He told Sayyid to keep him updated, then hung up. A light came on in the bedroom, and he heard Fouada: “Omar? What are you doing out there?”
He went to the bedroom door, leaned against the frame, his back aching. The sheets were up to her chin, and she was smiling dreamily. He said, “Work.”
“No more trips to the coast, okay?” she said. “My bones.”
He gave her a quiet laugh and came to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching out to hold her hand. “You’re not alone.”
“How did your meeting go?”
“Hard to say,” he said, then hesitated.
“Yes?”
“I have the feeling that Ali Busiri is playing at something.”
Her face darkened, her anger, years old by now, rising again. “Then you need to stop him.”
Had a single trip into the field with her husband really changed Fouada so much? He stared at her, holding her hand, remembering how she’d been decades ago, when they were younger and poorer and, if not happier, then at least more energetic. Theirs had been an arranged marriage, and so happiness had taken longer, but it had come.
Their bed was inviting, yet he really wouldn’t be able to sleep now. Not yet. “I need to step out again.”
She said, “Get the bastard, but don’t break yourself in the process.”
He kissed her high forehead, tasting her nightly creams.
On the drive to the office, Sayyid called to tell him that he had listened at Sophie Kohl’s door. “She’s getting ready for bed. Do you want me to make contact?”
“No,” he said. “Just wait.”
The night guards at the Interior Ministry were more lax than the day shift, and he was soon taking the elevator to the seventh floor, which was empty and dark. He powered up his computer, and once it was on he logged into the secure Web site, through which he found a database of flight manifests and a section marked “EXTERNAL TRAFFIC,” dealing solely with flights that had entered or left Egyptian territory. He chose the “BY PASSENGER NAME” form and typed “Rashid el-Sawy.” There were a few hits, but those were different el-Sawys. He tried “Michael Khalil,” then read through the results. The earliest one, in April of last year, was to Tripoli. What was Khalil doing in Tripoli? He had no family there, and by and large his work should have kept him in Egypt. In September there was the flight to Frankfurt to pass on Zora’s final payment, and on March 1—only five days ago—a trip to Munich, from which he had returned on the third. The ticket had been paid for in cash. Emmett Kohl had been killed on March 2.
He rubbed his eyes, wishing he’d picked up some tea on his way here. He let his mind drift back over what he’d learned during the last weeks. He thought of Emmett Kohl’s conviction that the American government wasn’t behind Stumbler, and Sophie Kohl’s excellent question:
Then why did they kill him?
Was the difference between human and machine logic really the explanation? What if the CIA really hadn’t killed Kohl? Then what followed?
Try the reverse, then: What if Emmett Kohl was killed because he
didn’t
believe America was behind Stumbler? Did this mean that Jibril, believing the opposite, was safe?
And what about Marsa Matrouh? Qasim was there, waiting for the arrival of Stumbler’s front line, yet he had heard nothing.
He went back to the computer and began searching the names of the men whose disappearances were to precede Stumbler, typing them one at a time. Yousef al-Juwali—still missing. Abdurrahim Zargoun—still missing. Waled Belhadj …
An article from
Le Monde,
which had just been posted online before its print appearance in the morning:
Last night, two workers discovered a body in a large sports bag at the lock in Soisy-sur-Seine.
The men called the police, who arrived at the scene at 18:54.
By morning, Sous-brigadier Bertrand Roux reported to journalists that the heavily decomposed corpse had been identified as Waled Belhadj, Libyan national, 41 years old, who had been missing since 20 February. Evidence suggests that he was shot in the head before being placed in the sports bag and deposited in the Seine. It is believed that he has been dead for more than a week.
Waled Belhadj was previously a member of the Association of the Democratic Libyan Front, which advocates democratic change in Libya. He moved to Paris from London in August 2009 after a disagreement with fellow members of the Democratic Libyan Front and was rumored to be establishing a new organization.
According to sources, a current Democratic Libyan Front member, Yousef al-Juwali, went missing in London on 19 February. Police are not able to confirm a connection between the murder and the disappearance.
