That summer in Beirut, where the pieces all came together for her. The ancient Roman ruins and Islamic mosaic art and listening to jazz late at night and the musicality and poetry of everyday Arabic, the Corniche and the beach clubs, the scent of fresh-baked sfouf and baklava, the call of the muezzins from the mosques, the clubs and the hot Arab boys who looked at her like they could eat her for breakfast, and she knew that whatever happened in her life, the Middle East would be part of it.
Now, descending to Beirut-Rafic Hariri airport, she wondered if the pieces would come together for her again in Beirut. This never-ending run she had been on since the night of the aborted RDV with Nightingale in Ashrafieh. Because she didn’t believe that asshole Fielding had killed himself. And if he hadn’t, it meant someone had killed him. Someone still out there. And that like her, an operation was still running.
She took a taxi from the airport. Riding in traffic on El Assad Road past the golf course, the driver, a Christian, telling her about the preparations for Easter in town and how his wife’s mother made the best maamoul-little Easter cakes made with walnuts and dates and topped with icing, that time of year-in the city. She had him drop her off near the clock tower in Nejmeh Square and walked the few blocks to the CIA’s cover office, where she was to meet with Ray Saunders, the new Beirut station chief.
Walking past the crowded outdoor tables of the street café under the old arched portico, she couldn’t help remembering the last time she’d been here, to see Davis Fielding, who’d basically told her that her career was over. It seemed a lifetime ago.
She went inside and up the stairs, pressed the doorbell, said who she was into the intercom and was buzzed in. A young American man in a plaid shirt had her wait in a small reception area till Saunders came out and greeted her. Saunders was a tall, thin, intense-looking man in his forties with long sideburns that gave him a vaguely Eastern European look.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said, leading her to Fielding’s old office overlooking Rue Maarad. “Frankly, I was surprised to get your call. So was Saul.”
“Is he pissed I didn’t come straight back to Langley?” she asked.
“He said he couldn’t stop you from coming here if he tried,” he said, and gestured for her to sit down. “By the way, congrats. I heard about Abu Ubaida. Nice work.”
“I don’t know what to say. My being here might be a wild goose chase.”
“When I told him, Saul said you had a bug up your ass about Davis Fielding’s death. Is that what this is about?”
“You know it is,” she said. “Doesn’t it concern you? If Fielding didn’t commit suicide, then whatever reason or operation was the cause is still running. For all you know, you could be a target.”
“I’m curious. From what I heard, you and Fielding weren’t exactly a love match. Why are you so concerned about his death?” he asked, studying her with frank interest.
“Look, Fielding was a dick and no loss to anyone. He was going back to face the career equivalent of a firing squad at Langley and I’ll bet you’re scrambling right now to clean up his mess and figure out how badly Beirut Station’s been compromised.”
“Sounds like a pretty good reason to commit suicide to me,” Saunders said quietly.
“Yeah, but you’re not Davis. He wasn’t principled enough for that. Someone killed him-and I have to believe it has something to do with the actress, Rana Saadi, and Nightingale. That was my op and that means there is a loose end.”
He studied her, not saying anything. From outside, a car horn honked, starting a chorus of honking from other cars. The Beirut cinq á sept traffic, she thought mechanically.
“That’s what I think too. We found something, but I’ve been working with a handicap,” he said.
“What?”
“I didn’t know him. You did.” He motioned to her to move her chair around to his side of the desk.
“What did you find?” she asked.
“This,” he said, indicating his computer screen. It was a hidden-camera video of this very office. Carrie automatically looked up at the joint where the wall met the ceiling where the camera had to be located, but it was too small and well hidden in the molding. The screen showed Davis Fielding sitting at his desk, his back to the camera. Suddenly, he was on the floor, a Glock pistol in his limp hand, a pool of blood spilling from his head.
“There’s a three-minute-forty-seven-second gap,” Saunders said. “The dead man didn’t do it.”
“Can you freeze it?” Carrie asked.
“Why? Do you see something?”
She peered intently at the image of Fielding lying on the floor.
“There’s something wrong. I can’t put my finger on it, but as Saul would say, something’s definitely not kosher.”
“It’s not the angle he’s lying at. We had a forensics expert calculate that the body would fall in that position.”
“Is that all you’ve got?” she asked.
He shook his head. “We’ve got gaps in security cameras in the reception room, the staircase, the front and back entrances to the building. Longer, but all for the same period and on the same night Fielding was killed. Somebody didn’t want us to see him.”
“How do you know it’s a him?”
“Because he missed one,” Saunders said, switching the view on the screen. It showed a view from a roof security camera looking down at Rue Maarad beyond the overhang of the portico. “The roof camera’s digital recording disc was on a separate circuit. Watch. We’ve been able to extrapolate from the time gap. This is about forty seconds after the gap ended.”
On the screen, a man in a coverall appeared out from under the portico, crossing the street and walking away toward Nejmeh Square. She could only see his back.
“Not much to go on. Assuming that’s our killer,” she said.
“We found something else. This is from four days earlier, after one A.M.”
Another video, same view, appeared on the screen. A man in a similar coverall was caught walking toward the building briefly before he disappeared under the portico. To Carrie’s eye, it looked like there was a company patch or logo on the front.
“Go back. What’s that coverall say?”
Saunders rewound and froze the image, which, given the darkness and distance, was too fuzzy to get a clear glimpse of either the man’s face or the company name.
“Can’t you digitally enhance the image?”
“We did,” he said, opening another window and zeroing in on the patch. Although still indistinct, the patch read “Sadeco Conciergerie” in French and Arabic.
“Looks like a janitorial service. I’m sure you checked the company,” she said.
“Of course. It’s our janitorial service all right, but he’s not our regular janitor and according to Sadeco, no such person has ever worked there. We black-bagged their offices one night. Went through all their personnel files. They were telling the truth. Whoever he was, he wasn’t one of theirs.”
“What do your assets tell you?”
“Nothing. Not a damned thing.”
“And the Lebanese ISF? Or the police?”
“As soon as they realized who we were, they backed off and referred us to the Interior Minister, who happens to be from Hezbollah. We’re dead in the water. Do you have any ideas?”
“Give me prints of the two images: the one of Fielding and the mystery janitor. Oh, and a head shot of Fielding, something easily identifiable.”
“What are you thinking?”
“If this guy in the picture, whoever the hell he is, has got something to do with Rana or Hezbollah or Abu Nazir, I’ll find him,” she said, getting up, passing him her cell phone so he could add his cell number as a contact.
That night, having a margarita at the bar in the Phoenicia Hotel, Carrie took out the print of Fielding’s body and tried to spot what was wrong with it. The image had been shot from above, from the hidden ceiling camera, and behind. A body and a gun. What was wrong with the image? For one thing, it wasn’t the way she was used to looking at Davis. How was she used to looking at him? She reoriented the image in her mind as it would be if she were facing him. And then she saw it.