The Cairo Affair

4

As she had done in Budapest, she was going to walk. She’d come here urged by an overwhelming sense of guilt, hoping to find anyone—Zora or Stan or Jibril—who could assure her that she was not responsible for Emmett’s murder. No one was able to assure her of anything. Instead, everything was ballooning out of control. She had entered the realm of coups d’état, of deceit, of murder, of the desert. She wondered where Jibril really was now, maybe living some thrilling and terrifying existence among desperate men fighting for their lives, while back in Alexandria—the Virginian Alexandria—his pregnant wife worried herself sick about him.

That image, as much as anything else, convinced her that she was making the right decision. Emmett had gotten caught up in boys’ games. She had, too, for more than a year, but she’d survived her childish phase and come out the other side. It was time to go home.

She set the alarm on her phone for seven and showered and climbed into bed wearing her last pair of clean underwear. By nine thirty, she would be on the plane. Then she would be in Boston. She turned off the light and closed her eyes. And saw:

A leg kick-kicking in the dirt.

Jackbooted soldiers throwing babies into the air.

Her own voice: It’s mercy. He’ll starve.

A man screaming behind a filthy gag.

The banging that woke her brought immediate terror, for the dream had followed her into the blackness of the hotel room, and the banging on her door had the ring of a boot heel kicking against one of those heavy Yugoslav front doors.

A familiar voice: “Mrs. Kohl? Mrs. Kohl, I must speak to you.”

She clawed at the darkness until she found the switch for the bedside lamp. She gasped for breath, assuring herself that she was the only person in the room.

Thump, thump, thump. “Mrs. Kohl?”

It was Omar Halawi—she would know that hesitant accent anywhere. “A minute,” she said, then wrapped herself in a hotel robe. He ceased his banging, and in the spy hole she saw him, fisheyed, standing rigid, hands behind his back. She opened the door, forgetting the latch, and read the surprise in his face before understanding the reason. Why was he surprised? It was two in the morning—he was lucky she wasn’t naked.

He said, “Mrs. Kohl—”

“Wait,” she cut in, raising a hand. “You don’t have to worry, okay? I’m out of here in the morning. I’ve had enough.”

He opened his mouth, hesitated, then said, “I fear that may not be possible.”

“And why not?”

Again, an open mouth, and she saw that he was missing at least two molars on one side. He lowered his voice, glancing up the empty corridor. “The man who spoke with you.” He shook his head, voice now a whisper: “Do not trust him.”

Christ, it was starting up again. She just wanted to get out of here. “He’s FBI.”

“No, he is not FBI. And his name is not Michael Khalil.”

While Kiraly had told her this with that unsure deference that made her so comfortable, Halawi had said it with such stern conviction that her heart caught in her throat. “Then what is he?”

“He works for my superior, Mrs. Kohl. He is not FBI.”

She stepped back, repulsed as much by the man as by his information. She, too, was whispering now: “It doesn’t matter. I promised him I would meet him, but I’m leaving in the morning. I’ll never see him again.”

“You are on Egypt Air 777, leaving at nine thirty. Yes?”

She swallowed. “Yes.”

“If I know this, then Mr. Khalil does as well. So, too, does my superior.” He gave her a moment to comprehend that simple logical sequence. “Please, you must come with me.”

She took another step back, and he stepped to the doorframe but did not enter.

He said, “I do not think he will let you leave.”

“Of course he’ll let me leave. I’m nobody.”

“It’s not who you are, Mrs. Kohl. It’s what you know.”

“But I don’t know anything!”

He held up both hands to calm her, then glanced up the corridor again. He whispered, “I was wrong. Jibril was wrong. All of us were wrong.”

“About what?”

“About everything. This is not about Stumbler. It’s about …” He faded out a moment, frowning, as if unsure of the word. “It’s about betrayal.”

Betrayal. Finally, something Sophie Kohl understood. She said, “Tell me about betrayal.”

He took a breath through his nose, and she heard the clotted sound of a cold coming on. He didn’t look all that well, either. He sighed. “It would be a breach of security to share with you at this point.”

“It would be a betrayal.”

