“It’s for your own good. Trust me.”
“I want to trust you. But it’s not easy. Not when I know nothing.”
“I know. I’m sorry. When I’m done I’ll tell you everything.”
Or almost everything. There would always be one item to hold back. I wondered how I could have been stupid enough to believe this would go easily, with no cost to either Mila or me. Just look at what had already happened. Karos was to have been our refuge. I had promised her a castle, and then lured the enemy through the gates.
We said good-bye, and I sagged onto the bed. The professionals would call what I was doing the double game. But it wasn’t a game at all. It was a dangerous trial, a test requiring balance, skill, and artful deception among people who were all too real. No matter what course of action I took, the consequences would also be real. For all of us.
14
B
y the time I arrived at the house on Othman Bin Affan Street I was no longer morose. I was steaming. Why were my employers being so heavy-handed? Maybe one of Mila’s phone calls had touched a nerve. They probably saw it as a way to keep us on our best behavior. But for the moment all I wanted to do was lash out.
A property manager was waiting on the sidewalk. Or that’s what he said he was. He was a meek little fellow with baggy trousers and rolled-up sleeves, already mopping his brow even though the temperature was comfortable. He fingered a set of worry beads.
“Good morning, sir. Welcome in Jordan. I am Ahmed. You are Freeman Lockhart?”
“Yes. I’m here to look at the place.”
“Oh.” He frowned in apparent confusion. “I was told you were taking possession.”
“And who told you that?”
“The owner, sir. I only collect rent and arrange repairs. Have you not signed the lease?”
I was probably supposed to say yes.
“No.”
“Perhaps there has been a misunderstanding.”
He worked the beads faster.
“Why don’t you show me the place? If I like it, I’ll take the keys. Maybe my employer has made arrangements they haven’t told me about.”
“Yes.” He seemed relieved. “Please, let us go inside.”
It was pleasant enough, a stout and attractive single-story house built in the 1930s. The walls were made of large stones the color of the desert, chiseled in an age when builders still employed artisans. High, arched, mullioned windows let in plenty of light. They had green metal shutters you could close against the heat. Surrounding the house was a walled garden with tall junipers, a palm tree that had seen better days, and a thicket of sweet-smelling jasmine draping across the wall onto the front sidewalk.
The kitchen had been modernized, with propane burners, an oven, and a mid-sized fridge. The bedroom, tucked in the back, had a decent view of a neighbor’s garden.
The furnishings were stately—rich Oriental rugs and dark wood—and the location was perfect, near the shops and restaurants on Rainbow Street, with Othman Bin Affan leading straight downhill to the center of town. It would do fine.
“The phone is already connected, sir.”
“Of course.”
“Actually, sir, that is quite unusual. It often takes weeks.”
“But I have important friends.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ahmed looked apprehensive again, so I decided to ease up on him.
“It’s perfectly satisfactory,” I said. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll move in today.”
“Yes, sir. Here are your keys, and my number. Please call if there are difficulties.”
“I’ll speak highly of you to my employers.”
“Very good, sir.”
He finally let go of his beads.
“And by the way, what contact number do you have for them? My employers, I mean. I’d like to make sure you have the right one.”
He reddened, clutching again at his beads as he edged toward the door.
“I’m afraid they always are in touch with me, sir. That is the way we have always dealt with each other.”
“Of course.” But he was already out the door.
The first thing I did was check every drawer, cabinet, and closet for microphones. After what Mila had told me, I was assuming the worst. My handlers must have anticipated as much, because there was a surprise waiting in the mahogany wardrobe in the bedroom. It was a laptop computer, state of the art. I plugged it in and booted up.
It appeared to have a full complement of standard software, but I could find no evidence of any messages. Maybe I needed help from a techno geek. Preferably one who wouldn’t turn me in to the government.
I shut it off and resumed my search, checking behind every picture frame and mirror, underneath tabletops and carpets, mattresses and cushions. Nothing. By the time I finished it was nearly noon. If I left now for the office I could get a good start on Omar’s accounts. I would move my things from the hotel later. Then the phone rang.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Lockhart?”
“Speaking. Who is this?”
“Of Othman Bin Affan Street?”
“You must know that it is.”
“I have a DHL delivery for you, sir. I will arrive in ten minutes.”
I sat on the stone porch in the shade of the junipers, watching midday traffic pass on its way downtown. A woman’s voice called out in English from the house to my right.
“Hello, there. Am I to take it that you’re my new neighbor?”