Exhaustion was one thing, but he was starting to feel nauseous. This made no sense. Why take the men if they were only to be shot in the head? Who would have wanted that? Who—
Within him, a spark struck. Great understandings were rare in Omar’s experience, but when they came they did not come piecemeal. A spark was struck, and suddenly there was a whole furnace blazing. Such was the case now. The fire woke him up, burning away the nausea and the cobwebs. The puzzle pieces flew up in the air and settled back down in crystalline perfection. No, no sickness now. Just curiosity and the aesthetic pleasure of discovery. Then, as he examined the pieces, looking for anomalies that might rebut the entire theory, the curiosity twisted into a low, burning anger.
He called Sayyid. “Yes, boss?”
“She’s still there?”
“Yes.”
“If she tries to leave the room, stop her. Understand?”
“I … yes, I understand.”
“I’ll be there soon.”
Before leaving, he checked the flight manifests again, and saw that Sophie Kohl had reserved a seat on a 9:30
A.M.
flight back to America. If only she’d left yesterday. If only she’d skipped Cairo altogether. But she hadn’t, and now it was too late.
3
He was impatient, but impatience would not serve him well. This had to be done right, or not at all.
When he brought Sophie Kohl home, he was reminded again of Jibril. He was too soft, he realized. Caring for strays was becoming his fate.
Fouada had never learned English, but she knew how to take care of someone without words. He told her, “She’s been through a lot. She may become angry. If you like, I’ll ask someone to stay here with you. Mahmoud could come.”
Fouada waved that away. “This is about the bastard?”
“I believe it is.”
“Then I will handle it. You do what you have to do.” She kissed him on the cheek, then offered Sayyid some tea. A look from Omar convinced him to say no.
He and Sayyid spoke in the stairwell. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” the young man asked.
“When it’s verified, yes. Not before. But I need your trust. Do I have it?”
“Of course.”
“We’ll need Mahmoud as well. Can you see to that?”
A nod.
“Tomorrow, though, all three of us will be in the ministry like usual, as if nothing is amiss. By the end of the day it should be settled.”
Sayyid ran his fingers through his thick hair, nodding.
“Go take a nap, and I’ll see you in the office.”
By the time he returned to the apartment, Sophie Kohl had fallen asleep on the guest bed, on top of the sheets, her clothes still on. Fouada said, “The girl is exhausted.”
“So am I.”
He was at his desk by nine, running through his mental list of items to look into. He went back into history, rechecking things he already knew, in particular Hisham Minyawi’s disaster in 2005, when the source he’d gained in the Libyan embassy was executed. Omar walked over to Hisham’s office on the opposite end of the building and knocked. Hisham was in his midforties, his thick mustache prematurely gray, with a heavy paunch and bleak eyes. He was smoking a cigarette and wrapping up a phone call when Omar arrived. He waved the older man in. “Omar,” he said, shaking his head. “Busy times, no?”
“Truly,” Omar said, closing the door and taking a seat in the smoky room. “How’s the family?”
“Very well. Fouada?”
“Excellent.” Omar leaned closer. “I wanted to ask you about Yousef Rahim, from the Libyan embassy.”
The bleakness in Hisham’s eyes deepened. “Any reason you’re revisiting my failures, Omar? That was six years ago.”
Omar shook his head. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m looking into other things, and wondering if this connects.”
Hisham seemed to relax, just a little. Being reminded of that black spot on his record still made him sore. “What’s to tell? It was an easy trick. Yousef was a queer. He’d been visiting boys over in Heliopolis, some dank little underground club. I offered him silence, as well as some compensation.”
“So what happened?”
He lit another cigarette, frowning as he remembered the news of the quick execution in Tripoli. “I don’t know, Omar. I ran it perfectly. No one could have known we were meeting. Full security procedures.” He shrugged. “Maybe Yousef broke down and admitted it to the embassy.”
“You believe that?”
Hisham shook his head.
“Then what other possibilities are there?”
Hisham opened his mouth, thought better of it, then shook his head again. “Ask Allah. You’re the religious one, aren’t you? Or you used to be.”
