Like it had the day before, Harry’s forehead contracted as if Stan had slapped it; then he leaned back in his chair. “Who’s Jibril Aziz?”
He was lying, but Stan didn’t know why. “CIA, Harry. You know his name already because he was the architect of that plan we nixed a couple years ago—Stumbler. He also met twice with Emmett a week before the murder.”
“Well,
that’s
interesting.”
“Yes, it is. And if we’re going to investigate, then I need to know about him.”
Harry took a long breath, gazing into his glass. “I’ll make some calls, then.”
There wasn’t anything to do, so Stan just nodded. It wasn’t the first time Harry had lied to him, but repetition made it no easier to accept. “Would you like to hear about Zora Balašević?”
“You tell me, Stan—would I?”
“She lived over in Islamic Cairo last year, and—”
Harry cut in: “And now?”
“Back home in Serbia.”
“
Not
in Hungary.”
A crowd of youngish Westerners, seven or eight in leather jackets, spilled noisily into the restaurant, laughing. At a glance, Stan suspected they were members of a film crew. He said, “Dragan Milić claims he never received anything from Emmett. Balašević told him Emmett wouldn’t play ball.”
“You believe this?”
“Dragan doesn’t. Nor do I. The important point is that by then she was working for the Egyptians.”
Stan couldn’t see Harry’s forehead, for he’d covered his entire face with his large hand, thumb and pinkie rubbing at his temples. Finally, he took down his hand and gazed at the Hollywood types gathering around a long table with seats for twice as many.
Stan said, “There’s always the chance that she wasn’t lying, you know. Maybe we were wrong, and Emmett didn’t share. In that case, the embassy sprang a different leak.”
Harry blinked a few times. His hair wasn’t as pristine as usual; a few errant white strands had fallen across his high forehead.
Stan said, “Ideas?”
Still looking at the far table, Harry shook his head, and there was something so bleak in that movement that Stan’s suspicions rose again, all at once. The Paolo Bertolli in him was thinking,
Of course it’s him. And here you are, spilling everything to the man you should’ve caught last year
. Now
tell me how the Agency keeps people quiet.
“Come on, Harry. Speak to me.”
In reply, Harry lifted his glass and drained it completely. He set it down again and said, “How’re your secret-keeping skills?”
“I’m a model employee.”
“Then let’s take a walk.”
Harry paid for the drinks, and together they left the hotel through the front, headed past busy porters and taxis crowding the entrance ramp, then found a convenient spot to cross Mohammed Abd El-Wahab to reach the Nile, where narrow piers shot out into the water, harboring small boats. Instinctively, they sped up and slowed, sometimes stopping, in order to lose anyone who remained near them for more than a few seconds. Harry said, “First of all, let’s get one thing out of the way—you can forget about Jibril Aziz.”
“Why?”
“You’re right—I know the name, but that doesn’t matter now, because he’s dead. And no,” he said, raising a hand, “I’m not going to tell you how or where or when, because that’s not for you to know. Just don’t waste your time trying to find him.”
Dead?
Stan took a second to catch his breath. “Then how about why?”
“I’m just a station head. Don’t ask me things above my pay grade. Langley tells me what to do, and I huff and I puff and I do it.”
How, Stan wondered, was he to connect a dead Jibril Aziz to everything else? How was he ever going to put any of this together? “What’s the second thing?”
Harry rubbed the side of his neck as they reached a gangplank that led to a long restaurant boat. A sign in English called it the Veranda Restaurant and Lounge. Stan thought he was going to take them down the ramp for another drink, but Harry just stopped, reached into his jacket pocket, and took out a pack of Marlboro Lights. Cupping his hands, he lit one with a Zippo and inhaled deeply. A fresh breeze rose, bringing the rot-stink of the Nile along with voices from the restaurant boat, staff members complaining to one another as they set up for the evening’s business. Harry was stalling, and Stan’s anticipation brought out a layer of sweat beneath his shirt.
Eventually, Harry said, “Do you really think that you were the only one Langley came to last year? Those were some serious leaks.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Langley gave you a portion of the story and sent you off. After a while, you came back with Emmett.”
