This seemed to trouble Busiri. He looked at some papers spread across his desk. “What do you think, Omar? Are the Americans really stupid enough to do this?”
Omar didn’t think so, but … “After the Bay of Pigs, who knows?”
Burisi stretched out and pulled at his ear. “Maybe the Libyans will welcome them with open arms.”
“At first.”
“At first, it’s always sunshine and flowers, isn’t it?” Busiri said, grinning; then he got hold of himself. “Thank you for sharing this, Omar. If he gets in touch again, let me know.”
Jibril called again on Saturday the twenty-sixth. He was in town, and Omar went to his room on the sixth floor of the Semiramis. He had told Fouada that there was an evening meeting, an emergency, and at first she had blocked his exit. “It’s dark out there, Omar. You won’t be able to see them until they’re right on you.” Riding the hotel elevator skyward, he could still feel where her fingers had clawed at his arm.
Jibril looked haggard and unshaven, but he was still the same boy they had welcomed into their home. He kissed Omar’s cheeks and asked after Fouada. “All this hasn’t been too hard on her?”
“She’s strong,” Omar lied. “How is marriage?”
Jibril blushed. “I’m going to be a father.”
Omar clapped his hands and gave him a congratulatory hug. “Tell Inaya that we are wishing her all good things. Does she even know about us?”
Jibril nodded, smiling. “I left her your phone number. In case.”
“Should we expect a call?”
Jibril shook his head. “She just wanted a number. Any number. She’s worried about me.”
“That is because she loves you.”
The moment passed, and Jibril’s smile faded as he went to the clock radio by the bed and turned it on. It was tuned to 92.7 “Mega FM,” a pop music station. Jibril raised the volume to an uncomfortable level, then sat on the edge of the bed, waving Omar to the chair he’d positioned close to him. Omar settled down as Jibril leaned close and spoke softly. “I’m going in. On Thursday.”
Omar had expected this. “You need help?”
Jibril shook his head.
“What did Emmett Kohl say?”
Another shake of the head. “He’s more deluded than I thought. He doesn’t believe it.”
“What does he believe?”
“He doesn’t think anyone’s doing it. He thinks that, if anything, someone’s trying to shut down Stumbler before it starts.”
“But you do not believe this.”
“I believe the data, Omar. I believe what I can see.” Again, Jibril described the abductions. “They haven’t been seen since. Nowhere. They’re either in Egypt or Tunisia, or they’ve already crossed the border.”
“So what can you do?”
“My networks weren’t entirely destroyed—you know that. They’re part of the uprising, I’m sure. I need to meet them face-to-face and tell them to defend their rear. The last I heard, a few were sighted in Ajdabiya. I’ll get the updated list from my Bedouin in Al `Adam, and then track them down.”
“How are you getting in?”
Jibril seemed to blush. “The Agency’s giving me someone from the embassy.”
Omar hesitated, not sure he’d heard right. “The CIA is giving you a guide?”
Jibril nodded stiffly. The radio cut to an old Britney Spears hit.
“Does this not suggest,” Omar said slowly, “that they are not behind Stumbler?”
“What it suggests,” Jibril said, for he’d dealt with this contradiction already, “is that they want to make it appear as if they aren’t behind it.”
Omar held up a hand. “Wait. You are talking to your employers. They’re helping you go in. What is their story?”
“That they don’t know. But they’ve seen the data, too, and they’re worried someone else has gotten hold of Stumbler. Their worry, they claim, is that al Qaeda is going to use it to take over Libya.”
Thinking of the Stumbler plans moving from Sophie Kohl to Zora Balašević to his office, Omar said, “Maybe not al Qaeda, but someone could have gotten hold of the plans. Information leaks. You know that.”
“Is Egypt running Stumbler?”
Omar gave it a moment’s thought. Busiri had probably passed the plan up the ladder, but what were the odds that their new military leaders would attempt to manipulate the Libyan revolution? They could hardly maintain control of their own country. “No,” he said.
“Right,” Jibril agreed. “And Tunisia doesn’t have the resources to pull this off.”
“So you are convinced America is doing it.”
“I don’t see any other options.”
“Yet you put yourself into their hands,” Omar said. “They are going to kill you.”
“They won’t,” Jibril said, shaking his head. “Not before they get my network.”
“You didn’t give it to them?”
“Why do you think I was sent back to Virginia?”
“You were blown.”
“Maybe, but what Langley really wanted was the network, so someone else could take it over.”
“Why …” Omar began, shocked by this insubordination. “Why didn’t you give it to them?”
“Eleven of my people were killed. I still don’t know how they were discovered, and I wasn’t about to share the names of the survivors with a bureaucracy as big as the Agency’s. I wanted to give those people a rest.”
“You took a rest as well. Six years later, you’re coming back.”
Locating the events in time seemed to put them in perspective. Both men were silent a moment. Omar said, “Did you promise them the network?”
He smiled. “Of course, but I’m not handing it over. I kept their names in a book that I left with my Bedouin. Only I can get hold of it. As long as Langley doesn’t have that book, I’m safe.”
“Let us hope they don’t get it.”
“Agreed.”
“And let us hope that your Libyan friends welcome you with open arms.”
The radio sang, Oops! I did it again.
“The most important hope,” Omar continued, “is that this is a quick and safe trip, and that you are home soon with your wife and child.”
Jibril nodded. “God willing,” he said, then got up to turn off the radio.
3
After the Semiramis, he called Busiri and drove over to his opulent villa in Maadi, an upscale neighborhood full of embassies and foreigners and affluent Egyptians. Quiet, unlike Omar’s place in the twisting cacophony of Giza. It was nearly ten when he parked outside the gate. He didn’t get out. Five minutes passed; then Busiri stepped out the front door and crossed the dry lawn, wearing the same suit he’d worn to the office that day, but no tie. He opened the passenger door and got inside. “It’s late, Omar,” he said with a hint of impatience.
In great detail, Omar told him of Jibril’s plans.
“So he really does believe America is doing this?”
“He does, but Emmett Kohl doesn’t.”
“What does Kohl believe?”
“The opposite. He thinks someone is shutting it down.”
“CIA?”
“The Libyans. If so, then the question is: Who told the Libyans?”
Busiri frowned, considering this. “You say the embassy has given him a guide?”
“I don’t know who, but I can have Mahmoud keep an eye on him.”
“No,” Busiri said, shaking his head. “We’ll need Mahmoud for other things. Sayyid, too. This is going to be another busy week. It doesn’t matter who’s taking Aziz in—it just matters that he’s going in.”
“You’re not going to pursue this?” Omar asked.
“I’ll go upstairs and talk with our masters. But I don’t think they’ll believe it. Other than a few public statements about the will of the people, the Americans resisted the temptation to meddle here.”