By then, Omar was sitting heavily on the corner of his bed, all strength drained from him.
“What do you want me to do?”
Omar rubbed his face hard enough to make it hurt. He’d done this. He’d tried to provoke Ali, and his efforts had killed a man. He said, “The bastard probably went home. Verify this for me. Okay?”
It took about three minutes before Omar could find the strength to climb to his feet and join the others. Fouada had started placing food on the dining table, Sophie Kohl helping her. Sayyid put away his own phone and stood up. It was time to eat.
After dinner, Sayyid asked for the direction of Mecca, and Omar decided to join him. It felt good praying with the young man; it felt essential. Just because he had lost track of his faith didn’t mean that it had left him. Afterward, he climbed to his feet and returned to the bedroom. Fouada followed to help him change into a fresh shirt. She said, “Are you getting any sleep tonight?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You need it,” she said, placing a hand on his bony shoulder. “You don’t look pretty.”
“You do,” he said, holding her hand, then kissed her cheeks. “Enough procrastination.”
He and Sayyid left together, Omar driving them to a dark residential street corner in Maadi, where Mahmoud waited inside a BMW with scratches on the trunk—someone, Mahmoud explained sheepishly, had keyed his car last week. Omar spoke to Sayyid briefly. He was to go to John Calhoun’s place and search for a book of names—it was, he had realized, the one missing piece, and if it was in Egypt it was either there or in the American embassy. Afterward, Sayyid should continue to a quarry that lay off the road leading to 15th of May City, south of Cairo. Omar admitted that he didn’t know what the book of names looked like, or if it would even be there—but if it was there, then it should be in their possession, and no one else’s. “And if Calhoun’s there?” asked Sayyid.
“Maybe you should just ask him for it. Nicely, of course.”
Sayyid smiled, then drove off in Mahmoud’s BMW. Omar brought Mahmoud over to his car. “You’ll be in the backseat,” Omar told the big man.
“I’m being chauffeured?”
“Something like that.”
They arrived at Ali Busiri’s house, where the streetlights shone against the rain-damp road. Omar parked outside the gate and checked in the rearview—Mahmoud was down and out of sight. “Comfortable?”
“Does it matter?” came Mahmoud’s muffled voice.
He took out his phone and called Busiri. “Omar?” his boss said cautiously.
“Sir, I need your advice on something.”
“What is it?”
“It’s not for the phone. I’m outside.” He paused, then: “Apologies, but it’s important.”
He saw a curtain part, letting out light. It was one of the lower windows—the office, he knew. He rolled down his window and waved. A couple of minutes later, the door opened, and Ali Busiri came out wearing a smoking jacket over a clean shirt and pants, sandals on his feet. He looked as if he’d just come from a bath. After al-Azhar Park, he would have needed one.
He was in no hurry, and he looked very tired. Anxiety did that, Omar knew. It sucked you dry. Busiri came around to the passenger’s side, opened the door, and climbed in, closing the door behind himself. “I hope you’re not asking for love advice,” he said breathily. “I’m a mess with that.”
“No, sir. I wanted advice about the case.”
Busiri nodded, a hesitant smile. “Go ahead.”
Omar fingered the steering wheel, feeling his own anxiety bubble to the surface. “What if I had discovered that someone in our own section was responsible for much of what we’ve been seeing?”
“What? Who?”
“Rashid el-Sawy. He oversaw the murder of Emmett Kohl.”
“What?” Busiri’s hands began to flap around. “Why would he do that?”
“Because Emmett Kohl, like Stanley Bertolli, knew that the Americans were not behind Stumbler. He knew that the Libyans had been killing off the exiles who formed the first stage of Stumbler. To make sure it could never get off the ground. Gadhafi rightly fears the introduction of a second force in addition to the Benghazi rebels.”
“You’re saying those exiles were killed?”
“One of them was found dead last night. In Paris. Dead for over a week.”
He let that sink in a moment, waiting until Busiri asked the obvious question: “This is all very interesting, Omar, but why would Rashid care about it? Why would he want to kill an American diplomat?”
“We received the plans through Emmett Kohl’s wife. Maybe Kohl knew this, maybe he didn’t, but either way the plans made a leap over our border at some point, to Libya, and he was preparing to focus on that.”
“Are you saying that Rashid sold the plans to Tripoli?”
“Last April, he spent a week in Tripoli. I’m guessing he was transporting cash, as he did when he paid Zora Balašević in Frankfurt. In this case, though, he was receiving money—for intelligence he’d sold them.”
“Well,” said Busiri.
“This went on for years,” Omar continued. “As far back as 2005 we were leaking to the Libyans. Remember Yousef Rahmin? That information moved fast. Of course, it would’ve had to—what if Yousef had identified Rashid as being in the pay of the Libyans? No, he had to get rid of Yousef Rahmin quickly.
“And then,” Omar went on, “there was Stumbler. That must have been a surprise for Rashid. Who would have guessed that, armed with the Stumbler plans, the Libyans would kidnap and kill all the exiles? Who would have guessed that the architect of those plans, Jibril Aziz, would suddenly believe his plan was being put into action?” Omar shook his head. “Such bad luck, after years of perfect security. But how did Rashid learn of Jibril?” He paused, just briefly. “I asked myself that, and of course it was my fault. Our fault, really. Jibril talked to me, and so I talked to you. I told you everything I knew. And because you trusted him, you told Rashid. Am I correct?”
Silently, Busiri nodded. Like a man with enormous things on his mind.
“Rashid learned that Jibril had gone to talk with Emmett Kohl, and that Kohl suspected the Libyans rather than the Americans. Remember what I said to you? I said that, if this was true, the logical next question was: How did the Libyans get hold of Stumbler? Certainly you would have brought up that question to him. No?”
Another silent nod.
“Rashid was scared,” Omar went on, “so he hired an Albanian murderer. They went to Budapest, Rashid traveling via Munich. He met with Emmett Kohl and spoke to him about Stumbler. I was surprised when I learned this, but it makes sense. He had to go himself, because even a fish as cold as Rashid would have wanted to verify that Kohl was a threat before giving the Albanian his orders.”
Now Busiri was staring out the side window, across the street, so that Omar could not see his face. Quietly, he said, “But isn’t this a lot of effort, just to cover up that he’d been selling some information?”
“I thought so, too,” Omar admitted. “But think about it from his perspective. Think about it now. They’re beginning to pick apart our offices. You’re getting rid of seven people today—tomorrow, how many? Once the elections bring in these idealistic protesters, there will be no patience for anyone who has been selling intelligence to a dictator. Particularly intelligence that helps Gadhafi wipe out his own people. They wouldn’t even have to put him in prison—just let the newspapers find out what he’s done. He’d be dead within the week. The crowds are not very forgiving.”
“No,” Busiri said. “They’re not.”
“So he will do anything to protect his secret. He will murder an American in Budapest. He will murder an American in Cairo.”
Busiri turned back, frowning. “An American in Cairo?”