She said, “Serbs been humiliated through history. Usually, by others, but sometimes by first sin of humanity, its own government. We been too bashful, you understand? Too forgiving. It’s time for Serbs to take his place on historical stage. Tesla, greatest of scientists, was our genius. Tito was one of world’s great leaders. We make most soulful music, and we know this world better than Americans. Forgive me, but this is true. We are brave and strong. We done with humiliation. This is our decade.”
Her name, of course, was Zora. A name that sounded like something out of Buck Rogers.
History would later prove her wrong about nearly everything, but in 1991, drunk on their newfound authenticity, there was no way to know this. Zora was right about one thing, though: “The war just starting. In Vukovar you can to see it. It’s small now, but will grow. We are happy—you see?—to get rid of Slovenes, but Croats want to steal our coast. Who pay for those beaches? Bosnia is next. There will be fire—believe me—and fire will purge Yugoslavia of everybody except most loyal.”
She was mad, certainly, but it was a kind of madness Sophie had never been introduced to before. Zora was no longer dismissing these ignorant Americans—she seemed, instead, to be holding out a hand, inviting them to join her. “Sofia,” she said, leaning close, hot breath on her ear and long red-tipped fingers squeezing her wrist, “you are beautiful. Beautiful girls understand better than beautiful men. It is in soul.”
Sophie was shaking her head no. “I don’t believe in the soul.”
Zora pulled back in surprise. “That a woman with
as
much soul as you, you don’t believe in it?” Then she leaned close and kissed Sophie heavily on the lips. Sophie didn’t know how long it lasted, but she remembered the taste of cigarettes, the dampness of saliva.
From somewhere far away, Emmett was saying, “Well.”
Then it was over, and Zora was licking her lips. “You believe. I taste it.”
What had happened? Where had they ended up? It had all felt so innocent and simple and happily naive, and then Zora had stepped into their lives—both their lives, for now she was reaching across to clutch Emmett’s forearm, pulling him close so that their three heads formed a small huddle. She noticed that Emmett’s mouth had formed a twitching, longing smile, but Zora didn’t give him the kiss he obviously expected. Instead, she spoke to them both.
“You want to see? You want to know?”
What was she talking about? Did it matter? Emmett said, “That’s why we’re here.”
While Sophie didn’t know what was on Emmett’s mind—a ménage à trois, perhaps—she knew what was in her own head: a small boy on the Charles Bridge, throwing her Lenin into the river. Yes, she wanted to know what even the small boys in this part of the world knew, the thing that had escaped her all her sheltered life.
Eventually, Zora drifted off into the crowd and disappeared. They asked their new friends about her, and Borko said he’d heard about her. “Dangerous—you know, criminal friends. I don’t know what she’s about, but you want to watch out.”
By the time they got back to the Hotel Putnik at three that morning, famished again, they made exhausted love in their uncomfortable bed. Afterward, they discussed their night, still dazzled by the intensity of it all. They didn’t know what to make of Zora, but doubted they would ever see her again. They would stay the week, then they would take the long train ride to Vienna to catch their flight home. In fact, the joy of that night had tempered Emmett’s urgent desire for the real world. The funland of throbbing bass drums and hot flashes on the dance floor had been so liberating that they both suspected they would need the entire week just to absorb it.
But plans are best left on the cutting room floor, for it was during their dismal hotel breakfast that Emmett looked up from his toast and, eyes widened, said, “Oh shit.”
“What?”
There she was, pulling up a chair to sit with them. Zora looked clean and fresh and hungry enough to eat them both. “Sofia, Emmett, I want you should meet my friends. I think you are not ordinary Americans. I think you can to appreciate our beautiful country.”
Neither answered at first. Sophie was remembering Borko’s warning:
Dangerous—you know, criminal friends.
Zora said, “You look worried. Why? This is wonderful thing. I invite you
into
my country. This is not land of discos. It is land of families and friends and great love. And…” She paused as something occurred to her; then she smiled and held up a long-fingered hand. “And I promise not to be bore. No politics. You are my guests.”
5
On Sunday morning Stan made his desire obvious, and after one more bout of sex a fresh wave of guilt threatened to drown her: Emmett was being buried in mere hours. It wasn’t the burial itself, but the fact that the sex had given her a flash of amnesia. Once she got Stan out of the apartment, she rushed to shower his smell off of her skin.
