The Cairo Affair

9

Very early on Tuesday morning, Sophie woke in the wicker chair on Omar Halawi’s terrace, covered in a blanket, as Fouada shook her gently awake. The woman said something melodic yet urgent with the word “Omar” somewhere in it. It was dark and cold. Sophie blinked, straightened in the chair, and wiped at her eyes. She ached. Fouada left without another word, so she followed. In the living room, Sayyid was buttoning up a thin leather jacket, and Omar was clutching a cup of Fouada’s ubiquitous tea, watching Sophie come in.

“Are you rested?” he asked.

She nodded, running a hand through her hair.

“You told me,” he went on, his voice low and even, “that you wanted to face the man who ordered your husband killed. Is that still true?”

Again, she nodded.

“Okay,” he said, then went to give his wife a kiss. As they whispered to each other, Sayyid took a woman’s long coat from the back of a chair and held it open for Sophie. It was apparently Fouada’s, for it, like the dress she still wore, was too big. Sayyid kissed Fouada’s cheeks while Omar opened the front door. “We can go now.”

She followed the two men down to their car, Sayyid again taking the role of chauffeur. They drove for a while through the empty, predawn city, crossing the Nile and heading south through squares that she thought she recognized, but wasn’t sure of because in the hours before morning they were so empty and dead. She’d never traveled through Cairo this early, and it felt like a parallel city that she’d never gotten to know.

Eventually, the buildings thinned and disappeared. Black desert spread out to their left, and occasionally between smaller buildings on their right she caught glimpses of water. They were following the Nile south. After a turn-off a sign told them they were heading toward 15th of May City. She’d never been out here, and she wished briefly that Stan was beside her to explain everything. Where was he? Had he given up hope of finding her? Maybe, but once she was back home she would call him and they could have a more honest conversation. How honest? That was still to be decided.

Eventually, they took a left turn and headed along unlit, sandy streets, turning again and again until the road had become rough gravel, winding through dunes. Up ahead, she saw a pinpoint of light that grew in definition. It was a lamp under a large tent with a roof but no walls, only poles, nestled between two dunes. They parked beside another car, a scratched BMW; Sayyid got out and used his telephone. Omar turned to her and said, “We have him there.”

When she squinted she could make out two shapes under the tarp. The large silhouette of a man pacing, a hand to his ear, talking on a phone, maybe to Sayyid. The other silhouette was a man in a chair, his head moving as he talked and talked, unlistened to. Was it Michael Khalil? She couldn’t tell.

“Did he tell you everything?” she asked.

“Enough. If you ask him who’s to blame for your husband’s death, he will say Muammar Gadhafi. Certainly there is some truth to that, but not enough. No, he is to blame for the deaths of eight people I know of. Among them are Jibril Aziz, your husband Emmett, and Stanley Bertolli.”

A sharp pain shot through her, and she turned to get a good look at his weathered face. “Stan? What?”

“I am afraid so.”

“He killed Stan? Emmett and Stan?”

“Yes.”

“When? I mean, Stan is—” She inhaled deeply, then shook her head. “He can’t be.”

“His body was discovered last night, in his car. He’d been shot.”

“Oh God.”

“It is about information,” Omar told her. “It’s always been about information, and betrayal. That is the man who is responsible.”

She was hardly hearing him. She was thinking of Stan telling her to stay, to wait for him. Would he have lived? Or had he been marked from the moment Zora approached her in the Arkadia Mall? Had they all been marked since 1991? She said, “I don’t know you. Not really. Maybe you’ve been lying to me. Maybe you killed them.”

“That is up to you,” he said, undeterred. “Remember that Inaya sent you to me. And while you may doubt this man’s particular crime, I can tell you that he is certainly guilty of another capital offense in Islamic law—fasad fil-ardh, spreading mischief in the land. He has been on the wrong side of truncheons and guns and fists for a very long time.”

“And you haven’t been?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps I have, and when I am in that chair you can consider the question. Until that time, this is the situation that exists.”

She breathed through her nose. “What’s his name?”

“It does not matter.”

“Yes, it does.”

Omar took a moment to think, then said, “It is my responsibility to safeguard my country. For that reason, I will not share his name. Yet I also feel it is my responsibility to help you. You performed a great service for my country last year. You made sacrifices, and you have been treated poorly for your efforts. Now, you have a decision to make. This man has killed the men in your life, yet you also blame yourself. You understand that the information you gave to Zora Balašević is connected to what has occurred. I cannot absolve you of this. Yet I may be able to help.”

What was he talking about?

“Come,” he said, and got out of the car. Sayyid, off the phone now, opened her door. Cold gusts of desert wind tugged at her, hissing, and sand tickled her nose. Her ears chilled immediately; then she sneezed. Omar approached her and pointed toward the tent and those two silhouettes. The second man hadn’t gotten up, and it was then that she realized he hadn’t raised his hands while he’d been talking, which in Egypt was a near impossibility. He was tied to the chair.

Omar said, “That is the man who ordered your husband’s murder. I am a man of law, and I am trying to be a good Muslim as well—never an easy thing. According to Islamic law, there are two options. The murderer may be slain in the manner that he committed murder. This is called qisas. Then there is diyya: The victim’s family may choose forgiveness and be compensated financially instead. Hold out your hand.”

Dazed, she did so, expecting him to hand her a gun. Instead, he placed a single coin into her palm, one Egyptian pound.

“Put it in your pocket.”

She did so, and he said, “That coin may be one of two things. It could be compensation, your diyya—an initial down payment, you understand. Or it can be your fee to kill him. As he has done, I would be engaging a third party to commit the murder.”

She took a step back, horrified, and he said, “It is an offer of work, Mrs. Kohl. Not a command. I can engage either of these men to commit the act as well. I simply thought that you might want a chance at redemption.”

She didn’t know what to say. She was thinking, Question, question, question. She was thinking, This is what the rest of the world looks like. She thought, Do I believe anything this man’s saying? Then: Does it even matter? Because the truth was that she wanted this, not for anyone but herself. She had also wanted it in Yugoslavia, though Emmett had taken it from her. That was the truth.

This man’s guilt wasn’t nearly as important as what she wanted to believe.

“You do not have to decide at this moment,” said Omar. “Sit in the car and think. But I should like to have a decision before sunrise. We will need to clean up afterward.”