“How did your meeting go?”
“Hard to say,” he said, then hesitated.
“Yes?”
“I have the feeling that Ali Busiri is playing at something.”
Her face darkened, her anger, years old by now, rising again. “Then you need to stop him.”
Had a single trip into the field with her husband really changed Fouada so much? He stared at her, holding her hand, remembering how she’d been decades ago, when they were younger and poorer and, if not happier, then at least more energetic. Theirs had been an arranged marriage, and so happiness had taken longer, but it had come.
Their bed was inviting, yet he really wouldn’t be able to sleep now. Not yet. “I need to step out again.”
She said, “Get the bastard, but don’t break yourself in the process.”
He kissed her high forehead, tasting her nightly creams.
On the drive to the office, Sayyid called to tell him that he had listened at Sophie Kohl’s door. “She’s getting ready for bed. Do you want me to make contact?”
“No,” he said. “Just wait.”
The night guards at the Interior Ministry were more lax than the day shift, and he was soon taking the elevator to the seventh floor, which was empty and dark. He powered up his computer, and once it was on he logged into the secure Web site, through which he found a database of flight manifests and a section marked “EXTERNAL TRAFFIC,” dealing solely with flights that had entered or left Egyptian territory. He chose the “BY PASSENGER NAME” form and typed “Rashid el-Sawy.” There were a few hits, but those were different el-Sawys. He tried “Michael Khalil,” then read through the results. The earliest one, in April of last year, was to Tripoli. What was Khalil doing in Tripoli? He had no family there, and by and large his work should have kept him in Egypt. In September there was the flight to Frankfurt to pass on Zora’s final payment, and on March 1—only five days ago—a trip to Munich, from which he had returned on the third. The ticket had been paid for in cash. Emmett Kohl had been killed on March 2.
He rubbed his eyes, wishing he’d picked up some tea on his way here. He let his mind drift back over what he’d learned during the last weeks. He thought of Emmett Kohl’s conviction that the American government wasn’t behind Stumbler, and Sophie Kohl’s excellent question: Then why did they kill him? Was the difference between human and machine logic really the explanation? What if the CIA really hadn’t killed Kohl? Then what followed?
Try the reverse, then: What if Emmett Kohl was killed because he didn’t believe America was behind Stumbler? Did this mean that Jibril, believing the opposite, was safe?
And what about Marsa Matrouh? Qasim was there, waiting for the arrival of Stumbler’s front line, yet he had heard nothing.
He went back to the computer and began searching the names of the men whose disappearances were to precede Stumbler, typing them one at a time. Yousef al-Juwali—still missing. Abdurrahim Zargoun—still missing. Waled Belhadj …
An article from Le Monde, which had just been posted online before its print appearance in the morning:
Last night, two workers discovered a body in a large sports bag at the lock in Soisy-sur-Seine.
The men called the police, who arrived at the scene at 18:54.
By morning, Sous-brigadier Bertrand Roux reported to journalists that the heavily decomposed corpse had been identified as Waled Belhadj, Libyan national, 41 years old, who had been missing since 20 February. Evidence suggests that he was shot in the head before being placed in the sports bag and deposited in the Seine. It is believed that he has been dead for more than a week.
Waled Belhadj was previously a member of the Association of the Democratic Libyan Front, which advocates democratic change in Libya. He moved to Paris from London in August 2009 after a disagreement with fellow members of the Democratic Libyan Front and was rumored to be establishing a new organization.
According to sources, a current Democratic Libyan Front member, Yousef al-Juwali, went missing in London on 19 February. Police are not able to confirm a connection between the murder and the disappearance.
Exhaustion was one thing, but he was starting to feel nauseous. This made no sense. Why take the men if they were only to be shot in the head? Who would have wanted that? Who—
Within him, a spark struck. Great understandings were rare in Omar’s experience, but when they came they did not come piecemeal. A spark was struck, and suddenly there was a whole furnace blazing. Such was the case now. The fire woke him up, burning away the nausea and the cobwebs. The puzzle pieces flew up in the air and settled back down in crystalline perfection. No, no sickness now. Just curiosity and the aesthetic pleasure of discovery. Then, as he examined the pieces, looking for anomalies that might rebut the entire theory, the curiosity twisted into a low, burning anger.
He called Sayyid. “Yes, boss?”
“She’s still there?”
“Yes.”
“If she tries to leave the room, stop her. Understand?”
“I … yes, I understand.”
“I’ll be there soon.”
Before leaving, he checked the flight manifests again, and saw that Sophie Kohl had reserved a seat on a 9:30 A.M. flight back to America. If only she’d left yesterday. If only she’d skipped Cairo altogether. But she hadn’t, and now it was too late.
3
He was impatient, but impatience would not serve him well. This had to be done right, or not at all.
When he brought Sophie Kohl home, he was reminded again of Jibril. He was too soft, he realized. Caring for strays was becoming his fate.
Fouada had never learned English, but she knew how to take care of someone without words. He told her, “She’s been through a lot. She may become angry. If you like, I’ll ask someone to stay here with you. Mahmoud could come.”
Fouada waved that away. “This is about the bastard?”
“I believe it is.”
“Then I will handle it. You do what you have to do.” She kissed him on the cheek, then offered Sayyid some tea. A look from Omar convinced him to say no.
He and Sayyid spoke in the stairwell. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” the young man asked.
“When it’s verified, yes. Not before. But I need your trust. Do I have it?”
“Of course.”
“We’ll need Mahmoud as well. Can you see to that?”
A nod.
“Tomorrow, though, all three of us will be in the ministry like usual, as if nothing is amiss. By the end of the day it should be settled.”
Sayyid ran his fingers through his thick hair, nodding.
“Go take a nap, and I’ll see you in the office.”
By the time he returned to the apartment, Sophie Kohl had fallen asleep on the guest bed, on top of the sheets, her clothes still on. Fouada said, “The girl is exhausted.”
“So am I.”
He was at his desk by nine, running through his mental list of items to look into. He went back into history, rechecking things he already knew, in particular Hisham Minyawi’s disaster in 2005, when the source he’d gained in the Libyan embassy was executed. Omar walked over to Hisham’s office on the opposite end of the building and knocked. Hisham was in his midforties, his thick mustache prematurely gray, with a heavy paunch and bleak eyes. He was smoking a cigarette and wrapping up a phone call when Omar arrived. He waved the older man in. “Omar,” he said, shaking his head. “Busy times, no?”
“Truly,” Omar said, closing the door and taking a seat in the smoky room. “How’s the family?”
“Very well. Fouada?”
“Excellent.” Omar leaned closer. “I wanted to ask you about Yousef Rahim, from the Libyan embassy.”