Stage 4: Entry. The exile forces cross into Libya, surprising the Libyan armed forces, while the networks move their focus to the ports. Undercover ships begin supplying arms.
Jibril’s predictions for success ranged from two to six months, but the primary objective of Stumbler was less a quick end to Gadhafi’s regime than the post-Gadhafi political landscape. Having been viewed as early saviors of the revolution, the exiles would naturally form the new power elite who owed their sudden good fortunes to one country, and one country alone.
There was a time when this plan would have been less cynical than it now appeared. Now, the only moral course was to arm the rebels and let them take care of their own future.
Omar felt the weight of guilt. He could have squelched the operation during the planning stages, simply by insisting to Jibril that Mubarak and Ben Ali would treat any such incursion on their territories as acts of war. Jibril would have been dejected, but he very likely would have accepted his opinion and tossed Stumbler into the wastebasket.
He imagined Jibril at that very moment, over in Ajdabiya, making harried contact with his network, telling them that America, the country they had once risked their lives for, was now preparing to take advantage of their sacrifices. How would he put it? How could he break such news to them? Would they believe him? Yes, for they would be able to read the conviction in his face. Such an earnest young man.
5
On Saturday he resolved to stay out of it. He took Fouada to El Kebabgy for lunch, on the southern tip of Gezira Island, and from the rooftop terrace of the Sofitel they could see the filthy Nile flowing past and hear the noise of a demonstration in the direction of Tahrir. Feeling reflective, he told her about how naive they’d been—everyone in the security forces—before January 25. “This group of kids, they were on Facebook, calling people out to demonstrate. A joke, of course, having their demonstration on Police Day.”
“Not a joke,” Fouada said quietly. “A point.”
He nodded, conceding this. “In the office, the other men laughed about it. ‘They think they’re going to pull another Tunis,’ they said. So narrow-minded. These kids had been posting videos online of police torturing people with broom handles, evil things. The protesters had even been trained in peaceful resistance by Serbs—Otpor, the student group that took down Slobodan Milošević. Peaceful resistance?” He shook his head. “You can imagine what kind of jokes those boneheads in the office came up with. They understood it finally, shutting off the cell phones and Internet, but it was too late. The kids had modeled their flag on Otpor’s—a fist. Peaceful resistance turned out to be tougher than anyone thought.”
Fouada let him speak for a while, though he knew it wasn’t the kind of conversation she’d been hoping for, and afterward they drove back to Giza, away from the demonstrations. At home, he avoided the news by fielding calls from a cousin in Port Said who wanted to worry with someone about his daughter’s upcoming wedding. His plan went well until four in the afternoon, when Fouada began dressing to go out. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“Not we. Me,” she said. “Don’t you remember?”
He didn’t.
“Junah’s having her birthday party tonight. I promised I’d go. And I told you it was only women—not that I thought you’d want to come.”
He smiled, saying, “Of course I remember,” but not remembering at all. With everything else, this was just one more thing that had slipped his mind. Maybe, he mused, he should spend the evening planning his retirement.
Yet after calling her a taxi, walking her downstairs, and then coming back up to sit in the silent living room, his mind returned inevitably to Stumbler, to Jibril, and to John Calhoun and Rashid el-Sawy. Then he remembered the plan. Stage 2: Half the exiles collect in Marsa Matrouh. There was more to it, more detail—a building in the neighborhood around the old soccer field. He couldn’t remember the address.
He drove back to the office and suffered through another body check before heading up to the empty seventh floor. He found the Stumbler file still locked in his desk and went through the pages until he had the Marsa Matrouh location: the corner of Tanta Street and Al Hekma.
That night, he told Fouada his plans, and she looked troubled. She didn’t understand why he had to leave at four o’clock the next morning to drive to Marsa Matrouh. “I thought we could visit friends,” she said. “A Sunday out. Today you seemed so … so social.”
“You visit,” he said, kissing her. “But I’ll be gone all day. You’ll be safe?”
“In that case,” she said, some of the old fear creeping into her face, “I’ll stay in.”
They had been married more than thirty years now, and while she suffered bouts of a fear that could shake the foundations of their relationship, he had long ago learned to respect this woman. Love, also, but love was too sandy a foundation to build a life on. He didn’t like the idea of her sitting fearfully all day in this living room. “Would you like to come?”
She was shocked. “What?”
“It’ll be long and uncomfortable, but maybe it’ll be more interesting than that television.”
This was, it turned out, an inspired suggestion. Fouada helped pry him out of bed in those predawn hours and get breakfast into his stomach. On the road, her conversation kept him pleasantly distracted from the things he would otherwise have glowered over—his aching back, for example, and the feeling that he was far, far too old to be driving a car six hours in one direction. She was so thrilled by their unexpected trip together that she never thought to complain about the discomfort, becoming instead an ideal travel companion, and the six-hour trip felt more like three—or, say, four. Not once did she ask why they were driving to a distant port town—she was just happy to have been brought along. He would have to do this more often.
By ten thirty, though, when they pulled into Marsa Matrouh, they were both flagging. Omar parked on Al Hekma, just off of the main road, around the corner from the dilapidated café where Jibril had met his contact. As they got out, a fresh burst of salty Mediterranean air enveloping them, it occurred to him that the café was only five or six blocks from the intersection of Al Hekma and Tanta. Jibril’s contact had come from that address. So he took Fouada to the sidewalk café, where they ordered tea and sandwiches, and then he said, “I’m going to have to step away. A half hour, no longer. Will you be all right?”
She smiled, patting his hand. “I’ve always been all right, Omar.”
He kissed the knuckles of her hand and left, the sun beating down on him the whole way. He’d forgotten to bring a hat.
Though the Stumbler plans didn’t list a house number, it didn’t take him long to figure out the building he was looking for. It was two doors west of the intersection, the only one that could be used to lodge a large number of fighters. An old, unassuming building, concrete, two stories high. With half its high windows boarded up, it appeared to be abandoned. The front door, though, was clean, as were the front steps, and he heard a radio playing classical music—something by Hasan Rashid, he thought. He pressed the buzzer and waited. A minute later, the door opened, and he immediately recognized the man who had worn a red-checked ghutra when he met with Jibril. Now his head was uncovered, and his graying hair shot out at all angles. He was skinny—not frail, but wiry—with suncured skin. Omar introduced himself, then stated his employer, flashing an ID card. He was friendly about it, but maintained an air of command as he asked the man’s name—“Qasim”—and then asked if they could speak inside, out of the heat. Hesitant, Qasim let him inside.