Her accent was British, and she looked around forty. Brown hair streaked prematurely with gray and pinned into a bun. She wore a sleeveless blue blouse buttoned in the front, knee-length shorts, and gardening gloves covered in fresh black dirt.
“I am indeed.” I stepped forward. “Freeman Lockhart. I would shake hands, but—”
“Oh, yes. I decided to take this beautiful day off and plant some bulbs. Not sure it’s even the right time of year. I’m just now getting the hang of the planting cycles. Fiona Whitt. Are you moving in for good, or just passing through? The tenants always seem to come and go at that house.”
Her curiosity was bolder than I was accustomed to from Brits, which made me wonder if she had ever been an aid worker or a correspondent. People who spent years on the move and under duress learned to quickly cut to the essentials.
“Here for the long haul,” I said, sticking to cover. “I’ve gone to work for a little NGO providing refugee aid in Bakaa.”
“Omar al-Baroody’s new NGO?”
“I didn’t think it was that well known.”
“I’m not sure it is. A friend told me about it. Sami Fayez.”
“The one with the salon downtown.”
“Sounds like you’re already plugged in.”
“You certainly are.”
She laughed. A nice laugh. And then she blushed, ever so slightly. She had a pretty face, just beginning to show the sags and creases of aging, which I might not have noticed if I weren’t so attuned to my own. Being married to a younger woman does that.
“I ought to be plugged in,” she said. “I’ve been here six years.”
“And you’re just now learning the planting cycle?”
Her longevity made me wary. I wondered if she worked at one of the embassies.
“I’m new to the gardening part. Been too busy ’til now.”
“Diplomatic posting?”
“Just a scribbler, I’m afraid. Came here on holiday and never quite made it back. So I pick up work where I can get it. Travel pieces, mostly. For magazines, some of the guidebooks. With a little photography on the side. Lately I’ve gotten steadier work from the Ministry of Tourism.”
“Nice.”
“It seems that the king happened to read one of my pieces. They’re very image-conscious here. Very keen on keeping a good rep in the West. So now I don’t have to scramble quite so much.”
“Looks like you scramble pretty well,” I said, nodding toward her house.
“The house is the secret to my success. Rent free. Belongs to a retired British military officer who hasn’t been ’round in ages. Old friend of my mum’s.”
It crossed my mind that someone with her connections might have been asked to keep an eye on me. Was I another job on her freelance menu? Or maybe she was just being friendly. I could already see this was one of the drawbacks of the trade. You couldn’t really trust a soul. This morning that had seemed bracing. Now it was maddening.
“What else keeps you here?”
“It’s a pleasant way of life, really. The people are friendly and, frankly, it’s easy to make your mark. It’s one of the appeals of a small country, especially one that hasn’t lost all its old charm. Jordan still has plenty of fallow ground. Just look at your friend Omar.”
“The West Bank boy with friends in high places.”
“Exactly. Even I have some palace contacts. Whenever I need an aerial photo they fly me ’round in a military plane.”
“Sounds like you’re practically royalty.”
She laughed.
“Not exactly. And the bigger attraction is the climate. Especially this time of year. Still plenty of sunshine but some nice cool evenings coming. In fact, you better make sure your heat’s working properly. These old places are beautiful, but the stone walls and floors make it chillier than you’d think.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Nice meeting you.”
“Likewise. Oh, and by the way, there’s a lovely flea market just down Rainbow Street every Wednesday. It starts in late afternoon, although I suppose for Ramadan they’ll be moving the hours back ’til after sundown.”
“Sounds nice.”
“Once you’re settled, stop by for a drink. Long as you don’t mind gin. I’m afraid that and a little wine are all I’ve got.”
She gave me a shy smile before returning to her garden, and I decided she might make a handy ally, after all. My evidence? Gut reaction. Sometimes that’s all you’ve got.
The DHL truck pulled up shortly afterward. The driver left the engine idling and approached with a stiff, flat envelope, light as a feather. Further marching orders? I signed for it and waited for him to drive away. Then I looked around for any evidence of nosy neighbors—Fiona included—and, seeing none, took the package inside.
There was cutlery in a butcher block on the counter, and I slit the edge open with a boning knife. There was no note, no message. Just a single unlabeled CD, which I slipped into the laptop. After a few grinding noises from the hard drive, the screen flashed to life with a message, which lingered only a few seconds:
“E-mail all correspondence to Black. Modem will dial automatically.”
