“No.”
“Has he ever mentioned something called the Wadi Terrace Project?”
“No.”
“None of them has? Not Sami or Rafi or any of that crew?”
“I don’t even know where those places are, or what you’re talking about. Maybe you could tell me.”
“What about the Wadi Fidan site?”
That one did ring a bell, and I couldn’t help but pause before I again said, “No.” Then I remembered. It was one of the digs that had showed up on the CV of Professor Yiorgos Soukas. My inquisitor noted my momentary indecision, and he stared as if waiting for me to come clean. When I said nothing more, he made a note on a pad. Judging from his expression when he looked back up, he seemed to have reappraised the situation.
“What were you doing in Jerusalem for the last two days, Mr. Lockhart?”
Interesting that he specifically said Jerusalem, not just Israel. It suggested they either had assistance from across the border or their own set of eyes. Or maybe they were just reading my e-mails.
“Visiting friends.”
“Old friends of yours and Omar’s? From intifada days?”
“Maybe one or two. Anything wrong with that?”
“Nothing at all. Pleased to hear it, in fact. I was beginning to think you were totally clueless. And what are they up to these days, these old friends of yours?”
“This and that. Eating and sleeping. Living and dying.”
“What about with regard to Omar?”
“They haven’t seen him in years.”
“You’re sure about that?” His previous tone of certainty seemed to wane a bit.
“Quite sure.”
“Maybe we’re thinking of different people. This one, for instance.”
He held up a photo of an Arab woman. Judging by the scenery, it appeared to have been shot on a narrow street of the Old City. She was fairly young, late twenties perhaps, and pretty in a harried sort of way, with her hair out of place and her clothes rumpled. She was talking to a young man who had his back to the camera. I didn’t recognize her, and I didn’t recognize the young man. He was too small to have been Hans Wolters, and he definitely wasn’t Omar.
I shook my head.
“You’re telling me you’ve never met?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever heard the name Basma Shaheed?”
“I have.” It was the woman who was helping secure houses and properties in Jerusalem. “Is that her?”
“Possibly.”
“You don’t know?”
“We do. But apparently you don’t. In what connection have you heard her name?”
“I’m told she is a friend of Omar’s.”
“But you’re certain you’ve never met her?”
“Positive.”
“And you’ve never seen a second set of account books, apart from those officially presented as those of the charity?”
“Correct.”
He took on a bemused look and shook his head.
“My problem with all this, Mr. Lockhart, is that I believe you’re telling the truth. Especially since you apparently brought back no appreciable amounts of cash from Jerusalem. Frankly, that surprised us.”
So was that what the customs people had been looking for in my luggage?
“I told you, it was strictly a social visit.”
“Names, please?”
I decided to mention Hans, if only because it almost certainly wouldn’t get him in trouble—as a matter of course, he talked to people who were far more dangerous than me. But I wasn’t going to mention David Ben-Zohar if I could help it.
“Hans Wolters was the only one who knows Omar. He was our old boss with UNRWA. He’s a peace activist now. Some sort of background negotiator.”
“Yes, we’re aware of him. And had he met recently with Miss Shaheed?”
“If he had, he didn’t tell me.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yes. And I believe he would have said so.”
“What about Mr. Chris Boylan? Tell me about your meeting with him.”
Now this was a surprise.
“He wasn’t in Jerusalem.”
“I didn’t say that he was. In fact, you saw him in Amman last…” He consulted his notebook. “Last Tuesday. At the Roman Theatre.”
Had they been following me? Surely Chris, being a professional, would have noticed, particularly since he was being so careful at the time. I decided to test the detail of their knowledge.
“Yes. I met him outside. But he didn’t want to pay, so we never went in. We walked down to the Agora and talked there.”
“Of course. We’re aware of that. So why were you seeing Chris Boylan?”
He hadn’t challenged my error. Maybe because he was testing me. Or maybe because his information was secondhand. If so, there was only one other person in Amman who knew I had met Chris. All the questions Nura had asked so tenderly in her bedroom now came back to me. One prod after another, designed to elicit information. What a vain fool I had been, risking what I valued most for a vengeful roll in the hay. And look what it had brought me. Paid in full with another betrayal to match my own. I suppose I’d earned it, but my nervousness nonetheless began giving way to anger.
“I was seeing him because he’s another old friend. I have lots of them around here, as you seem to be well aware.”
“You haven’t seen him in what, sixteen years?”
“Something like that.”
“So why the sudden need to see him now?”
“I was back in the region for the first time in a while and heard he was, too. So, naturally, I looked him up.”
“Naturally.” He pushed my teacup closer. “Here. If that’s the best story you can come up with, you obviously need more refreshment.”
