The Amateur Spy (16 page)

What surprised me was the number of smaller donors, checks from here and there for dinar totals amounting to a few hundred dollars apiece. Only a handful of people had kicked in more than $100,000. All had Arabic names except for a professor from George Mason University in northern Virginia, and another at Stanford. I made a note of both, just in case. Some of the Arabic names also had U.S. addresses, even among the smaller donors, and in jotting them down I wondered uncomfortably if they would soon be receiving unwanted scrutiny as a result of my work. If Nabil was funneling some of their proceeds to the wrong places, then maybe they deserved it.

The expenditures were equally unexciting. The only one that seemed curious was an unexplained check for $10,000 to a Mr. Hamdi of Madaba. I asked Raniya if there was a file for him, and she retrieved it without a word, dropping it brusquely on the table. He was a direct-mail consultant who had arranged for mailings to big shots in Amman’s business community.

I paused only once in my labors, to walk to a mini-market down the street for bananas, tea biscuits, and a bottle of water, a meal that I ate furtively in my bare little office, shutting the door so Raniya didn’t have to watch.

The phone rang a few times with calls for Omar, but otherwise she didn’t break her silence until three hours later, when I finally dropped the files back on her desk and announced I was finished.

“Nice to see everything is in tiptop shape,” I said. “Obviously you’re keeping things very well organized.”

“
Mr. al-Baroody
is keeping things well organized.”

“Of course.”

The ringing of the phone saved me from further scolding. When she answered, her voice rose by an octave to a warble as pleasant as a songbird’s.

“Yes, sir,” she said cheerily. It must have been Omar calling. I do believe she had a bit of a crush on him. “I will see to that immediately.”

I drifted away and pretended to consult my legal pad while listening closely.

“But surely not that weekend, sir. What about your travel plans?”

That got my attention.

“Very good, sir. I will take care of it.”

She hung up. I knew better than to expect a straight answer, but asked anyway.

“Omar’s going somewhere?”

“Yes.”

She said no more. The only sound was the scratching of her pen on a steno pad, which she then shut with a pop. I watched over the edge of my notebook as she swiveled toward her computer and began pecking away. A few moments later the printer sprang to life. I considered sauntering over for a look, but she was there in a flash to retrieve the pages.

“I have some chores to attend to,” I announced. “See you in the morning.”

“As you wish, sir. The workday begins at 8:30.”

On the way to my hotel I detoured to the gigantic Safeway in Shmeisani, legendary for selling almost anything you’d need. I bought groceries and stocked up on bed linens, towels, and washcloths. I had the taxi wait outside the hotel while I quickly packed my clothes back into the suitcase. I arrived at Othman Bin Affan Street looking like a gypsy.

Another parcel was waiting on the porch. At first I assumed the DHL man had returned. But on closer inspection I found it was a bag of fresh dates. A handwritten note from Fiona poked out of the top: “They sell these wonderful things at the flea market. It’s the vendor by the dreadful potter’s stand, in case you want more. Welcome to our street.”

Was I supposed to read a pun into her choice of fruit—dates for a date, perhaps—or was she just being neighborly? Either way, I should mention soon that I was married. I popped a date in my mouth. Delicious.

“You are welcome in Jordan,” I said to myself. Fiona had become just like the locals, eager to make outsiders feel at home.

There were no further surprises—just as well after the events of the morning. I considered phoning Karos to see if Mila had left yet, but I couldn’t stand the thought of either a ringing telephone in our empty home or another overheard conversation. My guess was that she was on the ferry, watching the island recede in her wake. She might even have chosen a fast boat for a change.

With those anxieties weighing on me, I decided on an early dinner at a modest café a few blocks away. When I returned I settled down at the laptop and dutifully typed in the day’s findings on an e-mail to Black.

Supposing that any messages would be automatically encrypted, I decided to send one to my personal e-mail account just to see how it would look. I would try calling it up later at the Internet café. But no matter what letter I typed on the address bar, only the name “Black” appeared on the screen. I guess they didn’t want me contacting anyone else on their machine.

Stymied and tired, I called it a night at 10 p.m. Already it was chilly, just as Fiona had warned. I would have to return to Safeway for another blanket. Fall could sneak up on you in this part of the world. I preferred the autumnal explosion of color and crispness from my home state of Massachusetts. It was a clear announcement of change, one last celebration before winter brought everything to a halt. I have always hoped that I will approach death the same way, with one last blaze of brightness and frolic, and a harvest moon to light my exit. Good God, such morbid thoughts, and it was only my second day on the job.

