Agent of Influence: A Thriller (30 page)

             
“I’ve heard rumors from some of my informants that the Muslim Brotherhood has been trying to find any remaining remnants of men who still want a grand bargain with the West, and wipe them out. I wonder if Aziz could be in their crosshairs. Ever since Mubarak cracked down on the extremist groups after they assassinated Sadat in ’81, those groups have slowly been gaining power. The fact that those groups are being suppressed and harassed by the government only makes them more appealing to the populace. Maybe Quasim wants to use Aziz as a peacemaker. If Aziz does have connections within the government he could be a useful go-between for Quasim.”

              “Seeing the two of them together certainly muddies the waters. I think I need to have a chat with Quasim.” Anna watched as a group of exhausted tourists drug themselves through the hotel lobby. She guessed they had spent their entire day on an excursion to the pyramids. The thought dredged up the bloodied corpse of her mother from the recess of her mind. She quickly buried the painful memory of the day her mother was murdered in Luxor. Now was not the time.              

Colin finished off hi
s beer in one large gulp and stood up to leave. “If you need anything else let me know. I think its best we stay away from each other for a few days. I doubt you are going to quit now, and I want Aziz to know I’m keeping my distance from you. I seem to be a target, so I think it best to let you do your thing. When are you scheduled to leave?”

             
“The ambassador wants me out in five days at the latest. But I agree with you. If I need anything I will contact you through the embassy as we discussed. I have a few other things I want to check out that are best done alone anyways.”

Colin dropped some Egyptian bills
on the table for his drink. “Be careful. Aziz is probably harmless, but Quasim is a different one altogether. He is hardcore. If they get the wrong impression they will cut your head off without a second thought,” Colin warned. He quickly exited the hotel. Anna watched him climb into a cab as she plotted her steps for the upcoming days. 

Chapter 32

Anna paused for a few moments and allowed Alex to sift through the information.  They grabbed some energy bars and water to snack on while she told him about her final days in Cairo.

The
days after her final conversation with Colin were spent staking out the Sultan Hassan Mosque, and meandering through Islamic Cairo near Aziz’s safe house. It was a partial reliving of her childhood for Anna. Her mother grew up on the streets of Islamic Cairo. She had worked near the U.S. embassy, where she met Anna’s father, fell in love, and got married. Anna vividly remembered the days of her mother taking her through the crowded alleyways and shops, bartering for goods, and teaching Anna about her family’s humble beginnings.

The streets looked much the same as they did when she was a child. The blackish vapor of dust
still hung over the city and its inhabitants, and the shopkeepers still tossed buckets of water onto their little sections to keep the roadways damp and the dust to a minimum.  Unlike most major cities throughout the world where sidewalks and roadways were meant for travel, Cairo’s sidewalks were little zones of commerce that one picked their way across.  Anna made her way through the maze of people, searching for her quarry.

During the afternoons
she dressed like a tourist.  She needed to blend in completely to the scene around her.  Anna combed the streets, pretending to search the wares being sold while keeping a silent vigil for either the old man, Quasim, or the boy messenger. A foreign woman shopping alone drew much less attention than a proper Muslim woman out and about without a male member of the family squiring her around town. Of the three for whom she was looking, she preferred to find Quasim.  He had a reputation for having a short fuse, and she figured a woman interrogating him would throw him off the deep end quickly and get him talking. Aziz was too frail. He could easily die if she put his body under too much pressure.  Finding Quasim, however, could be difficult. She knew her best chance of seeing him would be near the mosque. She doubted the religious zealot would miss his prayer times. Her goal was to watch him for a few days and figure out his pattern. Then she would devise a plan to snatch him for a few hours. 

She also continued to be on the lookout for the young teenager
she caught watching her at the hotel. He appeared to be an errand boy, and although she was sure he was probably not a full-fledged member of the Muslim Brotherhood, she assumed he delivered messages for the members throughout town. He would be difficult to force to talk. The children of Cairo age early because many of them spend their adolescence laboring in stuffy and cramped workshops. The city contained over 300,000 child laborers, and this young man’s job as a delivery boy meant he likely was paid enough money, and shown enough respect, that he was not forced to work in the squalid conditions in which so many of his friends found themselves trapped. This fact alone meant he would be loyal. If she spotted him she planned to follow him as long as possible. She hoped he might lead her to a senior leader of the Muslim Brotherhood who could shed some light on the old man and his activities.

             
After a few days of making her way through some of the most densely populated urban areas in the world, she became frustrated. They all seemed to be hunkered down. No one had appeared, and she could only hope the old man was not too frightened by their original inquiry. 

She decided to
watch the Sultan Hassan Mosque from a coffeehouse, or as the locals called it, a qahwa. It was the only institution more common in the city than the countless mosques and their thin, curved minarets which seemed to pirouette around the city’s skylines. There were several coffeehouses that surrounded the Sultan Hassan Mosque, and they provided her the perfect place to sit and clandestinely watch the comings and goings of the faithful. Each coffeehouse serviced different patrons. The one closest to the mosque held court for many of the men after their prayers were completed. This one, she determined, provided the best vantage point, but she also stood out the most. There were very few women who entered this particular qahwa, and when they did, they were always fully covered.

The other two coffee houses sat at opposite ends of the street and served a mix of locals and tourists. She rotated her appearance at these, sometimes going with the traditional robes and other times dressed like one o
f the thousands of tourists who flooded the city. A miniature pair of binoculars provided her a better glimpse of the mosque if she saw something that caught her eye. 

