The Cairo Affair

2

Omar immediately regretted having accepted Harold Wolcott’s suggestion of a meeting in the Marriott’s Garden Promenade restaurant. The busy dinner crowd was noisy, and to his right a big table full of laughing Americans made him long for a quiet rooftop dinner with Fouada. But such were the responsibilities of administration.

Wolcott was in the rear corner, drinking a gin and tonic—Omar knew from the file that it was the man’s only drink—and when they shook hands he felt a thin, sticky layer of moisture on Wolcott’s hand. He’d probably spilled some tonic. Omar ordered coffee.

It had been a day and a half since the execution of Ali Busiri, though in the office they were calling it a disappearance. Without a body, what else could they call it? Central Security agents were turning over stones throughout the city, and when he wasn’t found, probably by Friday, Omar would lead an investigation. This was how it was done, for as the new section head it would be his responsibility to clean up any possible embarrassments from the previous administration. This was also why he had agreed to meet Wolcott.

“They’re a film crew,” Wolcott told him, nodding at the loud Americans. “Scouting locations for some kind of romantic comedy. Exotic location, some big stars, and you’ve got a hit.”

“Good for them,” said Omar.

“Sophie Kohl should be landing about now.”

Omar nodded. Sayyid had helped her onto the plane and phoned in as soon as it took off. “And John Calhoun? How is he?”

“Good,” said Wolcott. “Giving him a few days off, but he’ll be back soon enough. Good guy. I like him.”

Omar had no opinion of the man, but he filed away Wolcott’s opinion; it was inside information. Just as he had filed away Jibril’s precious notebook, though he had no intention of ever using it. This was how he would have to think from now on—collect everything, no matter how insignificant. He would be a hoarder of intelligence, just as Ali Busiri had been. Information was the only true currency, impervious to economic crashes, natural disasters, and even revolution. “Calhoun is a contractor, though. No?”

“Sure. But I think I’ll ask to extend his contract. Not many guys around who know how to keep their mouths shut.”

“It is a valuable talent.”

“Indeed,” Wolcott said. He reached for his cigarettes and offered one—Omar refused—before lighting up. “Are you going to tell me anything, or am I just buying you coffee?”

“Why don’t you ask some questions?”

Wolcott took another drag, a hard one that made the end of his cigarette glow fiercely. “How about who killed Stan? That’s something I’d damned well like to know.”

“We are looking into it. We believe, however, that Ali Busiri ordered the killing, just as he ordered the murder of Emmett Kohl. The gunman, for all we know, was the same.”

“Gjergj Ahmeti?”

Omar shrugged.

“He came to Cairo?”

“This is a guess. Does it matter who the gunman was?”

Wolcott’s forehead creased. He wasn’t particularly good at masking his emotions. “It does to me.”

“As soon as I know,” Omar promised.

There was a pause. Omar gave the Americans a look—a pretty blond girl was standing, holding up a glass of wine, making a toast. Wolcott puffed at his cigarette, finally saying, “Look, Omar. I don’t like these games. I want a little clarity. What I’ve got is a nasty stew of names. Emmett and Stan and old Ali. Sophie Kohl and Jibril Aziz are in the mix, too. Connect the dots for me.”

He didn’t have to tell this man anything. He could set down his cup and leave, and all Wolcott could do was file a complaint. With a military government in place, there was little chance of trouble. But he’d lived much of his life in Harold Wolcott’s shoes, pushing around chess pieces without being able to see the other player’s, living with only half-stories to shape his view of the universe. It could be maddening, and there was nothing more troublesome than a CIA station chief who’d gone over the edge.

“I can tell you this,” Omar said, and watched Wolcott lower his cigarette, alert. “Ali Busiri was to blame for all of it. Sometimes directly, sometimes indirectly. But he was always behind the scenes. It’s the oldest story. At first, money. Then survival. The things we all want, but Ali—he lost his moral compass.”

And I would have killed more, Busiri had insisted under that wide, wind-rippled canvas. Ten people. Twenty. Imagine what this new government would do with me if they found out I’d been selling intelligence to yet another North African dictator. Given the chance, though, anyone would have done the same thing. Even you, Omar.