She would go, she had decided during that long sleepless night. As quietly as she’d arrived in Cairo she would turn around and fly out again, complete her journey to Boston, and while she would miss the funeral she could at least don black and try to reclaim some of the relationships that had once made Sophie Kohl that most refreshing of words:
normal.
Though many arguments could have swayed her, it was Stan who had inadvertently convinced her. In bed she’d felt the full and overbearing weight of his passion, and she could read his mind in the movement of his hands, the thrust of his hips, the flick of his tongue. What he saw in their future was precisely that: an act of lovemaking—lovemaking, not sex—repeated and repeated until it became common law. Until Stan became the new Emmett.
Did this thought disgust her? No, but what Stan would never understand was that nothing about their relationship had ever been clean and never would be. When he’d first made his feelings clear at the embassy Halloween party, she’d duly reported this to Zora.
I have a feeling that if I let him, he would eat me whole.
Then let him
was her answer.
Live a little.
That’s not me, Zora.
Take a look at yourself,
draga
. Who is this
me
you speak of? Did you ever read Jean Genet?
Sophie hadn’t.
You should. He said, “Anyone who hasn’t experienced the ecstasy of betrayal knows nothing about ecstasy at all.”
Sophie didn’t know what to make of this.
And you know, don’t you, that if any suspicions arise in the embassy, you will need allies. Lay the groundwork now.
Had she only slept with him to protect herself? No, not really. She had always been attracted to Stan, but once the affair began she had never been able to find the point where attraction ended and self-preservation began, for when the guilt overcame her in that Dokki hotel she would steel herself with Zora’s words: She was laying the groundwork for her future security.
Certainly their relationship had grown beyond the confines of an insurance policy, but she knew how it had begun, and nothing would ever change that.
She found an EgyptAir flight leaving at nine thirty the next morning with a stop in London, and placed a reservation with her credit card, knowing that anyone would be able to trace her this way, but trying not to worry too much. Soon enough, she would leave all this behind.
She poured another coffee and stood at the kitchen counter, staring at Stan’s old cell phone, thinking. She dug out that cheap business card, then used Stan’s phone to dial. Only two rings, then: “Kiraly Andras.”
“Mr. Kiraly, it’s me.”
“Aha. I was expecting your call.” He sounded genuinely pleased to hear from her, some of the reservation gone from his voice. “I found something of interest.”
“What?”
“His wife’s phone number.”
“His … whose?”
“Mr. Jibril Aziz.”
She frowned, wondering suddenly if Andras Kiraly was playing a game—that might explain his change in mood. “But he’s not married.”
“I believe our information is up-to-date. She is also with child. Seven months, it says.”
Stan had told her that Aziz had no family; Kiraly was saying something else. “Please,” she said, “may I have that number?”
“Mrs. Kohl,” he said, his tone changing, dropping a half octave, “I am willing to give you this, but I think you will appreciate that our relationship needs to progress. I have been free with what information I have access to. I would appreciate some reciprocation.”
“Of course, Mr. Kiraly. I understand. The number, please.”
She scribbled it on a slip of paper, her hand trembling as the realization grew inside of her: Stan had been lying. Maybe about everything.
“A question,” said Kiraly. “Do you know the name Michael Khalil?”
“No,” she said, nearly a whisper, still stunned by how alone she was. “Should I know him?”
“Not necessarily. He claims to be an American FBI agent.”
“Claims?”
“We have our doubts. He had a conversation with Emmett on the day he was murdered. An unofficial meeting on the street. Liszt Ferenc Square.”
“I see,” she whispered, though she didn’t really see. All she could see was the phone number in front of her. Could this number give her all the answers she desired?
He said, “They were discussing something called Stumbler.”
She jolted out of her trance. “Stumbler? They were talking about
Stumbler
?”
“You know of this?”
“Take a look at WikiLeaks,” she said. “It’s an American plan for … for regime change. In Libya. Jibril Aziz dreamed it up. I think it’s why he met with Emmett.”
“Anything else?”
“It’s difficult, Mr. Kiraly. People here are not as helpful as I thought they would be.”
“I understand,” he said, then: “What if I send someone? I could have one of our people help you navigate the city.”
