The Amateur Spy (12 page)

“What does he do for the organization?” I asked.

“He is a representative of a local political committee which sometimes uses our phones. The utility charges would be the same regardless. It is another service we can provide for people here while we are waiting for our other efforts to bear fruit.”

“And the gun?”

“That belongs to Hakim. You will have to ask him its purpose. But it is often this way with men in this culture. The women have their jewelry, the men have their guns. It is just another adornment, really.”

But Hakim, too, was already out the door, and he had taken his “adornment” with him. I was about to ask if this kind of extracurricular activity—the pamphleteering and the politics—was such a good mix with charity when Nabil preempted me with his own question.

“Omar says that for an American you are very fair-minded about the Palestinians. Is this true?”

No smile this time, but no frown, either, so I decided to overlook the backhanded nature of his compliment.

“That tends to happen when you spend a year on the West Bank during the intifada.”

“Working with UNRWA.”

“Yes.”

“And what have you been doing since then?”

“Aid jobs. Humanitarian work. Africa, Asia, the Balkans. All over the place, really.”

“The UN,” he said, nodding in a way that said he knew all about the UN. After living here thirty-seven years, maybe he did. The UN wasn’t always at its best in this part of the world. It was one of the few things the Arabs and Israelis agreed upon. Which is why I was surprised when Nabil suddenly turned nostalgic.

“I remember when the UN set up the first school here. We sat all day with our feet in mud, but we did have desks. The lucky kids had plastic sandals, the rest of us were barefoot. Every morning they gave us a glass of milk, a vitamin pill, and a spoonful of cod-liver oil, but no bread afterward to get the taste out of our mouth.” He smiled while his eyes gazed off into his past. “After school every student went to a feeding center. We lined up in a tent. They made
kofta
kebab with tinned beef. That and potatoes, or rice. The same menu every week. But it was hot, and it was filling.”

“So you really were one of the first arrivals.”

“Oh, yes. There were only a few thousand then. For two years we lived in tents. Seven square meters for each family.”

“Sounds awful.”

“I guess it was for my parents. I liked it. All my friends were here. Then my father got a plot of land. Ninety-six square meters! He built a first floor. Ten years later he built a second one, with a terrace on the roof.”

“Did you ever think then you’d be spending the rest of your life here?”

His expression went solemn, even stern, and I realized too late that I’d stepped on one of the region’s political land mines. Never suggest that an uprooted Palestinian will be in exile forever.

“I still don’t think that,” he said coolly. “My father always said our family would return to Jerusalem, and that is what I tell my daughter. This is not our home. How can it be home? I am half and half, not allowed to be Palestinian and not really allowed to be Jordanian.”

It was a standard line, and I’d heard it often enough in ’91. But at least he wasn’t offering the old song and dance by showing me the keys to the family’s old house, or the yellowing deed to their property.

A small voice interrupted us from the doorway.

“Daddy? I have brought this for your guest.”

A girl of about ten stood at the entrance. She wore a pink scarf around her head and carried a tray of hammered silver with a steaming cup of Arab coffee and a tall glass of water.

“Come in, sweet one. This is my daughter, Jena.”

Her name meant “little bird,” and it fit perfectly. She darted from place to place like a sparrow, and her bright little face brimmed with curiosity.

“How did she know that I—”

“Our house is across the street. I had asked my wife to watch for your arrival.”

“Ah. Thank you.”

“Please. Be seated, so you may drink your coffee.”

Nabil did not join me, of course. I sipped while Nabil questioned his daughter about her schoolwork. He listened patiently as she filled him in on the latest news from the playground. It was his softer side, and what was most interesting was that he didn’t mind letting me see it. It made me warm up to him a bit, although I was still curious about his politics.

“Tell Mr. Freeman what you like to do at night, on the computer.”

“Write short stories.” She said it shyly, looking down at her red plastic sandals.

“She writes some very good ones,” he said proudly. “She has quite the imagination. Okay, sweet one. Take the tray back to your mother.”

She waved good-bye from the door and ran home, raising puffs of dust with every step. Nabil watched until she was safely across the street.

“Maybe she feels the way I did about this place as a boy, and likes it here. But for a father it is very hard. There is no place for our children to play. That is why she is on the computer so much. She goes online to chat with people in other parts of the world. And the stories she writes—they are always beautiful, but they are never set here in Bakaa. It is her way of traveling, I think. The only other time she gets to leave is when I take her to the Hussein Gardens in Amman. We go every month.”

