The Cairo Affair

5

On Saturday he resolved to stay out of it. He took Fouada to El Kebabgy for lunch, on the southern tip of Gezira Island, and from the rooftop terrace of the Sofitel they could see the filthy Nile flowing past and hear the noise of a demonstration in the direction of Tahrir. Feeling reflective, he told her about how naive they’d been—everyone in the security forces—before January 25. “This group of kids, they were on Facebook, calling people out to demonstrate. A joke, of course, having their demonstration on Police Day.”

“Not a joke,” Fouada said quietly. “A point.”

He nodded, conceding this. “In the office, the other men laughed about it. ‘They think they’re going to pull another Tunis,’ they said. So narrow-minded. These kids had been posting videos online of police torturing people with broom handles, evil things. The protesters had even been trained in peaceful resistance by Serbs—Otpor, the student group that took down Slobodan Milošević. Peaceful resistance?” He shook his head. “You can imagine what kind of jokes those boneheads in the office came up with. They understood it finally, shutting off the cell phones and Internet, but it was too late. The kids had modeled their flag on Otpor’s—a fist. Peaceful resistance turned out to be tougher than anyone thought.”

Fouada let him speak for a while, though he knew it wasn’t the kind of conversation she’d been hoping for, and afterward they drove back to Giza, away from the demonstrations. At home, he avoided the news by fielding calls from a cousin in Port Said who wanted to worry with someone about his daughter’s upcoming wedding. His plan went well until four in the afternoon, when Fouada began dressing to go out. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“Not we. Me,” she said. “Don’t you remember?”

He didn’t.

“Junah’s having her birthday party tonight. I promised I’d go. And I told you it was only women—not that I thought you’d want to come.”

He smiled, saying, “Of course I remember,” but not remembering at all. With everything else, this was just one more thing that had slipped his mind. Maybe, he mused, he should spend the evening planning his retirement.

Yet after calling her a taxi, walking her downstairs, and then coming back up to sit in the silent living room, his mind returned inevitably to Stumbler, to Jibril, and to John Calhoun and Rashid el-Sawy. Then he remembered the plan. Stage 2: Half the exiles collect in Marsa Matrouh. There was more to it, more detail—a building in the neighborhood around the old soccer field. He couldn’t remember the address.

He drove back to the office and suffered through another body check before heading up to the empty seventh floor. He found the Stumbler file still locked in his desk and went through the pages until he had the Marsa Matrouh location: the corner of Tanta Street and Al Hekma.

That night, he told Fouada his plans, and she looked troubled. She didn’t understand why he had to leave at four o’clock the next morning to drive to Marsa Matrouh. “I thought we could visit friends,” she said. “A Sunday out. Today you seemed so … so social.”

“You visit,” he said, kissing her. “But I’ll be gone all day. You’ll be safe?”

“In that case,” she said, some of the old fear creeping into her face, “I’ll stay in.”

They had been married more than thirty years now, and while she suffered bouts of a fear that could shake the foundations of their relationship, he had long ago learned to respect this woman. Love, also, but love was too sandy a foundation to build a life on. He didn’t like the idea of her sitting fearfully all day in this living room. “Would you like to come?”

She was shocked. “What?”

“It’ll be long and uncomfortable, but maybe it’ll be more interesting than that television.”

This was, it turned out, an inspired suggestion. Fouada helped pry him out of bed in those predawn hours and get breakfast into his stomach. On the road, her conversation kept him pleasantly distracted from the things he would otherwise have glowered over—his aching back, for example, and the feeling that he was far, far too old to be driving a car six hours in one direction. She was so thrilled by their unexpected trip together that she never thought to complain about the discomfort, becoming instead an ideal travel companion, and the six-hour trip felt more like three—or, say, four. Not once did she ask why they were driving to a distant port town—she was just happy to have been brought along. He would have to do this more often.

By ten thirty, though, when they pulled into Marsa Matrouh, they were both flagging. Omar parked on Al Hekma, just off of the main road, around the corner from the dilapidated café where Jibril had met his contact. As they got out, a fresh burst of salty Mediterranean air enveloping them, it occurred to him that the café was only five or six blocks from the intersection of Al Hekma and Tanta. Jibril’s contact had come from that address. So he took Fouada to the sidewalk café, where they ordered tea and sandwiches, and then he said, “I’m going to have to step away. A half hour, no longer. Will you be all right?”

She smiled, patting his hand. “I’ve always been all right, Omar.”

He kissed the knuckles of her hand and left, the sun beating down on him the whole way. He’d forgotten to bring a hat.

Though the Stumbler plans didn’t list a house number, it didn’t take him long to figure out the building he was looking for. It was two doors west of the intersection, the only one that could be used to lodge a large number of fighters. An old, unassuming building, concrete, two stories high. With half its high windows boarded up, it appeared to be abandoned. The front door, though, was clean, as were the front steps, and he heard a radio playing classical music—something by Hasan Rashid, he thought. He pressed the buzzer and waited. A minute later, the door opened, and he immediately recognized the man who had worn a red-checked ghutra when he met with Jibril. Now his head was uncovered, and his graying hair shot out at all angles. He was skinny—not frail, but wiry—with suncured skin. Omar introduced himself, then stated his employer, flashing an ID card. He was friendly about it, but maintained an air of command as he asked the man’s name—“Qasim”—and then asked if they could speak inside, out of the heat. Hesitant, Qasim let him inside.

