“Because he is such an innocent,” Zora said.
Sophie wasn’t going to take the bait. She shrugged. “It’s got to end.”
Zora made fresh drinks, and when she returned from the kitchen she was a different woman. A woman that Sophie had yet to meet—or, perhaps, a woman she hadn’t met in twenty years. Gone were the smiles, the easy sisterhood of information professionals, and the understated flirtation that drew Sophie to her, promising an erotic relationship that, despite overtures, had never actually been consummated. “You can’t stop,” Zora said. “Not now.”
“Of course I can.”
“Your material is in demand. The value is rising.”
“So is my blood pressure.”
“Then take medication.”
“You’re not listening, Zora. I’m done.”
“No, Sophie Kohl. You are not done. When you are done, I will tell you.” No smiles, no warmth.
Sophie set down her glass and stood. “I’m sorry. I really am. But we both knew it couldn’t go on forever.”
Zora set down her own glass but didn’t get up. “Do you want Emmett to learn about Stan?”
Sophie lost track of her feet, spread her hands for balance, and stared hard at her. “You would do that?”
“To protect my information, yes.”
She imagined this, Emmett learning about Stan, and how it might crush him. She could feel herself weakening, so she pushed the image away. “Then do it,” she said. She was stronger than she had been a year before. If her world had to snap, then let it snap.
As she walked to the door, she heard Zora say, “And Vukovar? How do you think the American government would react to that? What their diplomat and his wife used to get up to in war-ravaged third world countries?”
She was touching the door handle, and she kept her hand on it as she turned to look at Zora. “You would ruin Emmett’s career simply to keep me?”
“Worse,” she said. “I would ruin Emmett if I was unable to keep you. We’re not talking about thousands of dollars, Sofia. We are talking about millions. I would do a lot more for that.”
“You’re a bitch.”
“You finally understand,” Zora said quietly.
Their relationship became something completely different that day, and now, nearly a year later, Sophie listened at the heavy door to number five. She thought of Emmett. As bad as his final minutes had been, they could have been worse. Instead of learning about Stan, he could have learned about Zora. That would’ve killed him before the actual murder.
Through the door, she heard a radio playing and a woman’s voice speaking Arabic, either to herself or on a telephone. Sophie raised her hand in a small fist, then rapped on the door.
3
By the time she returned to Stan’s apartment in Garden City and placed herself back on the sofa, the iPad in her lap and a cold cup of the morning’s coffee in one hand, she understood in a way she hadn’t before just how alone she was. She’d seen it in the unfamiliar face of the teenaged girl who’d opened the door to apartment five, a cell phone pressed to her ear. A pretty girl with eyes the shade of teak, she raised her eyebrows at Sophie, saying something like Aye khidma?
“Zora Balašević?”
The girl frowned, then muttered into the phone before lowering it to her hip. “You’re English?”
“Yes, sorry. I—I was looking for my friend who lives here. Zora Balašević.”
The girl—Pili, she assumed—shook her head. “We’ve been here since November. I don’t know who was here before.”
Sophie nodded, only too late realizing her eyes were filling with tears. “Okay. Right. Thanks.” She raised a hand in farewell, then fled.
On the bus ride back she’d spotted among the dark crowds a pay phone outside a convenience store. She got off at the next stop and trudged back to the spot, finding a layer of dust on an old phone box that advertised the RinGo phone card. Most Egyptians didn’t go near these machines, preferring the mobile phones that had helped make their revolution possible. She headed into the convenience store and bought a phone card from a sniffing man, a victim of late-season flu, then went back to the machine and took out business cards. Strauss, Reardon, Kiraly.
A crowd of women passed along the sidewalk, heads covered, chatting merrily, laughing. She almost didn’t hear the voice on the line when it said, “Kiraly Andras.”
“Mr. Kiraly,” she said, nearly shouting. “Hello? This is Sophie Kohl.”
“You’re still in Cairo, I see.”
“Have you told the American embassy?”
Silence, then: “You sound different, Mrs. Kohl.”
“Do I?”
“I almost thought you were someone else,” he said. “Pretending to be you.” Then, realizing the emptiness of his statement, he said, “No, we haven’t told the American embassy, and we won’t until we better understand why you’re doing what you’re doing.”
“You know the reason,” she said. “Jibril Aziz.”
“He’s in Cairo?”
“I don’t know. You told me he flew here.”
“Yes.”
“So he should be here, somewhere. Unless …” She frowned into the handset as it occurred to her. Stumbler. Aziz had written Stumbler.
“Unless what, Mrs. Kohl?”
“Unless he’s in Libya.”
Silence.
She said, “Do you really not know where he is?”
“I do not. Perhaps you should ask his family.”
“Family?”
He seemed amused by her surprise. “Most people have families, Mrs. Kohl. If you give me a phone number, I can call you with that information tomorrow. From the office.”
“What do you know about Zora Balašević?”
“Excuse me?”
She repeated the name, then at his request spelled it, and as he wrote it down she said, “She’s connected to my husband’s murder, but I don’t know how or why.”
“How do you know this for sure?”
“Can I just say that I know it?”
Silence, then he said, “Mrs. Kohl, if it hasn’t become clear to you yet, you are the one in control of what you do and do not say. Eventually, I would like for you to say more, but for the moment you’re choosing reticence. I will have to accept this.”
“Apologies, Mr. Kiraly.”
“I will look into this woman, as well as Mr. Aziz’s family. Would you like to give me a telephone number?”
“I’ll call you.”
“Of course,” he said. “Tomorrow, then, Mrs. Kohl.”
“Tomorrow, Mr. Kiraly.”
Back on Stan’s sofa, she remembered what Kiraly had said. Did she sound like a different person? Maybe. Someone new? Or had she again become last year’s Sophie Kohl, Sofia, who had thrived under Zora’s tutelage?
Yes, but the world was different now, too. She was alone. Zora had disappeared. Emmett was gone. She was in a city that had become even more foreign, for now Hosni Mubarak was holed up in faraway Sharm el-Sheikh. She had felt this on the bus, surrounded by the young and old who, for the first time in memory, were part of the construction of their own society. It didn’t matter that the military was in control; they knew that all it took to change their country was a critical mass of humanity willing to stand in the street. While she could appreciate this, it also scared her, for their newfound power made them that much more menacing.
All she had was Stan. Stan, who had lied to her immediately after her arrival by pretending to know nothing about Zora—but hadn’t he just been covering for himself? It was understandable, and beyond that mistake he seemed to be trying. He was committed.
No, she wasn’t alone, not really, and she could sense his desire when they stood close. She would have to make sure she didn’t lose him.