The Amateur Spy (10 page)

But Shereen had already hung up. Fifteen minutes later she was dead.

Aliyah took the call from the embassy at 6 a.m. local time on Saturday, 11 a.m. in London. Yes, they waited that long. A kindly voice which accepted no blame announced that their daughter had been reported dead on arrival at a London hospital after an accident the evening before. She had been hit by a London bus at rush hour. Apparently she had stepped right into its path, which can happen when you’re a young woman in a great hurry and haven’t quite grown accustomed to looking to the right when preparing to cross a busy street in a place where everyone drives on the left.

And then, unbeknownst to Aliyah until now, some fool of a bureaucrat must have slipped Shereen’s new passport into the mail. Abbas had never told her, and she quickly saw why. Its issue date was three days prior to Shereen’s death. Meaning that it had been printed at the same time as Catherine’s and Jane’s, but must have then sat in a desk drawer while everyone asked their maddening questions for the sake of national security.

Aliyah didn’t want it in her house. But if she threw it out, Abbas would know she had been here. So she carefully drew her hand away from it, as if further contact might burn her skin.

She sat in Abbas’s desk chair, drew a deep breath to collect herself, and recited a brief prayer of forbearance from a favorite sura of the Quran, repeating it several times in a slow, passionate whisper. Annie had instructed her to do this whenever a surge of aggrieved anger threatened to overwhelm her, and it usually did the trick. She sat awhile longer in silence, waiting for her heartbeat to slow down. Beginning to calm, she reached for her mug of tea and swallowed deeply. Too much milk and not enough sugar. If she had the wits about her to notice that, then she must be okay.

She reached up to shut the desktop, yet her eyes couldn’t resist one last glance at the pile of papers that sat beneath the passport like a funeral pyre, waiting to be ignited.

The item that now drew her attention was a scribbled note. At the top was today’s date. Below was an address on Cordell Street, which she wasn’t familiar with, next to the name “Melissa,” and a time, 6:30 p.m. Aliyah had caught the Metro home from work today instead of riding with Abbas, which happened whenever one of them had to work late. He had phoned her at 6 to say that an emergency had come up with one of his patients. But surely he had meant at the hospital, not on Cordell Street.

Some wives, upon discovering this sort of evidence, would immediately suspect infidelity. A few years ago maybe Aliyah would have done so, too. But the way Abbas had been acting lately made him seem incapable of even beginning an affair, much less managing one. And he certainly wasn’t talking in his sleep with some fantasy woman, not in that passionless monologue. His mumblings were more in the tone of a technician, an engineer, the voice she had heard him use when pondering how to fix someone’s faulty inner workings.

No, he wasn’t being unfaithful. But this didn’t make her any less curious about the note. She took a blank sheet of paper and copied the name and address. Then she shut the desk, rinsed her mug, and crept upstairs. When she reached the bed, Abbas was still talking, still working away at whatever problem had recently taken hold of him.

9

I
saw Omar before he saw me. At that moment I realized that this was what spying was all about. Catching your subjects unawares, before they had time for any pose or posturing.

He stood at the curb of the busy street in front of his office, shaking hands and saying good-bye to a couple of tall fellows in flowing robes and white burnooses. They might as well have worn signs saying, “Oil Sheikh,” and they were climbing into a limo with smoked glass and diplomatic plates. Potential donors, perhaps. Early birds for sure, seeing as how they had finished their business by 8:30.

I felt a surge of goodwill at seeing my old battle companion, looking so assured and in control. But I resisted the urge to call out as he turned to go back inside. This gave me time to write down the tag numbers of the departing limo while my driver watched with undisguised curiosity.

By the time I had paid him a few crumpled dinars, the limo was gone and the sidewalk was empty. The building was typical for this part of town. Four stories of white plaster walls and brown glass. A dirt parking lot in the back with zephyrs of chalky dust. It was only a block off a crowded interchange, and the traffic noise was deafening. The air smelled strongly of burned coffee, an aroma of unknown origin that always seems to pervade Amman by day.

The headquarters of Omar’s organization was down a hallway to the left on the ground floor, and the first thing I noticed after stepping through the door was a framed verse from the Quran on the wall behind the receptionist. Maybe he really had gotten religion. My Arabic reading skills were rusty, and it took a few seconds to puzzle out the Prophet’s words:

“A person’s true wealth comes from the good he does in the world.”

So much for piety. Norman Vincent Peale couldn’t have said it better.

“May I help you, sir?”

I realized I had been reading aloud, and the receptionist looked at me in apparent suspicion. She was strikingly beautiful, if a bit primly dressed in a blue silk blouse buttoned to the neck. Her huge brown eyes gleamed with unspoken questions. She seemed like the type who missed nothing. Best to be careful around her.

“Yes, I’m expected. Lockhart. Freeman Lockhart. Here to see Omar al-Baroody.”

Before she could answer, Omar’s voice boomed through the open door behind her.

“Freeman? Is that really you?”

