Kwambai seemed troubled by the idea, which Nabil had expected. Though he had an attic apartment over in Ngara West he could use initially, he wanted to give the politician a reason beyond money to keep security tight.
“We would of course pay you for the trouble,” Nabil insisted.
He returned to Somalia and filled in his comrades on the developments. He asked Ghedi and Dalmar to come back with him for the final stage, and after a week, as they settled on their path back through the border, Kwambai called in a panic. “It’s off, Nabil. We’re not doing this.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Sam Wallis? One of my friends in the NSIS knows him. It’s the work name of Sam Matheson. Of the CIA.”
The question posed itself again: Was this a test? It didn’t look like one, but the Imam, he knew, plotted in the labyrinthine way he interpreted the Koran. His reach was long, and his thoughts were deep. Might he have knowingly sent an American agent to perform the examination?
But this was what happened when you began thinking in layers: It was addictive. There was always another layer to be discovered, another truth to be found. He said, “I never told you his name.”
“Don’t be petty, Nabil. You should be pleased I caught this early.”
With a smoothness that surprised even himself, Nabil said, “I was already aware of this.”
Stunned silence. “You were?”
“Of course. It wasn’t important for you to know.”
“Not important? Are you mad? Of course it’s important! I’m not bringing a CIA agent into my house.”
“He’s not going anywhere near your house,” Nabil said, not knowing if this was true or not. “Only the banker.”
It seemed to calm him some. “But still. This isn’t what I was expecting.”
“If that’s how you feel, Mr. Kwambai, then we can double your fee.”
Silence again, but there was nothing stunned about it. It was the silence of mental calculations.
“That’s my offer,” Nabil said, feeling very sure of himself, more sure than he had in a long time. “If you’re not interested, I’ll take my business elsewhere. We’ll know not to approach you again.”
“Let’s not be rash,” said Kwambai.
On Wednesday he again found Sam Matheson in his room at the Intercontinental. There were heavy rings beneath his eyes, sunburn across his forehead and cheeks, and Nabil wondered if the cross-country race had taken a serious toll on him. He’d verified that a man named Sam Wallis had registered, and that his car had come in eleventh among thirty-eight participants. According to the records, he’d originally signed on with a partner, one Saïd Mourit, but Mourit had been dropped before the race began.
He gave no sign that he knew Matheson’s real name, only suggested that they continue their conversation in the street.
“Too claustrophobic?” asked Sam.
“Exactly.”
In the nearby city market, they walked on packed earth among the crowds and vendors hiding under umbrellas. Nabil quietly said, “Mr. Matheson, I know who you work for.”
To his credit, the American didn’t slow his step. Above, the blazing sun made his sunburn look all the worse. A nonchalant grin remained plastered to his face, and he shrugged. “Who do I work for?”
“The CIA.”
“My assumption was that if I’d told you, you wouldn’t have accepted the deal.”
“You were right.”
Beside a table piled high with overpriced fabrics, he turned to face Nabil. He was a few inches shorter, but the confidence in his movements made him seem taller than he was. “The offer’s the same, Nabil. Those pirates are a public menace. They’re screwing with business. We’re getting pressured from all sides to get any kind of intel we can.”
“Even from people like us?”
Sam waved that off. “Your group’s new. No one knows about you. In a few years, maybe we’ll pay the pirates for intel on you. It all depends on what our masters ask for.”
“This is something we have in common,” Nabil said as he gazed at the intelligence agent who had suddenly opened himself up in a way that he would never have done. It was almost suicidal. What he’d expected was a denial, and then a quick withdrawal. Perhaps even this had been calculated by Rome.
Or perhaps, he thought suddenly, Ansar al-Islam had nothing to do with this, and it was precisely how the American presented it. The CIA just wanted some information.
It was time to make a decision.
“And this man from the bank who’s coming tomorrow?” he asked. “What is he?”
The smile faded from the American’s lips before returning. It was a momentary lapse-less than a second-but Nabil didn’t forget it. Sam said, “His name’s Paul Fisher. Yes, he’s an agent, too. But the money is real. After he’s finished the transfer you can do what you like to him.”
“You want us to kill your colleague?”
“I didn’t say that,” Sam corrected. “It’s up to you. Consider it a gift. If you like, you can claim responsibility, and he’ll be your first public execution.”
“A videotaped beheading. Is that what you imagine?”
“It’s not like you haven’t done it before.”
That was unexpected. “Have I?”
Sam Matheson licked his lips-nervousness… or appetite? “As I say, it’s up to you.”
It was only then that Nabil knew what to do. This man, whether or not he was from the CIA, had been sent by the Imam. Like the blinding sunlight pouring down on them, the realization fell upon him, and he knew. He was to kill a man named Paul Fisher. That was the Imam’s desire. Why? Matheson was little help on this; perhaps he didn’t know.
“He’s become a liability. We don’t need him anymore.”
Nabil turned toward Koinange Street, began walking, and reached into his pocket. He took out a pair of mirrored sunglasses and slipped them on, signaling Ghedi and Dalmar. “It’s a remarkable gift. First, money, and then one of your own. I just wonder why the CIA would give him to us. It’s not as if you couldn’t get rid of him yourself.”
“Despite what people say, the CIA prefers not to kill its own employees.”
“You’re very wicked, Sam.”
Sam Matheson didn’t answer. He seemed to consider the statement as they reached the street, and the van drew up, its large door sliding open. Ghedi and Dalmar jumped out and grabbed Matheson by the biceps and flung him inside. Nabil watched the door close again and the van jerk forward and swerve away. He watched it disappear into the afternoon traffic.
As he walked back to his car, he rummaged through his pocket and came up with a pack of Winstons. He lit one and inhaled deeply. It was the first one he’d had in three days; he was doing well.
When you’re being watched, all your actions, however small, take on a presence of their own-each has its own significance and its own variety of interpretations. You light a cigarette, and that might mean that you’re nervous, you’re relaxed, you’ve been co-opted by Western forms of decadence, or that you’re desperately stopping time in order to invent your next lie.
He had to stop thinking this way. If Ansar al-Islam was watching, the only important detail was the taking of Sam Matheson. They would know that Aslim Taslam left hesitation to those with less faith.
Nabil took Sam Matheson’s dry, surprisingly heavy hand from the table and dropped it back into the crumpled plastic bag, then slipped the bag into the pocket of his jacket as Kwambai fed Paul Fisher the lie: “Your suitcase, yes, full of clothes-you hadn’t even unpacked. But no magical computer.”
Nabil disagreed with this tactic, but Kwambai had been living with the doublespeak of politics for too long. He no longer knew how to be straight, and now he’d gone over the deep end. Yesterday’s evidence had been irrefutable. Nabil had returned from the market, having stopped at a mosque along the way to offer his Asr prayer. After Sam Matheson, he’d felt the need for some community. He’d driven up the hill to find Ghedi in the driveway, looking distraught. “He killed him,” Ghedi said. “Kwambai killed the American.”