“What do you mean, a portion of the story?”
“I mean what I say, Stan. How many pieces of compromised intel did they share with you before you tracked them to Emmett?”
“Four.”
“There were at least
nine
pieces, Stan. At least, that’s how many pieces they gave me when they sent me off to find out who the leak was.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Don’t get self-righteous, Stan. You don’t have that right.”
Stan wasn’t sure what he meant, but the tone in Harry’s voice was clear. It was as close to a slap as Harold Wolcott ever came, and Stan felt the chill of his shirt sticking to him. The station chief placed a hand on a post beside the gangplank to steady himself. There were more voices from the boat, and he saw two waiters on deck, shouting fiercely at one another about something, and that was when Stan finally got it. Stupid, stupid Stan finally understood that, despite what their emissary had said, Langley hadn’t trusted him at all. He felt flushed. Aloud, he said, “They were testing me.”
“They were testing us both, Stan. Why do you think I didn’t throw Emmett at Langley? I saw you walk in like you’d been handpicked by God to dig for a mole, and I knew you had only been given a few cards to deal with. You were starting with limited intelligence.”
“And who did your evidence point toward?”
Harry exhaled smoke. “Emmett, too. But the difference between us is that I believed him.”
Stan swallowed hard. “Which is another way of saying you weren’t sure you could trust me.”
“Who trusts anyone these days?” Harry said, then put a heavy hand on Stan’s shoulder. “Don’t take it personally. In a situation like this, everything should be examined, and if you’re missing some crucial piece of information it’s best to assume you don’t know
anything.
I do know how those planners in Virginia think, though. Sometimes they’re like string theorists—what’s real is not real. Hell, it’s possible that there was no compromised intel in the first place.”
“You believe that?” Stan asked, thinking of the mutilated undercover agent outside Homs.
That
was real.
Harry didn’t bother answering, but he said, “If the evidence we got pointed at Emmett, yet it now turns out that Emmett wasn’t giving away anything, then one possibility would be that Langley wanted to get rid of Emmett. It’s not unprecedented.”
A way to keep him quiet,
Stan thought—Omar Halawi’s warning. He was gradually recovering from his humiliation, considering this new idea. “Emmett talked to Jibril Aziz. Did he know about Stumbler?”
Harry nodded. “I needed his help on the economics. He asked to see the whole plan, so I sent him a copy. But that doesn’t mean they were talking about Stumbler.”
“Is there any other subject you can imagine them discussing?”
Harry flicked away his cigarette. It arced down toward the murky water. On the boat, the two waiters were fighting now, fists held up close to their chins, like boxers from another century. “Let’s not assume we know anything, because we still don’t.”
“So what do we do now?”
Harry grinned. “Ask yourself what your father would do.”
“Sometimes, Harry, you’re a real dick.”
3
Sophie called from the spare cell phone as he was driving, and without preface she asked what he’d found. “Not much,” he said, then promised to be home soon.
He had begun the day full of good intentions, still regretting his lie about Balašević, but he realized that he couldn’t open up to her yet. Not until he had a better idea of what was going on. Harry was right—to assume that they really knew anything was folly, and he was terrified of saddling her with half-truths and rumors that would eat away at her. He believed he understood to some degree what she was going through, and he knew how, in the absence of verifiable truths, guilt and paranoia could ruin a person. Her last moments with her husband had been spent admitting to an affair—how could she not be broken by this?
He stopped by a restaurant for takeout, and when he got home Sophie was at her iPad, sitting exactly where he had left her. Her skin was pink, though—she must have gotten some sun on the terrace, perhaps gazing at those pyramids. She looked serious. “Something?” he asked as he gave her a kiss, but she shook her head. She was looking at Yahoo! News.
He presented grilled chicken, and though she played along well he felt in his bones that she was keeping something from him. She said, “Did you find out about Jibril Aziz?”
He covered his hesitation by walking into the kitchen to plate the food. “Not much,” he called to her. “Just his position in the Office of Collection Strategies. I sent him an e-mail—maybe he’ll get back to me.”
