Malek considered this a moment, then nodded at the torn-apart room. “Who’s your decorator?”
“Not you?”
Malek shook his head.
“It was like this when I came home last night.”
Malek climbed to his feet, the pistol hanging heavy by his side. He reached into his jeans and handed over a badge wallet. John took it and opened it up to find an FBI badge, Malek’s face, and the name Michael Khalil. Surprised, he handed it back. “What’s your angle?”
Malek—no, Khalil—shrugged as he pocketed the badge. “Well, when an American citizen gets killed in Libya, we’re interested. I don’t care what agency he worked for.” He waved the Glock. “Let’s move to the living room, John. We’ve got some thinking to do.”
Reluctantly, John did so. Thinking with this man was the last thing he wanted to do. What he wanted was to take a taxi back to Maribeth’s, lie in her bed, and pull the sheets up over his head.
John rearranged the destroyed sofa cushions and settled down as Khalil righted an overturned chair. As he sat, he said, “Let me explain a few things to you.”
“It’s not necessary.”
Khalil frowned. “You don’t want to know?”
“Whatever’s going on, it’s not my problem. I like it that way.”
“A contractor, right?”
“Right.”
Khalil finally laid his pistol against one knee, fingers barely touching it. “Well, I need your help,” he said, “so you’ve got no choice in the matter.”
“I seldom do.”
A brief smile, then Khalil told a story about a CIA operation called Stumbler, which had been concocted by Jibril Aziz. A plan to overthrow Muammar Gadhafi. He described Aziz’s shock and anger when he realized, only a couple of weeks ago, that the CIA was preparing to use his plan to undermine the Libyan revolution.
“How do you mean, undermine?”
“I mean, send in its own people to turn a popular revolution into a CIA-backed coup. To give America complete control over the development of the country. Understand?”
John did, though he wished he didn’t. He remembered Jibriclass="underline" What Langley thinks is a drop in the ocean of history.
“So Jibril went into Libya, with your help, to make sure the Libyan people kept the fruits of their sacrifices,” he said. “Now, I’ve been on this case a while. I’ve got nearly everything figured out. But there’s one thing I’m missing.”
This flood of information made his temples pound, but he managed a whisper: “What’s that?”
“Did Aziz give you anything before he died? A list of names, perhaps?”
John nodded.
“I’d like to have it, please.”
John shook his head. Khalil’s eye twitched, the pistol shifting from one knee to the other. “It’s not here anymore,” John clarified. “My decorator took it.”
Khalil leaned back and, with his free hand, pulled at the hair on his scalp. “Well, that’s some bad news.”
Silence followed, until John said in a hesitant voice, “He told me to burn it.”
“Who?”
“Aziz. He told me the people on the list would end up dead.”
“Maybe they will,” Khalil said. “Which is why we need to get it back. Can I depend on your help?”
“As long as you’re holding that gun.”
Khalil looked down at it, smiled, and pulled open his jacket to reveal a shoulder holster. He slipped the pistol into it, latched it shut, and said, “How about now?”
John was ready to answer in the negative when a chirp-chirp birdcall filled the room. Eyes still on John, Khalil removed a cheap-looking phone from his pocket, checked the screen, and raised his brows. He answered with the word “Salaam,” then went silent, his expression tightening. He spoke a sentence in Arabic and, briefly, John was impressed by how good his accent was. America was a land of immigrants, but he seldom met American civil servants who could speak Arabic like a native. Malek’s long face was animated, tightening and then loosening—whatever he was listening to was troublesome. He didn’t say anything beyond the occasional tayib, which John knew meant “okay.”
When Khalil was finished he didn’t bother with good-bye; he just hung up, pocketed the phone, and stared at John—through him, really, for whatever he’d listened to had had little to do with John. Finally, he focused back on John’s features and stood up. “Change in plans. We’re going for a ride.”
John didn’t move. He looked up at Khalil. “You don’t need me, do you?”
“I think I do, buddy. Come on.” Then, to make himself clear, he opened his jacket and touched the butt of his Glock.
5
Khalil’s spotless black Mercedes was so clean that John thought the evidence pointed to an obsessive personality. The FBI agent waited for him to get inside before opening the door and settling behind the wheel. “Music?” John shrugged. Khalil played a CD already in the stereo, and Arabic pop filled the car as they cruised slowly down the cool, early morning street. Slowly, for even at seven in the morning the traffic was thick.
It wasn’t until they were crossing the 15th of May Bridge, getting the full impact of the gorgeous Cairo vista, the Nile still in shadow beneath them, that it occurred to John that there was something wrong with this FBI man. American agents often drove American makes from the embassy pool, but if they decided to buy their own cars they seldom chose one as flashy as a high-end Mercedes. Then there was the music—a woman’s voice warbling over thin strings—and John said, “You’re going native?”
“Huh?” said Khalil, distracted.
“The music.”
He rocked his head from side to side as he left the bridge and turned right onto the Corniche El Nil, which followed the river south all the way through Cairo. “You don’t like it?” Khalil asked.
“It’s nice.”
“Maybe I should play Bruce Springsteen? Jay-Z?”
“No, no. This is good,” John said, turning to gaze out at the water. His unease grew. Khalil had shown him a badge, but when looked at from a certain angle, he didn’t look like a Bureau man at all. How hard was it to fake a badge? Not hard at all, he suspected.
John’s phone rang, and he took it out.
“Who is it?” asked Khalil.
“The office.”
“Tell them you’ll be late.”
John hesitated, then turned back toward the water and answered. “Yeah?”
Ricky said, “John? John, where are you?”
“It’s not even eight yet.”
“All hands on deck, man.”
“I’m running late,” he said. “Sorry.”
“Get it in gear. Things are falling apart here.”
“What’s up?”
“You didn’t see the news?”
“What news?”
“Stan,” said Ricky. “Stan’s dead. Somebody shot him in his own car, over at al-Azhar Park. It’s a fucking mess.”
John’s hand went cold. He felt Khalil’s gaze on the back of his head. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he said and hung up.
“News?” Khalil asked.
“Stan Bertolli’s dead.”
Khalil continued driving in silence. They were past the center now, on the southern end of town, near the diplomatic enclave of Maadi. Finally, Khalil said, “They were together, you know.”
John didn’t bother asking for clarification. He was overcome by the feeling that he had made a tragic mistake entering this car. Stan was dead, his own apartment had been torn apart, and an armed man who claimed to be FBI was driving him to places unknown.
Khalil went on. “Stan and Sophie Kohl. Lovers. She came to Cairo a few days ago and stayed with him. They’ve been trying to figure out what happened to her husband.” He paused, frowning at the road. “I guess Stan got too close to the truth.”