If only to establish how much trouble he was in, John said, “What truth would that be?”
“That the Agency killed Emmett and Jibril Aziz. Once he got close enough to those facts, the Agency got rid of Stan, too.”
“Bandits killed Aziz. I was there, remember?”
“Did you interrogate them? Were they carrying their Libyan Banditry Association cards?”
Though he didn’t trust this man, he couldn’t help but think about it. He hadn’t tried to find out who those gunmen were, so what if Khalil was right? He thought of Harry, the white-haired Agency bureaucrat who had sent him out into the desert with Jibril. Had Harry chosen his most disposable employee, a simple contractor, to take Jibril to his death? Had Harry been surprised to find him alive on Friday?
At the same time, Harry had asked him to keep an eye on Stan, as if Stan were the suspect one. Suspected of what? Had Harry killed Stan?
Christ, he thought. That embassy was a mess, and he wanted no part of it. Yet here he was, stuck in a car with a man he didn’t know at alclass="underline" an FBI agent who drove the wrong car, listened to the wrong music, and spoke too much like a native.
Think now
History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors
And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions,
Guides us by vanities.
What good was Eliot now?
“What about Sophie Kohl?” John asked.
Eyes on the road, Khalil said, “What?”
“If Stan’s dead, where is she?”
“It’s a question.”
Khalil said that almost flippantly, as if it no longer mattered. It had, back in his apartment, but now no. Not after the phone call he’d received, and the change in plans. John said, “Who called you? Back at my place.”
Khalil considered this as the buildings around them thinned. He smirked and said, “Your decorator.”
“Who’s my decorator?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
They left Cairo to the south, veering inland from the Corniche El Nil to connect to the Autostrad-Al Nasr, following signs toward 15th of May City, just east of Helwan. The buildings had fallen away, and to their left the rolling desert spread out, whitewashed by the low eastern sun. He thought of the ride through the Libyan desert, but now he was the passenger, in the sacrificial seat, while Michael Khalil was running the show.
Could he stop this car without killing them both? He might be able to, for the Glock was hidden away in Khalil’s holster, but the question was: Should he stop the car? Khalil might not be who he claimed to be, but did that mean he was working on the wrong side? What was the wrong side? Was Harry his enemy? Stan? This woman he’d never met—Sophie Kohl?
“Where are we going?” John asked.
Khalil gave him a sidelong glance as he accelerated around a slow-moving truck, gravel spilling out from under its tarp and pinging against the car. Khalil cursed under his breath, passed the truck, and said, “We’re going to get our prize.”
“Which is … ?”
“That book you lost.”
They passed a large factory complex and took a left off of the highway, heading toward a loose collection of sand-colored buildings that looked like another factory, abandoned. As they drove, another Mercedes passed them heading back to the highway, and Khalil showed concern, slowing and trying to peer at the driver, but the tinted windows revealed nothing but bright reflected sun. Once it had passed, Khalil slowed to a stop and stared into the rearview until the Mercedes turned right onto the autostrad, heading north toward Cairo.
“What is it?” John asked.
Khalil began to drive again. “I suppose we’ll find out.”
“You’re really not going to tell me anything, are you?”
“Just help me out, and I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”
Long before they reached the abandoned buildings, they took a right, and Khalil muttered “Fuck” under his breath as they headed deeper into the desert. Though this road was paved, rocks had blown into it, and he had to take it easy, swerving occasionally to get out of the way of stones big enough to damage his transmission. They drove south, parallel with the autostrad still visible on their right, and then took another left down a road that sank into a valley of low dunes. Soon they could see nothing behind them. Ahead, the road curved to the left until, eventually, it simply stopped. At the end was a scratched white BMW, empty, and farther ahead, beyond the road, a large tarp shelter with a post at each corner and a single post in the middle, so that the roof pointed at the hot sky.
Under the shelter, they could see the shadowy forms of three people. Thinking of Libya, John said, “I don’t like this.”
“You think I do?”
“We should call the embassy.”
Khalil shook his head but didn’t bother explaining himself. He opened his door, letting in a gust of hot, gritty wind, then took the Glock out of his shoulder holster. “Don’t worry, okay?”
“You’re not very reassuring.”
“I’m not here to be reassuring.”
“Why am I here?”
“Don’t be a pussy. Come on.”
Khalil got out, and after a moment John followed. His eyes hurt—he’d forgotten his sunglasses—and he held a flat hand against the side of his head for shade.
As they approached the shelter, the figures beneath it grew more distinct. Three men—two standing, and one sitting in a foldout chair. None of them was moving. They were just watching. Then one of them moved—a tall man in a white button-up shirt and brown slacks emerged from under the tarp, the light making him briefly glow. He was Egyptian, young, and had thick eyebrows. Like Khalil, he carried a gun. There was something familiar about him.
“Who’s that?” John asked.
“It’s all right. He’s okay.”
As the young Egyptian approached, the other standing man walked slowly from one side of the shelter to the other. The man in the chair didn’t move at all.
“Salaam,” said the Egyptian.
“Salaam,” Khalil answered.
Frowning, the Egyptian asked a question in Arabic, and Khalil’s answer contained the words “John Calhoun.” John’s presence, he saw in the Egyptian’s face, wasn’t welcome, but he was not ordered back to the car. He wanted to run, but two men with pistols weren’t likely to miss a back as large as his.
Together, the three of them continued toward the shelter. Khalil asked questions, but the Egyptian seemed to be telling him to wait for his answers.
By then they were close enough to make out the other man pacing under the tarp. He was an old man, thin, his cheeks bristling with white hair. He stood at the edge of the shelter, watching them approach, and he wasn’t smiling. Khalil hesitated and asked another question: something sharp—not anger, but fear. In reply, the younger Egyptian placed a hand on Khalil’s shoulder and pushed him forward.
John said, “I shouldn’t be here.”
Khalil turned on him and snapped, “You just fucking follow, understand?”
John did, but more slowly. He was in no hurry to enter that shelter, for by then he’d noticed that the figure in the chair had not moved at all. Nothing.
The old man—Egyptian, too—didn’t bother stepping into the light. He waited for Khalil to reach the edge of the shelter and spoke softly to him in Arabic. There was no “salaam,” just a rattle of quiet words. The old man held out his hand, and Khalil handed over his Glock, grip first. The old man looked over Khalil’s shoulder at John, his face twisting in a sudden spasm of annoyance, and said a few words to the younger Egyptian, who walked over to John. John stepped back, for he’d made the connection: This was one of the two shadows from outside his apartment on Friday night. This was the one who had followed him to Deals.