“No, thank you,” she said, because for the moment she had what she wanted: a phone number. With that, she might find an explanation for Emmett’s murder, or a hint. Maybe she would even learn that she had not been responsible for … for
I here for you
. Then she could leave in the morning with a clearer conscience, if only a little. “Really,” she said. “I’ll call you as soon as I know more.”
“Best of luck, Mrs. Kohl. And are we to remain silent about your location?”
“If you would be so kind, Mr. Kiraly.”
At twelve, she made the call, but had to hang up because Stan’s cell phone was out of credits, depleted by her call to Hungary. Or maybe it was just a gentle nudge from God, suggesting she take a moment to think about this.
God? What was she thinking?
She went to the kitchen and picked up Stan’s landline and dialed.
6
“Hello?” said a woman’s voice, sleepy.
“Mrs. Inaya Aziz?”
“This is she.”
“Uh, hi. I’m trying to get in touch with your husband, Jibril.”
Inaya Aziz paused. “Who is this?”
“Oh, sorry. My name is Sophie Kohl. Your husband doesn’t actually know me, but he knew my husband. What time is it there?” Quickly, she did the math in her head. “Oh, five in the morning. I’m so sorry.”
“Kohl?” said Inaya Aziz. She heard breaths. “You’re not … from the news?”
“Yes. You might have seen me on the news, about my husband.”
“He was killed?”
“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Aziz.”
“Inaya.”
“Inaya.”
Another moment of silence followed, until Inaya said, “What did you want to talk to Jibril about?”
“About my husband.”
“How does he know your husband?”
“They met a few times. Through work, I assume, but he might know something about what happened.”
Her reply was swift and logical: “Shouldn’t the police be calling him?”
“You’d think so, Inaya. But they don’t seem to be. Can you tell me how to get in touch with him?”
“If I knew, I would tell you.”
That was an answer Sophie hadn’t expected. “What can you tell me?”
“I can tell you he’s not here. I can tell you that he was supposed to call me two days ago, but he didn’t. I can tell you that I’m worried out of my mind.”
That was how it happened. Two women looking for the same man. One of them—Mrs. Inaya Aziz—seven months pregnant and unable to do a thing; the other woman in the ideal place to begin looking for him. “When he last called, he was still in Egypt,” Inaya said. “He was traveling with a man from the embassy named John.”
“John…” Sophie muttered, thinking. She didn’t think she knew any John from the embassy.
“He’d just left Marsa Matrouh, on his way to the Libyan border. But he was supposed to call me once he got to Ajdabiya.”
“Why was he going into Libya?”
“To help the revolution.”
Sophie closed her eyes, the phone pressed hard to her sore ear. She remembered Emmett’s obsession with the news from Libya.
Just a few well-placed bombs
… “How?”
“Excuse me?”
Sophie wasn’t sure of her own question, so she paused to regroup. “How did Jibril expect to help the revolution? He’s one man, after all.”
“Jibril’s not a soldier, Sophie. He’s an organizer. A single organizer can make as much difference as fifty soldiers.”
“He went in alone?”
“I told you. With a man from the embassy named John.”
“I mean, are you saying that the embassy
knew
he was going in? Or was it just him and this guy John?”
“You’re asking if he was authorized.”
“I suppose I am.”
Inaya paused, thinking through her answer. Was she wondering if this caller could be trusted? Finally, she said, “I think so. But he … he seemed to have something on them.”
“Them?”
“CIA.”
“Oh.”
“I mean, he didn’t
tell
me that, it was a suspicion I had. That he was holding something over their heads. When the protests began in Benghazi, he was very excited. His father was killed by Gadhafi—the man has been his obsession since childhood. He wanted to pack up and join the fight, but he couldn’t just go. He’s an analyst now. Then after a couple days he came home from work in a mood. Angry. I thought maybe he’d asked to go and was turned down. I was happy. But it turned out that he was already booked on a flight—bought with our own credit card. ‘They approved this?’ I asked. I couldn’t believe it. He told me they didn’t have a choice. I told him he was being stupid. We have a baby on the way, and I’m not working. We can’t afford him getting fired—or, God forbid, killed. But he wasn’t listening to me anymore—how can a wife and baby compare to the fate of an entire nation? He left two days later.”