We talked a while longer. He was a bit evasive when I asked about his exact duties in the community, but he spoke freely about his background. During his twenties he had dabbled in communism. It had been trendy among young Palestinian firebrands during the Cold War seventies, fostered partly by an infusion of rubles from Moscow. The Soviets deserted the cause once their empire began to totter, and soon afterward Nabil gave up on Lenin. But he had retained some of the revolutionary’s blunt way of expression. That was apparent when Omar pulled to the curb in his Mercedes along with Dr. Hassan. Nabil’s face darkened, and he said, “Now that the doctor has arrived, I will take my leave. You will find that we don’t mix well.”

His animosity seemed to go beyond a mere personality clash. That didn’t bode well for the charity, but the spy in me stirred with interest. Fault lines were always fruitful sources of information.

But the idea of a rift sent out danger signals, too. The gun in the corner was one warning. The irritation over the political banner was another. Factional tensions always ran deep in places like Bakaa, and I wondered if Omar was mixing a bit too glibly among rivals, and whether he would soon expect me to do the same.

Out in the field I had learned to trust my gut, and on three different occasions my gut had told me something was not quite right. The successive results had been an ambush, a kidnapping, and a violent beating.

Now my gut was once again telling me to beware.

It was also saying that I had better learn as much as possible about Nabil Mustafa and Dr. Hassan, if only for my own protection.

11

Y
ou don’t expect to see a Hummer in an Arab capital unless an American soldier is at the wheel. But apparently the sons and daughters of Amman’s wealthy never got the message, because a bright red Hummer filled with four teens had just rolled by, blaring American hip-hop from speakers that throbbed like the pulse of the earth.

So this was Abdoun. Let the good times roll.

It was certainly a popular place. My taxi was crawling through four lanes of traffic among Mercedes, BMWs, and big SUVs. I was late for the dinner party, but the backup gave me a long look at an Amman I had never seen. So far I had also spotted a two-story Starbucks, a Guy Laroche Paris with valet parking, and nightclubs named Scruples, Mirador, Da Willy, and the Blue Fig. Inside their glass doorways, stylish twentysomethings smoked scented tobacco from tabletop hookah pipes. A few young women wore head scarves, but most were bareheaded and wore short skirts or tight jeans.

From the overflow customers on the sidewalks I heard English phrases like “What’s up?” and “How’s it going?” interspersed with their Arabic. Others spoke English exclusively. Towering over the tableau like a watchtower was a floodlit billboard for McDonald’s, with an apricot pie poking from a red pouch above the words “Sweet Ramadan Treat.”

Years ago, Shmeisani had been the neighborhood with all the pretensions, in the city’s northwest. Clearly, the social balance of power had shifted south, and Omar was in the heart of it. Not bad for a fellow who made his fortune in the hotel supply business, although lately he was also into stocks and real estate.

I didn’t know what to expect at Omar’s, but I was hoping for more than just a family dinner. I was ready to get down to business. Time to meet some movers and shakers.

The cab at last pulled up at a magnificent sandstone house. Its two stories were illuminated by floodlights mounted on a lofty palm. Every upstairs window had a stone balcony. Omar’s Mercedes was in the driveway next to a Jeep Cherokee. Three more cars were out front.

Omar’s wife, Hanan, greeted me warmly. Her kindness had endeared her to Mila, and I liked her, too. She had always struck me as a keen observer, and that meant she would be worth watching with regard to Omar. If he was flirting with any sort of dangerous fringe, it might be evident in her words and actions.

It quickly became clear that I had walked into the middle of a heated discussion between Omar and a young man who must have been his son, Kemal.

“No!” Omar said. “You are
not
to do that. I forbid it!”

Hanan squeezed my arm.

“Omar, Freeman is here.”

“Freeman, I am so sorry! You remember Kemal, of course?”

“Not when he was this big.”

Oldest line in the book, but it loosened things up. Kemal was taller than his father and had his mother’s intense brown eyes. His thin face and cropped hair reminded me of the imperious waiter at the China Dragon. He acknowledged me with a nod.

“You will address him with respect,” Omar said.

“I haven’t said
anything
yet.”

Kemal then had the good sense to look me in the eye and say, quite agreeably, “I apologize, Mr. Lockhart. I should have said hello right away, of course.”

“We were having a little disagreement about his cruising habits,” Omar said. “His older friends have cars now, but they don’t know how to use them properly. Or soberly.”

Kemal reddened, offered a clipped, “Pleasure to see you, sir,” and bolted out the door.

“Cruising seems to be quite the rage,” I said. “The traffic was horrible.”

Omar’s jaw twitched as Kemal departed, but he held his tongue. Then he threw an arm around my shoulder and walked me toward his guests.

“Ah, Freeman, was it ever really like that between us and our parents? He is seventeen, and already he has forgotten everything I taught him.”