I looked down at it with suspicion.
“What did you do, put something in it?”
He chuckled.
“Of course we did. Black tea and sugar and milk. There is no such thing as truth serum, Mr. Lockhart. And as I said earlier, we would never hold you here against your will. Your participation continues to be strictly voluntary.”
“In that case, maybe I’ll go now.”
I stood.
“Splendid. I will have the driver take you directly to the airport. And I can assure you with complete confidence that all your personal belongings will be shipped to your forwarding address within a day of your departure.”
“And my departure will be strictly voluntary.”
“Naturally.”
I sat back down, chastened but still angry.
“Look, it was really all quite innocent. Why don’t you ask Chris?”
“I don’t think his employer would be very happy about that. He’s in a rather sensitive line of work, you know.”
“We didn’t talk about his work.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Old times.”
“Old times with Omar?”
“Old times with everybody. Just like I did with Hans Wolters. The Israelis and the West Bankers. The bullets versus the stones. The lions versus the Christians. A jolly good time for one and all.” My voice was rising. “Chris and I probably would have had a beer together, but seeing how it was Ramadan and we were downtown—”
“No need to get upset, Mr. Lockhart.”
“No need? Who else do you have spying on me?”
“Pardon?”
“My neighbor Fiona? Omar’s secretary? Or is it just Nura?”
“Please, Mr. Lockhart. Your little infidelities are of no concern to us. We talk to a lot of people as a matter of routine. No need to single out anyone.”
“You think you’re being clever, but you’re really quite clumsy.” To my mind, there was now no secret about who had been bugging my house. Not the Americans, but these people. And when the realization hit home, I let my anger get the best of me. I reached into my pocket and slammed the small plastic box onto his desk, rattling the tea tray. “The way you left this behind, for instance. I found it this morning when a mouse gnawed through the wire.”
He seemed genuinely surprised, but not at all embarrassed. He picked up the box and slowly turned it over in his hands, inspecting it with apparent curiosity. It was a bit like watching a jeweler admiring a nicely done setting.
“This is an interesting piece of hardware, Mr. Lockhart. Mind if I hang on to it for a while?”
“Keep it, if you like. Replenish your inventory.”
“Oh, I don’t deny we do these sorts of things from time to time. But this item here”—he turned it over again in his hands—“it definitely never belonged to us. And while I gladly accept your donation, I think now that it is you who are being clumsy when you think you are being clever. Tell me, Mr. Lockhart, how many deliveries from DHL have you taken lately?”
“What do you mean?”
“One of their trucks was seen around your house.”
“Why don’t you check with DHL?”
“I’m sure we will. It’s just that they’re known to be a favored courier of an organization we have a certain interest in. You haven’t been free-lancing for any other employer, officially or otherwise, have you?”
“Of course not.” Now I was on shaky ground, and for the first time felt a hint of genuine fear. “I quit the UN quite a while ago.”
He smiled.
“I was not referring to the United Nations, as I’m sure you know. For your sake I hope you are telling the truth. Because the punishment for the sort of illegal employment I’m referring to is quite serious in this country. If you should ever come back to this office for that reason, I can assure you I won’t be serving tea.”
“And I can assure you that I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Just as you don’t know about Omar’s second set of books. Tell me, what do you make of the people Omar generally associates with? His donors, I mean.”
“The oil sheikhs from Saudi or the rich investors from Abdoun?” I tried to keep my expression neutral, but I was so relieved he had moved on to another topic that it must have shown on my face. Being outed as an American spy was hardly the way I wanted to end my stay in Jordan. Assuming they would even let me leave. “I suppose if they’re offering what he needs, Omar doesn’t have much choice but to associate with them.”
“Yes. But do these donors always show up in the books?”
“If they give money they do.” Unless their name was Norbert Krieger, of course, not that I was volunteering that bit of information. I was surprised he hadn’t asked me about my trip to Athens, especially since it occurred the same weekend as Omar’s. Maybe there were gaps in their knowledge. Or maybe they hadn’t taken much of an interest in me until recently.
“Even the donors in Bakaa?”
“I wasn’t aware we had any donors of substance in Bakaa, apart from Dr. Hassan. It’s one reason they need a hospital. Although I am a little surprised you haven’t asked anything about some of the other people out there.”
“The usual rabble of amateur radicals, you mean?”
“Yes, as long you’re bringing them up.” I wasn’t going to mention Nabil by name, even though he was the one I was most curious about.