“No phone number?”
“None,” he lied.
“Why not?”
Because he’s a corpse,
Stan wanted to say, but he’d thought through this on his drive home. Aziz was Sophie’s only solid lead, and if she knew he was dead there would be no reason for her to stay. “Sometimes they don’t list numbers,” he said, muddling his way through some semblance of bureaucratic logic. “Either they’re changing offices or the section head wants them undisturbed because of a project.”
“How about a wife? A family?”
“None,” he lied again, remembering the panicky woman on the phone.
He could hear the frustration in her silence. He said, “I’ve got a few leads I can follow up on tomorrow.”
“Like what?”
“Well, he’s Libyan by birth, and I’ve sent out feelers to some of the exile groups mentioned in the Stumbler memos.” He was surprised by the fluidity of his own invention. “If he’s moving in their circles, we should be able to track him down easily.”
“Okay,” he heard her mutter.
How much did they lie to one another? he wondered as he collected utensils. How often had they lied? He flashed suddenly on his own parents—a father who lived by lies, and a mother who allowed her husband’s lies to drive her to alcoholism. Though divorce had not been a part of their worldview, by the time his father died they were only a washed-out facsimile of a married couple.
Maybe this was why he decided, despite his fears, to be a little more open with Sophie. He wanted something lasting with her, something more permanent in his life of transience—and that required a measure of risk. Not much, but some. Over dinner, he said, “I need to tell you a few things about Emmett.”
He told her that, last year, he had discovered Emmett was leaking information. He paused, searching for a reaction in her stony gaze. He found nothing, so he said, “Emmett was reporting to Zora Balašević.”
She blinked a few times, digesting this, then made the connection that he’d feared would be her first stop. “You pretended you’d never heard of her. You
lied
to me.”
“You caught me off guard. I’m sorry, I won’t do that again.”
“You lied,” she repeated.
He saw the hurt in her face and felt the desire to slam his own face against the edge of the table. Instead, he said, “You just appeared. Suddenly, back in my life. I was confused. I made a mistake, and I’m sorry. But I’m telling you now: I won’t do it again.” That, perhaps, was the biggest lie. “Do you believe me?”
The hurt was taking residence in her features. She nodded almost imperceptibly, but it was a nod, then she said, “Go on.”
He cleared his throat and wiped his lips with a napkin. “When I discovered it, I confronted him. I told him to cut it out. Do that, and no one need ever know. But I think he was more scared of whatever Balašević was holding over his head. I could have just reported to Langley, but that would have ended in disaster. Instead, I brought it to Harry.”
After a while of staring, she said, “He told me this. Before. It.”
He frowned. “About me, too?”
She nodded again, and the understanding flooded into him.
This
was the secret she’d been carrying the previous night, the distance he’d felt between them. She’d known from the start that he was holding back, and she’d been waiting for this moment. He’d been right to open up to her. He watched her get up from the dining table and sit on the sofa, where she’d apparently spent most of the day. She said, “Where is Zora?”
He followed her and settled down beside her. “Serbia. She went back home in September. Since Emmett was gone there was no reason for her to stay.”
Sophie blinked, taking this in. He waited for her to ask more, for the questions had to have been numerous, but she didn’t push yet. He said, “She told Emmett she was working for the Serbs. That was a lie.”
She raised her head to look squarely at him, squinting. “What? Are you sure?”
“My Serb contact says that by then she was working for the Egyptians.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I don’t believe anybody.” After a lengthy silence, he added, “But, yes, I suppose I do believe him.”
Her gaze wandered around the room before returning to him, eyes moist. “He told me he was innocent. Emmett.”
“He told me that, too.”
“Why didn’t you believe him?”
Stan sighed. “Because he met with her.”
“How often?” she asked, interest now in her face.
“Just once that we verified. But we had a look at his computer—he took home the same files that were leaked.”
She nodded at that, and while she looked as if she might cry, she also looked as if she believed him, so he didn’t bother saying that Balašević also claimed that Emmett had been innocent. What was the point? Finally, she said, “What kind of disaster?”