“Exactly.”

“Wouldn’t it be a betrayal to hide me from your superior?”

“Maybe not,” he said, as if that explained anything at all. “Please,” he said. “Gather your things. I can keep you safe.”

She didn’t want to go, but in less than five minutes she had dressed as he waited in the corridor. She lugged her bag, trying to keep up with him. They did not take the elevator, instead using the stairwell to reach the rear of the ground floor. Before they stepped out, he said, “Don’t go into the lobby. There’s someone who will recognize us both.”

“One of your people?”

“One of Stanley Bertolli’s men,” he said.

“Stan’s not going to hurt me,” she told him.

Lips tight, he shook his head. “I am more worried about who’s watching Mr. Bertolli’s man.” Then he opened the door.

She let him lead her back through glass doors and across the courtyard with its pool and garden, then they reentered the building and squeezed around a soiled room-service cart to reach a service elevator. Silently, they took it down into the guts of the building, the doors opening onto an underground parking lot. A car was waiting, behind the wheel a young, tough-looking Egyptian with thick eyebrows. She caught the name Sayyid as they got into the back and Halawi ordered the driver to go. He drove quickly past rows of cars and up ramps until he flashed a badge at an old lot attendant and they finally pulled out into light traffic. While she was initially able to tell their direction—north and then west across Qasr Al Nile Bridge, all the way across the southern tip of Gezira Island and then into Dokki—she was soon lost in Cairo’s tangle. That was when it occurred to her that she didn’t really know these men at all. All she had was the word of a woman she’d never actually met. They could be kidnappers. They could be al Qaeda. They could be CIA.

As they were entering Dokki, she said, “What is it your boss thinks I know?”

Halawi hesitated only briefly. “The identity of your husband’s murderer. Or, the person who ordered the murder.”

She sat up. “You know?”

“Not yet.”

“Do you think he did it? Your superior?”

“I cannot say for sure.”

“You don’t know much, do you?”

He didn’t bother answering that.

“How long are you hiding me?”

He considered the question. “Maybe until this evening. Maybe Tuesday. No later than Tuesday, I think.” He was turning, looking out the rear windshield as they wove through traffic. “I am taking you to my home. I would like you to stay inside until this has been settled. My wife will take care of you.”

“Wife?” she said, surprised, for she had assumed he was a bachelor.

Omar Halawi’s home turned out to be a fifth-floor walkup on a narrow, treeless street. Graffiti marred one of the buildings. The three of them went up together, both men opening doors for her along the way. When they reached his apartment, Halawi knocked, and after a moment a woman in her sixties opened the door. She was pleasantly plump, black hair shot through with gray, and she had a wide mouth that formed a warm smile. “Salaam,” she said, nodding at Sophie.

“Salaam,” Sophie answered.

Halawi whispered, “She speaks no English.”

It was a small apartment, smaller than she would have expected from a member of the Egyptian secret police—for that, she had gleaned from his insider knowledge and the way he had at least one young tough at his beck and call, was what he probably was. His home was claustrophobic the way old people’s homes always seemed to be, stuffed with trinkets of a long life, things without function or, in many cases, much aesthetic beauty. They seemed to serve only as reminders that the resident had once lived life rather than just watch it go by.

The wife’s name was Fouada, Halawi told her, and she brewed tea nervously while Halawi and Sayyid stepped outside for a talk. Sophie, feeling exhaustion returning all at once, said, “Fouada?”

The old woman turned to her, hesitant.

“Sleep?” Sophie said, placing two praying hands against the side of her tilted face. The rush of understanding seemed to give Fouada great pleasure, and she quickly ushered Sophie back to a guest bedroom that smelled of lavender. There were fresh folded towels on the dresser, and she was given a tour of the spotless bathroom. “Thank you,” she told the woman. “Shukran.”

Fouada smiled, clapping her hands together, saying, “Afwan,” and then more words that breezed by. Still fully clothed, Sophie lay on the hard bed and closed her eyes. A brief rest before undressing, she thought, then wondered what Emmett would say if he could see her now. Would he be surprised? Might he even be impressed? She was soon asleep.