She spent seven straight days using her mornings and evenings hanging out at the coffee shops, and the daytime hunting the dark alleys of Islamic Cairo.  She was beginning to think they had all vanished into the mass of humanity that was the city of
Cairo. No one even made an appearance to pray. The ambassador also began to get on her case.  He had already left her two messages at her hotel asking when her investigation would be complete, and to please contact him as soon as she was done so he could inform his friends within the Cairo government. She knew if she did not have new information within a few days diplomatic niceties would come into play, and the ambassador would try to force her out of the country.  She knew he was afraid of upsetting his relationship with the government of Egypt. It might prevent him from being invited to some of the lavish extravaganzas the government officials liked to throw. She knew they were not up to par with the orgies of pleasure the Saudis hosted with their oil winnings, but they were still opulent by Western standards. 

She despised the ambassador, mainly because he was the comple
te antithesis of her father, who had fulfilled his diplomatic duties the old fashioned way. Her father understood the local culture and treated Cairo as a second home, instead of using it as a free vacation courtesy of Uncle Sam. Her father came to love the city of Cairo and even found his bride here. Unfortunately, her mother’s family was not as open-minded to the svelte, light-skinned American who appeared at their door one day to ask for their daughter’s hand in marriage.

Her search remained
monotonous, until the eighth day finally provided a breakthrough. The Pharaoh’s Coffee House was quiet for the first twenty minutes of her vigil. She motioned to the waiter to bring her another mug. She crossed her legs, setting the copy of USA Today down on the small wrought iron table. It was early morning, and there were only a few other patrons scattered throughout the outdoor seating area. Her lightweight-jogging suit advertised her as a tourist, the standard patron of this particular establishment.

She glanced down the street at the Sultan Hussein Mosque, her sunglasses dimming the morning sunshine that burst over the city. A few stooped old men in flowing robes were making their way up the steps of the mosque. Raising her binoculars for a look she
saw that none of them were who she wanted. She started to lower the binoculars when a spry young man burst into her circular views of the front of the mosque. The boy sprinted up the stairs past the old men, not giving them a second look. She immediately recognized him as the same boy who searched her hotel room.

             
She watched intently through the lenses, wanting to be sure that it was indeed the same person. By the time he disappeared into the monstrous doors of the mosque she was positive. She quickly settled her tab, doused the last of her coffee down her throat, and stashed the binoculars into her purse. Making her way onto the sidewalk, she slowed her pace substantially, stopping every so often to look around at the shops and buildings as if she was lost and trying to figure out what she wanted to do. A few steps forward, a casual turn backwards, gazing through the glass of a tacky gift shop meant to ensnare the foolish Western tourist, and then she continued on her way.

After twenty minutes of the routine she finally cr
ossed the three blocks, and approached the front of the mosque. The lanky teenager emerged from the mosque on cue, and for once something was unfolding as she had planned. He bounded down the marble stairs, taking them two at a time, and ran across the empty street towards a row of parked cars. Anna casually raised her arm in the pre-arranged gesture, letting her taxi driver know it was time to fire up the engine.

The boy passed in front of the cab, which was parked near the intersection. An old pic
kup truck sat opposite the taxi. The passenger door of the truck swung open and a gesturing hand appeared, beckoning the young man to get in. The truck pulled out into the barren street and headed north. She hurried into her cab and issued curt instructions to follow the battered, mud covered pickup. She tossed a wad of money into the front seat and issued stern orders not to lose the vehicle if he wanted more.

             
A short ride across the dust covered streets and they were soon in front of the Khan al-Khalili, the expansive bazaar that is the pulse of Islamic Cairo. She whispered instructions for the driver to slow down. The old pickup truck stopped fifty yards in front of them, and the boy jumped out and headed into the alleyway, which was just beginning to teem with life. The shopkeepers were scattered across the area, setting up their goods in the hopes of attracting as many customers as possible.

The aroma of spices
filtered through the air, but could not overpower the smell of strong Egyptian coffee that wafted out from the coffee shops surrounding the bazaar. The boy was walking at a quick pace through the early morning marketplace, ignoring the pleasantries that a few of the shopkeepers shouted his way. Anna kept her distance which allowed her to keep an eye on him without running the risk of being seen. Her senses watched and listened for any signs that she was under surveillance, but nothing struck her as suspicious.

They were passing through one of the areas of Islamic Cairo that tourists frequented. The tourists came looking for local bargains, but often ended up with “priceless antiques” that just rolled out of a factory a few weeks earlier. The best deals a tourist could find were
literally right under their feet. Thick Persian rugs covered most of the alleyways. The rugs were laid out by the storeowners who begged and pleaded for people to walk across them. The constant pounding on the rugs actually enlivened the dyes, giving them a more vivid color. 

Surrounding the open-air marketplace was a much darker side of the a
rea. Behind the storefronts most people lived by medieval standards. The sewers never functioned properly, and anyone with any real money moved out years earlier. The area was in a perpetual state of poverty. The Muslim Brotherhood was the primary group that helped to fill the economic void for the local residents. Anna knew this and accepted it. After Anwar Sadat’s assassination in 1981 many of Egypt’s most violent groups were rounded up and summarily thrown into prison. They languished there for years, many of them beaten and tortured until they could take it no longer. Eventually they either died or ratted out other members. Ayman al-Zawahiri was one of these men who were tossed into jail at that time. He would become one of the leaders of Islamic Jihad, a group whose only goal was to overthrow the Egyptian government. Some in the Muslim Brotherhood, tired of executions and beatings, decided to enter the political process.

The Muslim Brotherhood and Islamic Jihad went their separate ways by the mid-1980s. Zawah
iri’s group eventually merged with Bin Laden, creating the multi-national terrorist organization whose main objective was to strike the United States. The Brotherhood continued operating strictly as a local group. Anna looked around at their handy work. The Muslim Brotherhood received enough funding from outside donors to sprinkle money throughout small enclaves like this area. It provided the locals just enough on which to get by, but the funds were small enough to keep the population weak and complacent.