Wolcott was still grumbling. He wanted more, but Omar wasn’t about to give him the rest. He wasn’t going to tell Wolcott that Sophie Kohl had been their agent, and that so many of her husband’s secrets had made it from Cairo to Tripoli.

If you want to blame someone, Busiri had said, blame Muammar Gadhafi. When the troubles began in Benghazi, he remembered Stumbler, and so he sent his men to execute them all. Jibril got it backwards, of course—you told me that. You told me everything, Omar. Remember?

So you warned Tripoli that he was coming.

My Libyan friends deserved some warning. That’s only fair. Right?

They must have paid you well, Ali.

Oh, they did. And you’re not going to find a single pound of it.

Ali Busiri had been working on another plane of existence, as if last year were still this year. But he had been wrong.

Using Sophie Kohl had been a rash decision, but in the new year, he had come to believe, wrongs should be righted in the correct way, according to a higher law. He’d had no idea how religious he could be. He had surprised himself. And she had surprised him when she climbed out of the car and accepted Mahmoud’s pistol and walked with them to the tent. Ali Busiri, shaking his head and on the verge of laughing aloud, wriggled in the chair. A woman with a gun? he seemed to be saying. This is how you try to scare me?

This is him? Sophie had asked.

Yes.

Poor Ali hadn’t seen it coming. He’d still been shaking his head, the disbelieving laughter bubbling before the explosion and the shot into his guts that rocked the chair back onto two feet, where it and Ali hovered, nearly falling, before dropping heavily back onto all four.

He’d screamed then. A pitiful, high-pitched scream, almost feminine, then blubbering moans. It hurt to see anyone in so much pain. Sophie Kohl was not a professional. She didn’t know how to do this quickly. She just stood and stared, shocked by what she’d done, stunned by the noise of his misery. He’d been about to rip the gun from her hand and finish the job himself when she silently raised the gun and pointed it at the top of Ali’s bald skull and pulled the trigger again, the pistol bouncing high. As the noise faded in their ears, she dropped the gun into sand that was muddy from all the spilled blood, then crumpled, weeping.

“I don’t buy it,” Wolcott said. “You’re saying this was all about one guy’s greed?”

“Yes.”

“I mean …” Wolcott shook his head. “Where is he now?”

Omar shrugged. “Disappeared. In the desert, for all I know.”

“What does his wife say?”

Omar shifted, but tried to show no other sign. Mrs. Busiri had been a problem, watching her husband head off in Omar’s car. Had he known what he was going to do when he picked up Ali, he would have done differently. “She knows nothing. Like a lot of men, he kept his wife in the dark.”

In fact, after this meeting he would visit her once again to settle his offer. He was lucky that she had despised her husband, but Mrs. Busiri’s cooperation would still be expensive.

“Wait, wait,” Wolcott said, patting the air with a hand. He really wasn’t taking any of this well. “Busiri hires Ahmeti. But it’s not like he’s calling up the guy for a chat. It’s not done that way. He had to have at least one accomplice. Another one of your men?”

“Nobody.”

“Nobody, or a nobody?”

Add your bullets to his body, he had told Rashid. You shoot this corpse, and we begin our relationship anew. Omar hadn’t wanted to lose someone so valuable, someone who could help to clean up what Ali had left behind. Rashid was that rarest of creatures—a loyal monster. He had stuck with Ali until the very end, and with this act of mercy Omar hoped to gain the beast’s devotion.

He gave Wolcott a smile. “Harry, Egypt’s friendship with the United States of America remains crucial. Once all the facts have come to light, I will give you a copy of the report. You will know all.”

Harold Wolcott’s face darkened. He looked past Omar at the film crew—the whole table was singing “Happy Birthday.” Then he focused on Omar again. “You’re not giving me shit, are you?”

Omar didn’t answer.

Wolcott put out his cigarette, drained his glass, and stood up. “You can pay for the goddam drinks yourself,” he said, then walked out.