He bounded toward me with a grin, and embraced me in a massive hug. He was heavier than I’d remembered, and I assumed it was the heft of prosperity, although you never would have guessed it from the looks of the office, with its cracked walls, dingy linoleum, and fluorescent tubing. He and the secretary seemed to be the only ones holding the fort. There was a second cubicle, which presumably would soon belong to me.

“You should have seen me when I got your e-mail, running around like I’d won the lottery. Raniya here thought I must be drunk. I take it you’ve met?”

She nodded briskly, as if to imply she had better things to do.

“Come into my office, where I can tell you what this is all about. And Raniya, could you please make us some coffee?”

“For one?”

“For two. Both with medium sugar.” He glanced my way. “Correct?”

“Your memory’s perfect. But you’re drinking, too?”

“Please. I only fast at my mother’s house. You know that.”

“People change.” I nodded toward the quotation.

“Raniya’s idea,” he said in a lowered voice. “And I have to say, it works wonders with the Gulfies. They like to see evidence of your devotion, even when it’s insincere. Like their own.”

I took a seat in a comfortable chair facing his battered gray desk. Somewhat to my surprise, there was a large framed photo of King Abdullah on the facing wall, the one of him in blue jeans, seated next to the queen. It was autographed and personalized in English: “To Omar, with warmest regards.”

“Raniya didn’t seem too happy about the coffee,” I said after he shut the door.

“But she’s very happy about her paycheck, so she’ll live with it. I know she doesn’t like aiding and abetting my little blasphemies, and I’m sorry for that, because she is good at her work.” He lowered his voice again. “But I swear, Freeman. Sometimes she is worse than my mother.”

“How is your mother, anyway? It’s been years.”

I had met her often on mornings when we headed up to Nablus, since it was more convenient to pick up Omar at home on the outskirts of East Jerusalem than to meet at headquarters. She was an unwavering domestic presence in the family’s modest home, cleaning in the morning, cooking in the afternoon, and sewing around the clock. She always answered the door with a polite but unsmiling nod, and whenever you stayed for more than a millisecond she offered honeyed treats, bowls of almonds and pistachios, and steaming glasses of minty tea. According to Omar, she passed her few moments of leisure glued to the television, watching Mexican soap operas subtitled in Arabic on an ancient black-and-white Philco.

Omar’s house was typical of the many middle-class Palestinian homes I entered that year. The furniture was heavy and dark. The walls were decorated with colorful posters of faraway places—outdoor scenery featuring waterfalls, forests, and snowy alpine peaks, and not a single Israeli. A framed photo of Arafat hung in a prominent place in the living room. His image was everywhere then, just as you once found Tito above every mantel in Yugoslavia, or Pope John Paul II’s beatific face all across a restive Poland. It was a genuine underdog culture, exhibiting all the usual signs of tenacity and entitlement. Every minor slight became evidence of some larger aggrievement, and every success was tempered by the deepening shadow of military occupation. Against this backdrop, the eldest son was each family’s de facto standard-bearer in the continuing struggle, meaning that Omar carried the load for his people.

I wondered how many of those traditions had carried over to his current home, especially now that he was living comfortably in Jordan, with two daughters already in university and his son nearing the age of eighteen.

“My mother is fine,” Omar said. “A little slower and quieter, now that all of her children have moved away. But a little angrier, too, ever since the Israelis put up that damned wall. They ran it right through our old neighborhood, you know, just a few months ago. It’s fifty meters from our house. She complains that it blocks the sunset.”

“I had no idea. I haven’t seen it. In fact, I haven’t been to Jerusalem since the last time I saw you.”

“You should go when you get a chance. Eight meters high. Just like Berlin.”

“Are you still allowed to visit?”

“As long as I feel like putting up with body searches and checkpoints. Four hours to make a one-hour trip. You know how it goes.”

Raniya brought in our refreshments on a wooden tray. She cast a stern look at Omar, which he chose to ignore. Then she willfully neglected to shut the door behind her.

“But all of that is old business,” Omar said, waving dismissively. “Old struggles and old enemies. Onward to the new one, which is why I’ve recruited you!”

He raised his cup, so I raised mine. We clinked them as if they were filled with champagne. Black would have loved it.

“You are of course invited to our house for dinner tonight, so I hope you don’t already have plans. Hanan is very eager to see you.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Eight o’clock, then. We both hope Mila will soon join you.”

“Not for a few months, I’m afraid. She’s got some family business to wrap up in Greece.” Now I was lying for two. I doubt Mila would have thanked me.

“Well, you need to find an apartment first, in any case. Which reminds me, I have a few leads. And of course we’ll pay your hotel bill in the meantime. So take your time. Get settled into the job first, if you’d like.”

“Actually, I already have a lead. A place in Jebel Amman.”

“So quickly?”

“It, uh, came from an old UN buddy.”

“Perfect, then. You’ve always been at home in this part of the world. But tell me, Freeman. Can you really be happy working for my shabby little NGO? As grateful as I am to have you, that’s the one thing that worries me. Why quit the UN for this? From all I’ve heard, you are one of their shining stars, yes?”