I tried it out, plugging the laptop into a phone jack and clicking onto the e-mail icon. The only item that appeared on the screen was a box with an address line and some room for text. Maybe I was just supposed to type in “Black.” As soon as I typed the letter “B,” the computer supplied the rest of the name.
I wrote a brief message—“Parcel arrived, house fine. This is a test.”—clicked on “Send,” and watched the whole thing disappear off to who knew where, so apparently the modem had activated automatically. I spent the next five minutes trying every trick in the book to find out what Black’s e-mail address was, but there was neither an address book nor any record of what I’d just sent. A decent hacker probably could have pierced this veil of secrecy, but I couldn’t. I discovered to my pleasure that I did have Internet access. On second thought, probably every move I made online would be monitored. I’d glimpsed an Internet café at a bookstore not far from here, and I resolved to use it.
Somehow I had expected to receive more. I rechecked the DHL envelope for any notes or instructions I might have overlooked. Empty. Would there be no “dead letter box,” then, like the ones you read about in novels? No fallbacks or contact signals? I had been looking forward to learning a few tricks of the trade—chalk marks on a sidewalk cedar to signal for a meeting, perhaps, or a flowerpot on the corner of my porch. As with other aspects of life, technology seemed to have made even the business of espionage more prosaic. It was worrisome, too. Computers crashed. Electricity failed. What would I do in an emergency?
It was nearly 1 p.m. by the time my taxi reached the office, and Omar seemed impatient to get out the door.
“Success with your house hunting?” he asked.
“Yes. It’s a very nice place. I’m lucky to get it. Friendly neighbors, too. Someone named Fiona said hello.”
“Ah, Fiona Whitt? Lovely woman. And helpful to know. She’s become a favorite at the palace.”
“I got that idea.”
“And now, to set your mind at ease.” He handed over two file folders, each no more than an inch thick. “Donations in the blue one. Expenditures in the red one. Summaries only, of course. I wish I could say we had more, but that’s part of the reason you’re here. To make sure these folders grow fat and multiply. Especially the blue one.”
I’d figured on taking the material into my new office, which, like Omar’s, was partitioned and offered some privacy. But Raniya, who hadn’t said a word since my arrival, quickly set me straight.
“I have cleared some working space for you on the table,” she said, pointing to a Formica countertop a mere six feet from her desk. “That way, if you need further details on any of the transactions, I will be able to locate them quickly.”
It would have seemed churlish to say no, although I suspected she only wanted to keep an eye on me. If Omar noted the tension between us, he didn’t acknowledge it. Or maybe this was his doing.
“And where are you going?” I asked him.
“To Bakaa, with Dr. Hassan. He has arranged a meeting with a hospital architect, to discuss design possibilities. You would be welcome to join us, of course, but—” He gestured toward the folders.
“Absolutely. I’ll have plenty to keep me busy.”
“Once you’ve put your mind at ease, tomorrow we will get down to business. And, Freeman?”
“Yes?”
“Aren’t you going to ask about salary?”
“I was getting to that.”
“Tomorrow. We’ll wrap up everything over coffee and sweets in the morning.” He glanced guiltily at Raniya, who of course wouldn’t be having a daylight snack tomorrow or any other day of Ramadan.
“Splendid.”
“I hope you’re still saying ‘splendid’ after you’ve heard what I can afford to pay you. We’ll also provide a car, of course. In the meantime, keep your taxi receipts. Oh, and one last thing.”
He ducked into his office and rummaged through a desk drawer. I glanced at Raniya for a hint of what was coming, but she maintained her rigid expression. Omar returned smiling and held out a set of keys.
“These are yours. One to the office, one to your desk, one to the filing cabinets.”
It seemed too easy.
“Good luck with your meeting.”
“Good luck with your explorations.”
He said it with the carefree certainty of a man with nothing to hide.
The moment he was gone I surveyed the field of play, with all its cabinets and drawers, and a copy machine in the corner. Easy pickings if not for the imperious Raniya. If I was the fox in the henhouse, then she was the fighting cockerel with talons of steel. The office was going to be a very icy place while Omar was away. I settled in at the table and opened the blue file.
So far, Omar had managed to bring in about $1.4 million. Not terrible, but nowhere near what would be needed to build a hospital. He had said the night before that more money had been pledged but not yet received. The visitors from the Gulf whom I had seen the other day—from Dubai, it turned out—had promised to pony up $5 million.