there was no need to remain in sight of the Peugeot, so he lagged far behind, only occasionally speeding up to be sure he hadn’t lost them along the desert road leading to El Alamein on the coast. Halfway to the border, Ali Busiri called to check on his condition, and he forced a nasal sound into his voice as he complained of sinus troubles. “It sounds like you’re in a car, Omar.”

“I’m on my way to the doctor’s.”

When, at around ten, the Peugeot turned off at Marsa Matrouh, he had a moment’s panic. This was where they were going to get rid of Jibril. But a glance at his own fuel gauge showed him the truth, and after the Peugeot refueled he did the same thing himself.

They stopped in the city center, and he was surprised to see the men split up. Jibril headed to a small, ramshackle café, his phone to his ear, while the black man took off in the opposite direction and began to window shop among hawkers gesturing at open crates, walking in the direction of the white sand beach. What was going on?

Soon, Jibril was joined by a man in a red-checked ghutra, and they began to talk. While Omar didn’t know the man, he suspected this was another of Jibril’s Libyans, perhaps a splinter from his core network, who could add to Jibril’s knowledge. The meeting was brief, and then Jibril and the black man were driving again.

He considered following them across the border, but he’d reached the limits of his authority and responsibility. He’d made sure Jibril made it through Egyptian territory unscathed, and now it was time to return home.

He didn’t reach Cairo until after nine that night, and by then, with the little sleep he’d had the previous night, he really did feel sick. He was too old for road trips, and perhaps too old for intrigues, and his body was finally starting to protest. Fouada asked where he’d been. When he gave her a tired shrug, she raised her voice to a shrill pitch. Fear was taking its toll on her as well, and he was the only person she could take it out on. In the midst of her tirade, she said, “What could I tell Ali? A woman who doesn’t know where her husband is is no wife. He knows that as well as anyone.”

He raised his hands. “Busiri?”

“Of course. He called here to check on you.”

Why hadn’t he called Omar’s cell phone?

Because, Omar realized with despair, he hadn’t believed his feigned sickness. In the morning, Omar would have to mend that bridge. Then he heard something on the television. He left Fouada standing in the kitchen as he wandered into the living room, and that was when he learned of Emmett Kohl’s murder the previous night.

Again, that chill went through him. If they were willing to kill their own diplomats, then what was Jibril to them? Nothing. Get him into the lawless deserts of Libya and leave the body to be swallowed by the sands. He went for his cell phone and called Busiri.

“Omar,” Busiri said. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired, Ali. What’s this about Emmett Kohl?”

“It seems he was killed.”

“What leads?”

“They’re pinning it on an Albanian. Gjergj Ahmeti.”

Omar didn’t know the name, but Busiri’s quick description of Ahmeti fleshed out a simple enough picture. He was the kind of man the Agency might hire if it wanted to remain at arm’s length from a murder. He was the kind of man any government would be happy to use. “I’m told the American embassy is working furiously on it,” Busiri told him.

“Or pretending to.”

“No, I think it’s in earnest. I called Harry Wolcott to give condolences. He’s a mess. He’s hoping Stanley Bertolli can come up with something. Did you know of Bertolli’s relationship with Mrs. Kohl?”

“Zora told me.”

“We should watch him,” Busiri said. “Information has a way of collecting like dust mites, and it would be preferable if he didn’t learn that Mrs. Kohl was ours.”

“I understand.”

“In fact,” Busiri went on, “we might want to help him out. Perhaps you’d like to warn him that he needs to be looking over his shoulder.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Omar admitted.

After a pause, Busiri said, “Did he make it over the border all right?”

“What?”

“Jibril Aziz. You were waiting outside his hotel.”

There was no point arguing with the facts, so he simply said, “You had me watched?”

“You thought I wouldn’t verify your information?”

“He made it all right.”

“Glad to hear it,” Busiri said. “Maybe next time you’ll tell me this without me having to ask.”

“Apologies, Ali.”

Before heading into the office in the morning, Omar sent a coded message to Paul Johnson, who had become his embassy contact after Amir Najafi’s death in November. They met in a Zamalek café not far from Paul’s apartment, the young, bleary-eyed American clutching desperately at his coffee. “You are looking in the wrong direction,” he told Paul.

“What?” Paul turned to look behind himself. “Where?”

“I am talking about the murder of Emmett Kohl. Tell Stanley Bertolli that you need to look at yourselves.”

Paul frowned, slowly absorbing his words. He leaned close, a high whisper. “What does that mean? Are you saying someone in the embassy killed him?”

Omar shook his head. “I don’t know. I am talking about your agency. Here, or back in America—I don’t know.”

“But … but why?”

“To keep Emmett quiet.”

“Quiet about what?”

He considered telling the young man the whole story. Stumbler, Jibril Aziz, the co-opting of the civil war raging next door … but, no. Stanley Bertolli would be sharp enough to ask the logical next question: How did the Egyptians know about Stumbler? Then the connections leading back to Sophie Kohl would be child’s play.

“Just tell him,” Omar said. “Tell Stanley Bertolli to be careful.” Then he got up and walked out, leaving the puzzled American to his steaming cup.