“No one told me about that.”
“They tell me you pay three hundred euros.”
That came to about five hundred Libyan dinar, and he paid in a mix of currencies from Jibril’s stash—dinar, dollar, and euro. Only after the payment was completed did the man shake his hand.
“Congratulations on the new Libya,” John told him, but the man was already walking away.
3
It was a little before ten on Friday morning when he parked in Heliopolis, in the northeast of the city. He considered himself lucky to have gotten the car, with its holes and the bloodstains he’d wiped at and covered with a towel, all the way to Cairo, but he didn’t imagine his luck would hold out forever, so he found a spot free of police on a narrow side street northwest of Othman Ibn Afan. He took a photo of the Arabic street sign with his phone and brought Jibril’s things on the epic bus trip down to the Nile Road, a hot ride that grew more cramped and rancid as the buildings closed in, a weary urban claustrophobia taking hold. Cities the world over share a tendency toward chaos, and Cairo was no different, the bus surprised at every turn by traffic jams and collisions and surly street vendors who didn’t want to push their carts out of the way. The bus driver spent half his time hanging out of the window, waving and shouting at people who wouldn’t conform to his rules of the road.
A boy standing too close to his hip stared up at him, smiling. A pair of women, one in a hijab, the other’s face hidden in a niqab, sat behind two men loudly arguing with hands and flexed fingers. He knew he smelled bad, and whenever women passed, glancing his way, he averted his eyes, ashamed.
Finally, they made it to the Nile Road, and John walked the rest of the way, muscles stiff and brain preparing to shut down from fatigue. From the arid desert he’d returned to the land of smells: roasting meats, car exhaust, spices, and sweat. He finally reached the quay, where the claustrophobia evaporated along the banks of the great river. He hurried past the stone lions, speckled with graffiti, that flanked the entrance to the low Qasr Al Nile Bridge that stretched across the Nile to Gezira Island. This had been one of the flash points of the revolution—black-uniformed Central Security conscripts had gradually lost a battle against the press of thousands trying to reach Tahrir Square, and, once the protesters had broken through, the security forces had scattered, running for their lives. While there were still burn marks on the sidewalk from flaming vehicles, the bridge was calm, lined with old men propped against the green steel railings with fishing poles. Once he reached Gezira Island he caught a bus north, deeper into Zamalek. It was nearly one o’clock by the time he made it to his third-story walkup on Ismail Mohamed, a leafy street of terraced apartments, cafés, and small hotels. Climbing the stairs, he felt as if he, too, had been killed in the desert.
It was a small apartment, partly because he lived alone and partly because he couldn’t afford anything bigger in upscale Zamalek. And he was in Zamalek because, beyond a few phrases for waiters and taxi drivers, his Arabic was a joke, and Zamalek was where the illiterate expats could hide safely away from the realities of North Africa.
The first thing he did was put away Jibril’s things. The passport and wallet went into a large Saiidi tea tin in his awkwardly narrow kitchen. The leather-bound book wouldn’t fit, but he managed to squeeze it into an unused cookie jar on top of the refrigerator. He was too exhausted to brew up coffee, so instead he opened a bottle of Glenlivet and poured three fingers into a dusty glass. He brought it to the couch, took a sip, then dialed the familiar number on his cell. After two rings, Nancy, the pool secretary, told him that Harry Wolcott was unavailable. “But Stan’s around,” she said.
“Please.”
Stan Bertolli picked up with a “John, you back already?”
“Yeah.”
“We’ll see you today?”
“No.”
“So you’re just checking in?”
“That’s right,” he said, then gulped down more whisky.
“Everything okay?”
“No,” he said. “But I’ll need to sleep it off. Just tell Harry that it didn’t work. Please.”
“It,” Stan said with a touch of mystery. Harry had assured John that all Stan knew was that he would be out of town for a few days.
“I’ll file my report for him Monday. If he wants it sooner, I can come in tomorrow.”
“I’ll let him know,” Stan said, “but he’s a little backed up today. We got some shit news from Budapest.”
“Budapest?”
“Emmett Kohl was shot dead in a restaurant. He used to work out of here, from the consul’s office. We’re all looking into it.”
“My condolences.”
After hanging up, he refilled his glass. He considered checking the news for this Kohl character, but couldn’t quite manage it. What he needed was a shower, but that felt so unlikely that he brought the bottle back to the sofa and kept drinking, then woke six hours later to darkness and the sound of banging.
Before waking, he was in Alexandria, climbing out of a car that he’d pulled to the side of El Geish Road, running alongside the Mediterranean. The car, a twenty-year-old Toyota Tercel, was painted black, and in the trunk, he knew, was Jibril. Parked in front of him was a white Egyptian police van with flashing lights. Two cops were getting out, holding their batons in front of themselves, smiling at John. To his right, the water was choppy from heavy wind, and the air was wet with surf. The police spoke to him in Arabic, and when he answered in English one of them struck his shoulder with a baton; it hurt. “Okay,” he told them, gripping the shoulder, “I’ll show you.” He walked ahead of them to the trunk and opened it, but instead of Jibril he found Ray and Kelli, aged six and eight, folded tight into the small space. This wasn’t right. He slammed the trunk shut as the policemen arrived, then waved them away. “Not here,” he said. The one who’d struck him pushed John back so that he nearly stumbled into the road as a car sped past, while the other opened the trunk and shouted angrily. He thought that he should run, then realized he’d never make it across the busy road, so he approached their hunched backs as they reached inside and took a long, manicured hand that was connected to his ex-wife, Danisha. She was smiling as she climbed out, looking much like she had when Ray and Kelli had been babies; she looked stunning. She said, “John, I’m so tired,” but she said it as if it meant something wonderful.
“Come on,” said another voice, and John turned to find a clean and still-breathing Jibril behind him, reaching for his hand, beckoning him into the traffic. “First one across gets to go.”
“Go where?”
Jibril, with a smile on his face, was already running.
He sat up, trying to orient himself in the stuffy darkness. It was evening. His cheek and the arm of the sofa were wet from saliva. His stomach cramped, gushing acid into his throat. When the banging started again, he heard a voice, too: “Wake the fuck up, John.”
He got to his feet and with his first step kicked the whisky bottle across the room. It clattered against the legs of the TV stand but didn’t break. He reached the far wall and slapped until he found the switch, filling the room with light.
“Hurry up, John.” Three more sharp bangs against the door.
He wiped at his face, then wiped his hands on his jeans, wishing he had at least changed clothes. He could now see that there was a dark streak of blood down the side of his thigh, though it wasn’t his blood. He unlocked the door and stepped back, calling, “Come in,” as he continued to the bathroom, where he sat on the toilet and urinated, watching Harold Wolcott walk in warily, look around, and finally catch sight of him.