“Come on,” the Egyptian said to him, accent heavy. “You don’t need to be here.”
John didn’t doubt that, for by then he’d seen enough. He’d been able to make out the form in the foldout chair, a heavyset man with his head tilted back. His shirt was a tangle of red, and from the angle John could just barely see that there was no nose on whatever was left of the man’s face. The sand all around the chair was brown but no longer wet. Sticky, he guessed. And while he couldn’t see them, he could hear the angry buzzing of flies.
As the Egyptian walked him back to the car, John waited for things. He waited for a gunshot in the back of his head. He waited for more distant gunshots—Khalil, or the old man, being killed. If nothing else, he waited for the sounds of argument from the shelter. There was nothing.
Finally, they reached the scratched BMW, and the Egyptian let him into the rear seat. John slid inside, immediately sweating in the stuffy heat, but the Egyptian closed the door again. There was no way to roll down the window. He settled back and waited as, outside, the Egyptian took out his phone and made a call. John could hear none of it.
Who were these people? He was quite sure now that Khalil wasn’t FBI. If he was, then he was on the take from the Egyptians. What did any of this mean? Was he ever going to make it out of here alive? Despite himself, he thought of Maribeth, who wanted someone who would survive the year. She’d been right to hesitate when it came to him.
Outside, the Egyptian finished his conversation, then made another call. As he spoke, he came to the car and opened the front door. He slid into the passenger seat, the phone still to his ear, and said to John, “What happened to Jibril Aziz in the desert?”
“He was killed by bandits.”
The Egyptian spoke in Arabic a moment, translating his answer. Then, back to John: “How do you know they were bandits?”
“I don’t know for sure. They wore green. If that helps.”
The answer was relayed. The Egyptian got out of the car and slammed the door shut, then finished his conversation. As he hung up, he raised his head to look in the direction they had driven from. John turned around to peer through the dirty rear windshield at a Mercedes with tinted windows kicking up dust as it joined them. It was the same Mercedes that had passed them on the way here. A driver got out. Another Egyptian, but much larger, more menacing, and—yes. It was the second shadow, who Harry had pointed out from his window. John’s Egyptian opened his door. “Come on.”
John got out and followed him to the Mercedes. The big driver was heading away, toward the shelter, but from this distance John couldn’t tell what was going on under there.
“You will drive her back to Cairo. Understand?”
“Who?”
“The keys are in the car,” the Egyptian said, then jogged off to catch up with the other man, both of them heading toward the shelter, to Khalil and the old man and the corpse in the chair.
John opened the driver’s door and peered inside. In the backseat was a woman—very pale, with straw-blond hair. She was somewhere around forty, he guessed, but it was hard to tell because she looked like she was in shock, rolled up on her side, fetal. Her eyes were closed, but he could hear her clotted breathing behind the tangled hair that hung over her features. Though he suspected the answer, he asked, “Who are you?” Then he opened the rear door and got in beside her. He checked her pulse—fast but not dangerous. There was blood on her forearm, but no sign of wounds. What had they done to her? In the well was a large purse. “Can you hear me?” he asked, placing a hand on her shoulder, gently shaking.
She opened her eyes, blinking, and used a hand to brush away hair. She didn’t sit up. John noticed a red mark in the meat between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, and he suspected that by tomorrow it would be a bruise. She peered at him, trying to focus. “Hi,” she whispered.
“Do you need a doctor?”
Stiffly, she shook her head. “Just sleep.”
“Who are you?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. “Sofia.”
“Sophie Kohl?”
She nodded.
He stared at her a moment more, then got out and closed her inside. Pausing beside the driver’s door, he heard a distant sound on the warm desert breeze: two gunshots. He jumped into the Mercedes and started it up, turned the car around, and raced away as fast as he could.
SOURCE: Constitution Protection Office, Hungary
(Alkotmányvédelmi Hivatal)
“Transcript report of meeting between Emmett Kohl,
USA diplomatic staff, and Michael Khalil, American”
AUTHOR: Varga Tamas
4 March 2011
ADMINISTRATOR’S NOTE:
The following transcript records a conversation from the afternoon of Wednesday, 2 March. Later that evening, Emmett Kohl was assassinated in Chez Daniel, a restaurant in Pest (Szív utca 32). At the time of the recording there was no suggestion that Mr. Kohl’s life was in danger, which is why the recording was not transcribed until after the event.
As background, Mr. Kohl’s Audi A5 was wired on 26 February following concerns voiced by Kiraly Andras over Kohl’s meeting with an American agent (see: Aziz, Jibril) who was later seen in suspicious company. I suggest that any complaints concerning the perceived delay in producing this document be directed at Mr. Kiraly, who was responsible for the operation.
TECHNIQUE:
The following consists of two sources: the above-mentioned microphone installed in Mr. Kohl’s automobile, within the radio/CD-player, and another microphone, shotgun, held by one of Mr. Kiraly’s two agents, who witnessed the scene. The text has been marked to reflect the change in sources, observational notes in italics.
PRE-TRANSCRIPT:
Mr. Kohl was attending a scheduled lunch at Menza (Liszt Ferenc tér 2) with Linc Gabor, of Danubian Games Kft. Their subject: the export of Danubian Games products to the American market. Mr. Kohl was the first to leave, followed by a previously unnoticed stranger from another table, who had been drinking coffee. Description: approximately 180 cm, 80 kg. Well dressed. Dark hair and skin, brown eyes, Arabic characteristics. He identified himself as Michael Khalil, American.
Mr. Kohl crossed Liszt Ferenc tér, heading toward his automobile. Mr. Khalil hurried to catch up.
TRANSCRIPT:
Source: Shotgun microphone
Michael Khalil (MK): Emmett?
Kohl glances back, not recognizing the man.
MK (smiling): Emmett Kohl. I knew it was you!
Kohl slows but does not stop. The man approaches and offers a hand; they shake.
Emmett Kohl (EK): I’m sorry, do I … ?
MK: Michael Khalil. We met at that party … (Pause.) How’s Sophie? I always thought she was a stunner.
EK: Listen, Michael, nice to see you again, but I’ve got an appointment.
MK: Emmett, I just need a moment to talk. It’s important.
EK: But I have to—
At this point Khalil reaches into his jacket and takes out out a small leather wallet, opening it for Kohl to read. From a distance we are able to make out large blue letters: “FBI.”
(NOTE: Queries to the local FBI office have met with denials: They claim they have no local agent with Khalil’s name or description. Kiraly Andras believes the identification is a forgery; we are undecided.)