The building was in the early stages of destruction. While a door to the right led to a functioning apartment, from which the music drifted, as he looked toward the back of the building he saw that walls had been smashed out, creating a rough cavernous space. “Redecorating?” Omar asked.

Qasim laughed nervously. “I just live in the apartment. I don’t know what they’re doing with the rest of it.”

“But it’s a big space,” Omar pointed out.

“Yes, it is.”

“Big enough for a hundred men. Big enough, too, for their weapons.”

Silence. He turned to see Qasim’s mouth clamp shut, eyes big.

“Come,” Omar said to him, touching his shoulder. “Let’s sit down.”

They went into the small, dirty apartment and settled on chairs coated in concrete dust. The man was shaking. Omar walked over to the old transistor radio and switched it off. He said, “Where are they?”

Qasim shook his head, almost frantic.

“Where,” Omar said, “are Yousef al-Juwali, Waled Belhadj, Abdel Jalil, Mohammed el-Keib, and Abdurrahim Zargoun?”

The man’s mouth was hanging open, his head swiveling back and forth, but slowly now, a quiet no.

“If they’re not here,” Omar said, “then where would they be? Was the collection point changed?”

“No,” Qasim finally got out, a whisper. “It wasn’t changed. But I’ve seen no one.”

“What did Jibril talk to you about?”

The man blinked, confused.

“The man you met in that café down the street. Three days ago. Thursday.”

“Haddad,” the man said. “Akram Haddad. He asked the same thing. He asked where they were. I said I didn’t know. No one’s spoken to me for years. I’ve heard nothing.”

Omar nodded, accepting this. The poor man was terrified. He got up, ready to leave, then noticed an old electric clock on the wall. “Is that time right?”

Qasim looked at it. “Yes.”

“Would you like to pray together?”

The man blinked rapidly, then shrugged. “Okay,” he said and went to find a large mat he kept rolled up beside the refrigerator. It had been a long time since Omar had prayed, but he thought he could remember it well enough.

Later, once he’d returned to Fouada and they were drinking tea under an umbrella, he puzzled over Qasim’s story. If Stumbler was in motion, then why hadn’t the exiles arrived? Had they switched the entry point to Tunisia? That made no sense, for the Egyptian side of Libya was almost entirely in rebel hands.

Fouada smiled at him. “Did you ever think of retiring here?”

He blinked, suddenly ripped from his thoughts. “Retire?” Though he’d thought of retiring last night, it had been a passing idea. What did a man do when he retired?

“You can swim here,” she told him. “The water’s clean, nothing like the Nile.”

He opened his mouth, unsure what to say, and was surprised by his own words: “I just prayed with a man I’ve never met before.”

His wife’s face creased; she was struck as much by the non sequitur as by the act he had admitted to. “I’m happy to hear it. You should pray more often.”

“I think you’re right.”

“What’s changed?”

He frowned, considering this. “What hasn’t changed?”

She smiled at that wisdom; then they were both startled by the ringing of his phone. He looked at the number—he didn’t know it, but he did recognize the country code. Who would be calling from America? Unsure, he answered it, watching Fouada turn to gaze up the quaint, sun-cracked street, imagining a new life in Marsa Matrouh.

A woman’s voice: “Omar Halawi?”

“Yes.”

She continued in English: “My name is Inaya Aziz. We’ve never met, but you know my husband, Jibril.”

As he listened with trembling hands to this woman’s story, he gradually felt that he was being cornered by wives. Fouada was in front of him, asking him to change his entire life, and in his ear the wife of Jibril Aziz was asking if he had any news of Jibril’s health. Omar gave Fouada an apologetic smile, then rose, bringing the phone with him to the edge of the street, where the sun caught him again as old cars rattled by, spewing smoke.

He told Inaya Aziz that, as of Thursday, Jibril was in excellent health. “Then why hasn’t he called?” she asked, and he tried to reassure her. He doubted his success, but she let it go and asked if he would please help a friend of hers named Sophie Kohl, whose husband had recently been killed. “I believe her, Mr. Halawi. She needs the help of people who care about Jibril. From what he’s told me, I believe you care for Jibril.”

“This is true, Mrs. Aziz, but I’m not sure you understand my position here. There’s not much I can do. Not much I’m allowed to do.”

“Talk to her. Just talk to her. How would you feel if your wife was killed in a restaurant, and no one would give you any answers?”

As she said those words, he swiveled to get a look at Fouada at their table, smiling at him. He gave her a little wave.

“Listen, Mr. Halawi. It’s up to you. I’ve already given her your number, and she’s going to call soon. You can answer it or not. As a favor to Jibril, and to me, I ask that you help her.”

She hung up on him, and he stared a moment at the dead phone, then returned to his chair. Fouada stared questioningly at him. She looked so curious that he couldn’t help himself. He said, “I just had the strangest conversation.”

“Really? Who was it? That bastard Busiri?”

He waved that away—she’d never forgiven Ali for taking the job that had rightfully been her husband’s. “It was Jibril Aziz’s wife, Inaya.”

Her face brightened. “Inaya! I’ve dreamed of that girl! How does she sound? Very clever? I’ll bet—it’s Jibril’s woman, after all.”

“She sounds very intelligent. She—”

He stopped as, on the table, his phone began to ring again. It was a Cairo number.

“Is that her calling back?”

He just stared at the phone.

“Well, if you’re not going to answer it I will.”

She reached out a hand, and he snapped up the phone. On the fifth ring, he answered it.