Omar climbed to his feet. He had been a religious man a long time ago, but he’d lost track along the way. He’d ignored the mosque and, until recently, prayer—that most basic requirement of a Muslim had seemed beyond his means. Praying with that frightened man in Marsa Matrouh, to his surprise, had made him feel lighter. Yet as he walked back to his office even his faith slipped from his mind, for he was thinking about the words Hisham hadn’t had the courage to speak aloud. The only possible way Yousef Rahim could have been uncovered was if someone in this office had leaked to Tripoli.
He had to wait until eleven for an audience with Busiri, whose morning had been full of meetings upstairs, discussing personnel changes. The revolution was trickling slowly down through the departments of the Interior Ministry, and Busiri had received a list of names whose continued employment in the Central Security Forces would be unpalatable to any new administration. He was collecting the files on these employees when Omar tapped on his door. “Omar! You look like hell.”
He came in and settled in a chair. “Fouada’s having sleepless nights,” he said. “Which means I’m having them, too.”
“I’m sure she’s worth it,” Busiri muttered, his eyes back on the files. “Did you know we have to say good-bye to seven people right in this office?”
He passed over the list of names, and Omar read it. He knew all these people, knew the ways in which they had, over the years, abused their position. He passed it back. “Nothing unexpected there.”
“But still,” Busiri said, and turned the paper facedown on his desk, finally giving him his full attention. “What news?”
Omar cleared his throat. “I’d like to know what Rashid el-Sawy is up to.”
“Rashid? Why do you ask?”
“Because last night he met with Sophie Kohl. He tried to convince her to work with him to find Jibril Aziz.”
Busiri looked around his wide desk until he’d spotted his Camels. He lit one. “Did Rashid tell you this?”
“Mrs. Kohl did.”
He nodded, smoke wafting around his head, as if he already knew they had talked. Perhaps he did. “Any idea where she is now?”
“Isn’t she in her hotel?” Omar asked, full of innocence.
“Apparently not.”
“Then she’s with Rashid.”
Busiri shook his head.
“Why was Rashid meeting with her?”
“He’s following leads on his own. I’ll be sure to ask him. Why were
you
meeting with her?”
“I wanted to question her about her husband’s murder.”
“Anything interesting?”
Omar nodded slowly. “She told me she’d been staying with Stanley Bertolli. Did you know about that?”
“Of course.”
“Apparently,” he said, breathing steadily to make his lie come off more smoothly, “Mr. Bertolli believes the solution to the mystery of her husband’s death lies not with the Americans, but with someone else. The Libyans, perhaps.”
Busiri’s eyebrows rose sharply. “Libya?”
Omar nodded, palms up, as if the proposition were just as ridiculous to him. “He thinks that the exiles who disappeared were taken by the Libyans, not by the Americans. Libya gets rid of the exiles, and Stumbler dies before it can start. The question is: How did the Libyans find out about Stumbler in the first place? This is the question Emmett Kohl wondered about. If Bertolli can figure that out, then he’ll be able to find Kohl’s murderer.”
There was only a moment’s pause before Busiri recovered. “But we know, don’t we? Zora Balašević’s ethical sense was about as lasting as Hosni’s portraits are now. She sold to us. She sold to Libya.”
It was an answer he had expected, for he’d gone through the various permutations of this conversation all night long. It was the only explanation he could have offered.
“Maybe I should get in touch with Paul Johnson, then,” Omar suggested. “I could tell him to pass that on to Bertolli.”
Busiri waved the proposition away. “I’m meeting with Bertolli this afternoon. I’ll tell him myself.”
“You’re meeting him?”
“He requested it.”
Omar nodded.
“Anything else?”
Omar shook his head and climbed to his feet. He took another walk down the corridor, and in the break room found Sayyid and Mahmoud talking on the sofa, a small television playing Al Jazeera. He nodded at the two men, then turned up the volume until it blared the gunfire of Libyan rebels into that small room. He sat close to Mahmoud while Sayyid pretended to be watching television. “I need you to watch someone today. Do not lose him.”
Mahmoud nodded gruffly, then said, “Who?”
4
He left a half hour early and was home by five, where he found Fouada in the kitchen surrounded by the pungent aroma of freshly fried falafel. Sophie Kohl was resting on the terrace. “I’m beginning to find her dull,” Fouada whispered to him. “Nothing like Jibril.”