“You needn’t worry about them. There are always certain people out in Bakaa that we keep an eye on. Just as there are in Zarqa, or anywhere else electronic bullhorns are in excessive supply. In those situations there are usually so many people eager to inform on their rivals that we hardly have to lift a finger. That is one place, I assure you, that is well under control. But you know of no larger donors from that area?”
“No.”
“Very well, then, Mr. Lockhart.” He surprised me by standing abruptly. Our chat was over. Maybe he had learned whatever else he needed to know about me from Nura. “I doubt that we will see each other again,
inshallah.
But please don’t be alarmed or upset if, when you next choose to leave the country, you are asked a few debriefing questions. I suggest you allow an extra hour or two at the airport for your departure.”
“What happens if I don’t exit via the airport?”
“You may find that difficult. Particularly for certain destinations to the west of here.”
And if I were reluctant to answer any future questions, I suspected I knew exactly how they would choose to overcome my resistance. There would be photos available, more of those handy eight-by-tens, except these would show Nura and me. Maybe Jordanian equipment wasn’t quite up to the technological level of Black, White, and Gray, so maybe the photos would be grainy, a trifle dark. But effective enough, especially with all the nice lighting Nura had provided with her candelabra, the one that had seemed so sexy at the time. And was my imagination now running wild, or had she gently steered me toward that side of the bed? I remember how smugly triumphant I had felt at the moment, thinking I was getting my just reward.
You still have it, old boy.
Yes, I had it, all right—just enough ignorant vanity to do myself in, perhaps Omar as well, and, who knows, maybe even my marriage, the one item I had always worked hardest to protect.
“You are free to go, Mr. Lockhart.”
And I knew right where I was going, with a full head of steam.
32
T
he way I saw it, two people owed me immediate explanations.
One was the resident spook at the American embassy, who for all I knew might even be Black, White, or Gray.
The other was Omar. If he truly kept two sets of books, then he had hidden almost as much from me as I had from him. All along we had been sneaking around behind each other’s backs, like two unfaithful lovers.
“Drop me at the American embassy, please.”
The Mukhabarat’s driver seemed taken aback. He and his gray-clad twin exchanged puzzled glances across the front seat. The second one got on his cell phone, muttered a few words, nodded, and hung up. He turned my way.
“The boss says okay. But he said you may be in for a surprise.”
“From him or from the Americans?”
Neither answered the question. In fact, neither said a word for the rest of the ride, not even when they popped the locks to let me out.
I breezed through the first security portal and then phoned Mike Jacoby from the second. Fortunately he was in.
“This is kind of short notice, Freeman. Could you come back in an hour? I’ll treat you to lunch at the Blue Fig.”
“This can’t wait, Mike. Believe me, you’ll want to hear what I have to say. Several people will.”
A pause, followed by a sigh. If he thought I was troublesome now, he didn’t know the half of it.
“Give me ten minutes. Put the Marine on, will ya?”
Fifteen minutes later I was at his desk.
“I need to see your intelligence person, Mike.”
“We don’t have an—”
“Don’t give me any official bullshit, Mike. Just call him. Tell him I just spent the last hour and a half being shepherded around by the Mukhabarat. That ought to get his attention.”
“It certainly got mine.” He was already punching in the number on his phone.
“Yeah, Carl? Someone here to see you. An American. Says he’s been spending his day on the Eighth Circle and wants to tell you all about it…Yeah…Yeah…I think so…Sure, I’ll vouch for him.” He looked over, as if to size me up. “To a point, anyway. Good enough. We’ll wait here.”
He hung up.
“To a point?”
“Even that offer’s null and void if you piss Carl off. We’re not exactly supposed to call him unless there’s an emergency.”
“Is Carl his real name?”
There was a knock at the door before Mike could answer. I half expected “Carl” to be my old friend Mr. Black, but they were nothing alike. Carl was tall, bald, and preternaturally thin, with his elbows angled outward and a permanent squint, as if he spent far too much time peering at reports. Hardly the image of a professional spook that we’ve come to expect.
“Is this the guy?”
“His name’s Freeman Lockhart. He’s all yours. Let me know when you’re done and I’ll escort him out.”
“No need. I’ll do the honors.” Carl’s way of saying this was his baby now, come what may.
He led me down a corridor to a locked glass door with a keypad entrance. Inside were four more offices, and Carl’s was the last one on the left. No window. I suspected that was true of all of them. He settled me into a chair but remained standing.
“What’s your story?”
The brusque tone signaled low expectations. So did the way he glanced at his watch. I started by complaining about the bug I’d found last night in my bedroom. He stopped me when I got to the part about the dead mouse.
“Sorry, not us. Is that why you called the Mukhabarat?”
“They called me. Came to my house, in fact.”