“I thought that was mandatory when you’re seventeen.”

“It’s worse now. They’re totally irresponsible, driven only by personal objectives. My elders taught me one thing: It’s you who will deliver us, you who will go to college and help us live a better life. One of my teachers said that any of us might be the next Saladin, so we had to be prepared to lead. This bunch thinks they’re leading if they’re first in line at Starbucks. But come meet the others. Everyone here is one of our major backers.”

A man in his mid-forties approached as we entered the living room. He was dressed as if he had come straight from the office—crisp gray suit, yellow paisley tie. A wedge of lime perched on the rim of his cocktail glass, and I smelled gin. He addressed me in perfect English.

“You must be the famous Freeman Lockhart. As honored guest, please feel free to tell the host to shut up about today’s youth.”

Others joined in the laughter, even Omar.

“Speaking of blatant self-interest,” Omar said, “this is Rafi Tuqan.”

“He is making fun of my chosen profession,” Rafi said.

“Which is?”

“Financial adviser. Something that almost didn’t exist here twenty years ago. It’s another of our growth markets.”

“That’s why we like having Rafi over,” Omar said. “Whenever he gossips, you get a free tip or two.”

“Buy low, sell high?” I asked Rafi.

“Don’t make it sound so easy. Bad for business. But it’s true that in Amman right now even a fool could make a fortune.”

There were four other guests. Two were Dr. Hassan and his wife, Rima, a tiny woman with a cackling laugh who was drinking pomegranate juice. There was also an older couple, Sami and Badra Fayez. Sami didn’t say what he did for a living, although I gathered from the others that he owned loads of property and had long been a lubricant of Amman’s sociopolitical machinery. Over a second round of drinks, Rafi told me that Sami kept a sort of salon in a restored house downtown, where drop-in guests traded rumors and hatched plots over a bottomless supply of coffee and sweets.

“You should go,” Rafi said. “A splendid old place, and Sami would enjoy showing you off. Old-school Ammanis, mostly. They’re convinced that’s where the action is.”

“And it isn’t?”

“The only real action is at the palace. And in the financial markets, as long as the war in Iraq keeps going.”

“The war’s good for business?”

“The Iraqis had to put their money somewhere. A lot of the old Baathists came pouring out before the shooting started. Even the people who stayed, hoping to take over, sent their money. Divided in war, united in flight capital. You should see their villas, bigger than the Saudis’. I was in a belly-dancing club the other night where drunken Baathists were singing hymns of praise to Saddam. Everyone booed, of course, but no one came to blows. Nobody wanted to risk slugging his next customer. Throw in the Gulfies and it’s one big carnival. Land prices are doubling once a year.”

“Maybe that’s why everyone thinks Sami has all the answers.”

“And maybe he does. Until the bubble bursts. But don’t ask me when that will happen. I’m only paid to make it bigger.”

“Hard to see how it could get much bigger in Abdoun.”

“Omar is right about these young people, you know. They see someone like me and think it’s easy money, but none of them realizes what it took to get here.”

“A business degree?”

“Earlier. I never would have learned to hustle growing up in Abdoun.”

“Spoken like a West Banker. Or someone from the camps.”

“The Al-Wihdat camp, here in Amman. You know it?”

“I went there during the Gulf War, years ago. They were hustling, all right. Picked my pockets twice.”

Rafi laughed.

“Well, it wasn’t me. Too busy doing chores. Fetch the water at five, the bread at six, the lentils at seven. Then school until four. And it wasn’t like you could run away. Amman was tiny then. If you wandered a mile from home you saw coyotes.”

I suppose he wanted to let me know he was the genuine article, not just a rich guy buying off his conscience. It made me wonder why Nabil Mustafa hadn’t been invited. Palestinians here liked to grouse about the snobby Hashemites, but they could snub with the best of them, and maybe Nabil was too rough around the edges for this crowd. I wouldn’t have minded seeing him, though. He struck me as the type who didn’t waste time with false fronts, whereas these people might need a few drinks to show their true colors.

Rafi went to freshen his gin, so I wandered across the living room to look at a couple of paintings. The most striking was a bold impressionistic landscape, desert mountains in dusky light beneath an afternoon sky. Shadows loomed heavily in thick daubs of dark oil. I had been to places like that, and the artist had caught the lighting perfectly. But the more impressive piece was a small drawing in charcoal. It was another desert scene, from Jordan’s eastern stretches of black basalt, a desolate landscape I remembered from my many trips to the Iraqi border in ’91. Setting up aid camps there had been like working on the surface of the moon. The artist deftly captured the monochromatic bleakness. In the foreground, some sort of half-buried ruins lent an air of mystery.