Black and I had gone over how to answer this kind of question shortly after his slide show. I certainly couldn’t tell Omar that I had just retired. Forsaking the easy life on a Greek island made even less sense than quitting gainful employment. So Black had supplied a cover story and said his agency pals would plant rumors to back it up.

“
Fallen
star is more like it. I had a little run-in with a superior. None of what happened was fair, but those things never are. Officially, I’ve taken early retirement. Unofficially, the prick forced me out. So maybe this wouldn’t have been my first choice, but it’s my best hope for getting back into the thick of things. As a bonus I get to work with someone I like. Long as you don’t mind accepting damaged goods.”

“Do not even say that. It’s their loss. Besides, Jordan has been accepting damaged goods from the UN for decades. Palestinians have practically built a whole country out of them. I just wanted to make sure you were fully on board. As I said in the e-mail, if you really want this job, it’s yours.”

At this point Black’s script called for me to graciously accept and shake hands. But I was the boss here. Omar knew I had never made a habit of leaping into things, so I decided to play to type.

“I guess that depends on what I’d be doing.”

“That’s the good part. It’s mostly up to you.”

Same thing Black had said, and hearing it from Omar would be music to his ears. Who knows, maybe Black was even listening as we spoke. The office had all sorts of hiding places for microphones.

“As you can see,” Omar continued, “we aren’t exactly overflowing with help. Besides Raniya and me there are only a few volunteers at our field office in Bakaa, and some doctors who have signed on to run clinics on our behalf. But that’s it. And for the biggest job, fund-raising, I’m pretty much the whole show. Frankly I could use a white, Christian face with a pedigree like yours. Especially on those rare days when Europeans and Americans come calling. But don’t worry—I’m not expecting you to do much on that front. So maybe I should explain what I need most. And if you’re comfortable with it, great. If not, that’s fine, too, although I hate to think of how hard it would be to find anyone nearly as qualified.”

“Or as white and Christian.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned that.”

“No, I understand. And I’d be happy to help with fund-raising.”

Ecstatic, in fact. Show me to the files and I’d begin straightaway. For all I knew, that was where all the answers lay. Omar beamed, taking my eagerness for generosity. Then he described my general duties.

“Until we really get going, you’d be a sort of jack-of-all-trades. Providing a sense of direction to some of the clinics we’re setting up, and to our organizers as we put together a field operation, keeping everyone focused.”

“I thought your goal was to build a hospital?”

“It is. But instead of just going into the wilderness with a jar and rattling the coins under donors’ noses, we’re building a track record as we go. That’s why we’re underwriting clinics, to establish credibility. Right now we’re pushing the ball slowly up the hill. The bigger it gets, the faster it will roll once we push it over the top, picking up donors from all walks of the community, local and international. It’s all about creating momentum, synergy. We want to become synonymous with providing health care services for the people of Bakaa. We’re building a brand.”

Goodness, the jargon. It was a spiel you might have heard at a prayer breakfast of the Akron Chamber of Commerce. If Omar was a holy warrior, then his god was Bill Gates.

“And what do you get out of this?”

“Ah, still the heart of a skeptic. Another reason to have you on board. You must have seen a lot of people like me over the years, coming to you with their hands out.”

“Mostly in breadlines. But, yes, a few.”

“That’s why your experience will make us credible. Which is what we need most. Credibility.”

“To build the brand.”

“Of course.”

“With who? People like that tag team of sheikhs I saw outside?”

“You saw them leaving? You should have said something, Freeman. I would have introduced you.”

I realized I’d stumbled.

“I wasn’t sure you wanted to be interrupted. They looked important.”

“Yes, I suppose you might have startled them. But I did tell them all about you. They seemed impressed you were coming aboard. So, you see? You haven’t officially started, but already you are having an impact!”

In more ways than one, of course, and to my surprise my little acts of deceit came with a sort of thrill, a forbidden pleasure that made my fingertips tingle, the same way they had whenever danger had showed up at our feeding tents and emergency camps. I could see how this sort of life could become addictive. I decided to probe for more.

Nodding toward the photo of King Abdullah, I asked, “Is he giving you any help?”

“He’s been a wonder, in fact. A breath of fresh air.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Didn’t you used to call his father the Hashemite Midget?”

Omar laughed—a little uneasily, I thought—and glanced through the open door toward Raniya.

“I suppose I did. I never thought he did enough for the Palestinians.”

“Other than provide a home for a few million. Don’t you guys make up more than half the population now?”

“More, much more. That was never our gripe. It was the way the palace shut us out of the power structure. All of that Hashemite tribal snobbery. Plenty of room in their desert, but no room in their tent. But with Abdullah, that is changing.”

So in addition to becoming a salesman, he was a budding royalist. Something told me that when I saw Omar’s house tonight, it was going to be grand and stylish, with a big-screen television, a dish on the roof, and extra cars for the children. But none of this should be cause for alarm for my handlers. King Abdullah was about as cosmopolitan a fellow as you’d want to meet. He had lived abroad for years, had been educated at Oxford and Georgetown, and spoke Arabic with a British accent. If anything, he was too Western for his own good.