“Not our concern, believe it or not, unless you’re detained or charged with a crime. I assume they characterized the visit as voluntary?”
“Of course, but—”
“Nothing we can do for you.” He rose from his desk and reached for the doorknob. “But that would at least explain the bug.”
“It wasn’t theirs.”
“Or so they told you.”
“Which makes their denial about as believable as yours. I guess you’ll also claim you don’t know anything about Black, White, and Gray.”
“What?”
“Who, you mean. Three of your people, or their cover names, anyway. They broke into our house on Karos in the middle of the night. They’re the ones who put me up to all this. Spying on my friend Omar, not that he hasn’t earned it. And now I’m in hot water with the Mukhabarat and God knows who else. So stop playing dumb with me, and don’t pretend you’ve never heard of this operation. Maybe it would just save time if I made my final report orally, then got out of your hair and out of the country. Good riddance for both of us.”
His squint deepened until a bemused smile played at the edges of his mouth. For a moment I thought he was going to laugh, and I was poised to explode. Then he eased away from the door and sat down.
“Good thing Mike vouched for you, or you’d have been out on your ass the moment you accused us of bugging your house. Although I’m beginning to wonder about Mike. But I have to say, that’s the oddest little outburst from a supposedly sane person that I’ve heard in quite a while.”
“Is this part of standard operating procedure, denying you ever hired me?”
“Mister, I’ve never seen you in my life.”
“Not you. The fucking Agency.”
“So you’re saying the Agency hired you? Came to your house in the middle of the night somewhere on…where was it?”
“Karos.”
“That’s an island, right? And they said, ‘Hi, Mr. Lockhart, we’re with the CIA and we want to send you to Jordan.’”
“Not in so many words.”
“Ah. Now we’re making progress. Unless you tell me the next thing they did was climb into a little spaceship and fly away.”
“Laugh all you want, because if this really wasn’t official, then, believe me, you’ve got a trio of rogue agents on your hands. Or worse.”
“Okay, but take it slow. And start at the beginning. Back on Karos.”
So I did, and to his credit he listened carefully. I referred to the debacle in Africa in only the sketchiest of terms, with me as the primary scapegoat. I included pretty much everything that had happened since, except the part about Nura.
About halfway through my account his expression began to change, and his squint relaxed into a dawning of revelation, or so it seemed. When I mentioned DeKuyper’s name I thought his cheek might even have twitched, but he never said a word until I finished.
At the end he stood and strolled to a stout file cabinet, which he unlocked with yet another keypad. Then he withdrew a manila folder and put it facedown on the desk before I had a chance to read the label. From inside it he pulled out a stack of perhaps a dozen glossy photographs, turning them away from me.
“These people who broke into your house. Describe them again.”
I did. He sorted through the pile like a poker player looking for the right discard. Finally he handed me one across the desk.
“Was this one of them?”
I had Black’s face in mind when I looked, and it wasn’t a match. So I was already shaking my head by the time the features registered as vaguely familiar. I put out a hand to stop Carl from snatching back the photo.
“Wait.”
Carl raised an eyebrow.
“I think this might be the sidekick. The one named Gray.”
“Sidekick?”
“Yes. Black did all the talking. He seemed to be the leader.”
Carl smiled in apparent appreciation.
“That would just about cinch it, then. It’s how they always do it. Let some drone be the spokesman so you’ll remember his face, his voice. That way the real star gets to sit there observing you undistracted.”
I remembered how Gray had almost hid behind his laptop, over in the corner.
“So you know who they are?” I felt a flush of vindication.
“How sure are you on the ID?”
I looked again.
“That’s him, all right. That’s Gray.”
Carl took the photo and slipped it back into the folder. Then he smiled, as if the joke was on me.
“His real name is Bruce Fleischer. Born 1966, Shaker Heights, Ohio, and based in Washington. He’s known in the trade as a
katsa.
”
“A
katsa
?”
“Hebrew for ‘field agent,’ or ‘case officer.’ He’s Mossad.”
“Mossad?”
Carl could have punched me in the face and made less of an impact. I wasn’t sure whether to feel foolish, outraged, or threatened, so I settled for a shocked blend of all three. Carl, watching me closely, broadened his smile.
“But in Athens they—”
“Followed you? Yes. Probably just making sure you were doing your job. In Jordan they didn’t have that luxury, but in Athens they’d have all sorts of opportunities.”
“Then why not just do the surveillance there on Omar themselves?”
“I’m sure they did. But it gave them a great opportunity to check up on you. Make sure you weren’t just going through the motions. And you were an extra set of eyes. Never hurts in this business.”
“Where does that leave me?”