“Nice, isn’t it?”

It was Sami, the real estate tycoon.

“Haunting. What are the ruins, some kind of fortress?”

“The ancient dam at Jawa, five thousand years old. Some of the world’s oldest hydraulic works, in fact. The artist is a friend, Issa Odeh. He did the oils, too. One of Omar’s fellow travelers in the quest for all things old.”

“Old? Omar? Those two words never used to go together.”

“Oh, he has become quite the preservationist. Always telling me not to sell this plot or that because of its historic value.”

“And with good reason,” Omar said, approaching from behind. “It’s our heritage. Sami likes to pretend these old stones have no value whatsoever.”

“Old stones can’t feed a hungry mouth,” Sami said.

“No. But they can conquer a people. Look at what the Jews do with their old stones. The Western Wall. A few ancient foundations. They’ve turned them into biblical land claims, and in this part of the world that’s as good as a deed. Long as you’ve got an army to back it up.”

“Is this the same Omar al-Baroody who used to say the past was worthless?” I asked.

“
Omar
said that?”

“At least once a day.”

“This is the problem with old friends.” Omar grinned sheepishly. “They know too much.”

By now Hanan had joined us.

“Freeman’s right,” she said. “Tell Sami what you used to say about your parents.”

“No one wants to hear all that.”

“Then I’ll tell him,” I said. “Omar used to say his parents spent their whole lives looking backward. That all they ever talked about was 1948, or 1967, and that’s why nothing ever got done.”

“My parents were the same,” said Rafi, the boy of the camps who had struck it rich. “Whenever I asked about fixing our house they said, ‘No, no, we are going to return.’ It was always an excuse for doing nothing.”

By now everyone in the room had been drawn into the conversation. A few drinks more, and they would really open up. I decided to slow down my consumption so I would still be alert when that happened. The odd part was that they were all speaking English, although everyone must have known I was fluent in Arabic. I was reminded of the kids outside the Blue Fig. But I was reminded even more of those Moscow soirees in Tolstoy, where the Russians chat fashionably in French. Not that it stopped them from kicking Napoleon halfway across Europe.

Dr. Hassan put a hand on my shoulder and, in a tone obviously intended to be sage, said, “If you are interested in old things, Mr. Lockhart, then you should visit Petra.”

“Oh, please,” Rafi said. “Surely he can do better than Petra. Besides, he’s probably already been.”

“I have, in fact. Not that it isn’t worth another visit.”

I didn’t say that just to placate Dr. Hassan. Petra is breathtaking, an entire city carved out of rocky bluffs, a two-thousand-year-old public works project in bas-relief. And you got there by riding the final kilometers on horseback through a narrow gorge walled by three-hundred-foot cliffs. I suppose that it took a trendy financial hipster such as Rafi Tuqan to conclude that it had somehow become passé.

“Too popular for you?” I asked him.

“The tourists don’t bother me. Or even the trinket sellers. Let the Bedouins set up their little ice cream stands if they want. They certainly never made a dinar to compare with those ugly hotels the government built. In fact, maybe it
would
do you good to go back. There’s a real lesson for Americans at Petra.”

“Is there now?”

“Well, you emerge from your ride down the narrow
siq
and it is beautiful, yes?”

“Spectacular.”

“And you think, my goodness, what sort of refined and proud culture could have built this? Surely not Arabs? But, yes, it was. Then you round the corner, and see what?”

“The amphitheater?”

“Exactly. Built later by the Romans, of course. Because when they conquered a place they had to make it their own. Never mind that it was already the most beautiful city in all of Provincia Arabia. They had to put in a theater, a Roman road, a forum. Who knows, maybe someday they’ll dig up a stela engraved with ‘Billions Sold.’”

I laughed. So did Rafi, which told me his lecture was in good fun. But a few of the guests stared silently at their shoe tops until Omar rode to the rescue.

“Actually, the Romans helped save the place,” he said. “Gave it a bit of a renaissance. You’ve got to take the long view, Rafi, like our archaeologist friends. Besides, the most interesting aspect of the Roman works in Jordan is that none was ever really completed.”

“Is that true?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. Even the theater downtown.”

It was a bit magical to see that Omar hadn’t lost his touch for peacemaking. In easing the awkward moment he reminded me of the times he used to step out of our Passat into the
shebab
and manage to cool tempers with a few well-chosen words.

“Interesting,” I said. “Why do you think they stopped?”

“Who knows? Maybe they ran out of money.”

“Now there’s your American analogy,” I said to Rafi. “Some tightwad isolationist in the Senate must have gotten hold of the foreign aid budget.”