“All alone, I’m afraid.”
“You mean you can’t—”
“Help you out?”
He said it as if I had just asked him to loan me a million dollars.
“Well, I am an American citizen.”
“Who is currently employed by the Mossad. If we were in America I’d have to turn you in as an unregistered foreign agent. At the very least, you’d be facing espionage charges. And for an American living in Jordan, well, ‘foolhardy’ is putting it mildly. So I don’t think so. Unless—”
“Unless what?”
The squint returned, and his next words emerged slowly.
“You could always work for us. Keep playing them. Let us in on your means of contact, maybe ask for an emergency meeting on neutral ground. And so on. It might be a real opportunity.”
“For what?”
“For learning. Fleischer’s one of their better field men, and something about this operation suggests he’s engaging in a little freelance. With a bit more leverage, who knows. We might turn him as well.”
“I thought they were our allies.”
“Usually. All the more reason to know what they’re up to. Besides, if you do us a favor, we’ll do one for you. We could chalk up your indiscretion to naïveté and call it even. Who knows, we might even be able to make your little track record down in Africa disappear.”
All of that appealed to me immensely. Erasing my fingerprints from the events in Tanzania would mean that Mila’s would never be found. But I was wary of such an easy solution. Or maybe it was just that my nerves were shot. The events of the past few days had shaken my confidence.
Still, there seemed to be no alternative. And I needed a powerful ally.
“How long would it take?”
“Short and sweet. The longer we string it out, the likelier they’ll know something’s up, so we’d want you to move fast. I’d say a week. Two at the most.”
I sensed a weight lifting from my shoulders. With any luck I’d soon be back in Greece. Get to Athens and spirit Mila away.
“So you’ll help us?” Carl said.
“Do I really have any choice?”
“Not one that wouldn’t involve lawyers. Although we certainly wouldn’t leave you at the mercy of the Jordanians. Not if we could help it.”
“Gracious of you.”
“Oh, it is, believe me.”
So, for the next several hours, Carl and I talked. He told me his last name was Cummings, which was probably about as credible as Black, White, and Gray. We made a few plans, exchanged a few telephone numbers, and then he led me toward the security door. He had decided it would be best if he escorted me from the building without either of us saying good-bye to Mike Jacoby. Especially now that he was my new boss.
Did this mean I had attained professional status?
I might have left feeling pretty smug about that if Carl hadn’t offered a dose of reality as he was punching in the key code.
“By the way, Freeman. Do you have family?”
His squint had returned, and for the first time in our conversation he seemed worried about someone’s welfare other than his own.
“My wife. She was with me on Karos.”
“Is she somewhere safe?”
“Her aunt’s house in Athens.”
Carl frowned.
“That’s hardly what I’d call safe. You saw what they did in Athens.”
And I hadn’t even told him about Mila’s episode on the highway from Glyfada.
“What are you saying?”
“That as soon as you show up as a foreign object on the Mossad’s radar, they’re not going to be happy. And if this is a freelance job, as I suspect, then none of the usual rules will apply. They can play as rough as they like. You should get her out of harm’s way.”
“Where?”
“The States, if you can.”
“But her visa—what if—”
“She’s your wife, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then she’ll get in fine.”
He took me to the main entrance while I absorbed the news. A blow in one sense, a relief in another. I was about to ask for more advice when his beeper went off, and when he checked the message his expression changed completely. Suddenly my problems seemed to be the furthest thing from his mind.
“I have to go,” he said quickly, shoving open the door. “The Marine will see you out.”
The soldier hustled over while Carl headed briskly in the other direction.
“What about my wife?” I shouted.
But the door had shut behind him.
I wandered outdoors in a daze. Up to now, every move I had made to shield Mila and me had only seemed to push us farther into the open. Maybe I was still making the wrong decisions, but Cummings had at least seemed to offer a quick way to safety for Mila.
I was surprised to discover it was now dark. The night air was fresh and cool, but sirens wailed in the distance. Lots of them. I needed to phone Mila right away, and find some way to convince her to travel to my parents’ house without raising too many alarms among our eavesdroppers. Everything else could wait. Once that was done, I could act with more autonomy. I flagged down a taxi that had just dropped off a fare, and gave my address on Othman Bin Affan Street.
We had gone only a few blocks through Abdoun when an ambulance with a red crescent raced past, lights flashing and horn blaring. Outside a crowded café, men and women were running for the parking lot, a palpable sense of urgency etched on their faces. I hadn’t seen this much commotion in the streets since Eid al-Fitr, but this time the mood was altogether different. Something ugly was unfolding, or maybe that was just a reflection of my own precarious condition.