It must have been only a few hours later when I awoke to a scratching noise, like fingernails against a windowsill. Certain that it was an intruder, I sat up with a gasp, heart beating wildly. The gun purchase urged by Nabil suddenly seemed like an excellent idea. Then I realized the noise was coming from behind the baseboard, underneath the bed. It was a mouse, no doubt, prowling for food or seeking shelter as the desert winter approached. I shifted on the bed and the mouse stopped.

A few moments later he began clawing again. His rustling explorations were oddly comforting, and they kept me company as I drifted back to my dreams.

In this house, I suspected, sleep was never going to come easy.

15

I
tried out my new key shortly after 7:30 a.m. and then stood in the silent, dark office, contemplating my plan of action. The file cabinets could wait. First I wanted to see Raniya’s printout of Omar’s travel plans.

Her desk drawer was locked. I stooped beneath the desk to try and jimmy it free. Then it occurred to me that anyone as efficient as Raniya would never leave herself vulnerable to the possibility of a lost key, so I took my own set across the room to the filing cabinets.

I found what I wanted under the heading “Keys,” in a small envelope tucked in a green folder. I opened her desk drawer and found the printout right on top, folded like a business letter. There was just enough of a whiff of her perfume to give me the willies. Then I began to read.

Omar was flying to Athens, of all places, leaving on a Sunday afternoon about two weeks from now and returning the following Tuesday. Even more surprising, he was staying both nights at the Grande Bretagne, across from the parliament building and the National Garden. A night there could easily cost you five hundred dollars.

At the sound of footsteps in the hallway, I clumsily shoved the paper into the drawer and locked up, then stood rigid, like a cheater caught stealing the final exam. But the footsteps passed down the corridor, so I retrieved the page and switched on the copy machine. While it was warming up, I scanned the files for any headings related to Greece, Athens, or Europe. Nothing. If Omar was meeting donors, or attending some sort of conference about charities or medical care for the poor, then shouldn’t he have told his new director of operations?

Maybe he planned on doing so today. But he might just as easily have mentioned it yesterday. According to the airline information, the flight had been booked sixteen days ago. My inspection of the donor lists hadn’t revealed anyone in Greece. Black had said to follow Omar wherever he went, but did that include trips outside of Jordan? I hoped so, even if my motive was selfish. Maybe I could visit Mila at her aunt’s.

The copier was ready, so I slipped in the page and the flash lit the room. I turned the machine off, returned the itinerary to Raniya’s desk, and locked the drawer. Then I found a key for Omar’s office, but none for his desk. The only item of interest on top of his desk was a date book, so I quickly scanned the days covering his trip to Greece. They were blank except for a single notation on his first full day, a Monday:

“10 a.m.—Meet K.”

Deciding not to press my luck, I relocked his office and put the duplicate keys back. Wise decision. Ten minutes later Raniya arrived a half hour ahead of schedule. By then I was seated at my desk, reading through a folder about the Bakaa field office in search of more information on Nabil and his friends. I’d already seen enough to know there were no references to either Hakim or the gun dealer.

“Looks like everyone wanted to get a head start,” she said, with an actual semblance of warmth.

“You know how it goes with eager new employees. I’m sure it will wear off.”

“Yes, I am sure.”

I flinched when she unlocked her desk, but she didn’t react as if anything was out of the ordinary. She took some papers from a side drawer to the copy machine, where she paused before flipping the switch. Frowning, she placed a hand against the side, as if feeling for a pulse in some animal she’d just shot.

“It’s warm,” she said. “You’ve been making copies.” She flipped opened a small panel where there must have been a counter. “Only one.”

“Am I not authorized?”

“Of course. But next time leave the machine on. It’s not good for it to keep switching it on and off.”

Unless you’re trying to keep someone else from finding out you’ve used it. I knew that’s what she was thinking, and realized I’d been overly clever. It crossed my mind that maybe she, too, was working for someone else. Why else would she be so well trained to spot signs of deception?

The door jangled open. Omar was also ahead of schedule, and seemed surprised to find the two of us already there. It was as if all three of us had planned to beat each other to the punch. After a brief moment of awkwardness he smiled broadly.

“I can see that you are going to keep me on my toes even better than Raniya, Freeman. Just like old times. Do you know that our season on patrol was the first time in my life I had ever been punctual? My mother claims it made me a better man. Have you settled into your new place? Hanan has some things for the kitchen if you need them.”

“It’s pretty well equipped, actually. They must rent to a lot of businesspeople who come and go.”

“Then they’re probably glad to have a more stable tenancy.”

“Yes.”

“And now you can bring the rest of your things. Your wife, too. Do you have a time frame?”

“It might be a few months before Mila can make it.” Then I got an inspired idea, in case Black, White, and Gray decided I needed to follow Omar to Athens. “I’ve got enough of my things here to tide me over a while. So I was thinking I’d pick up the rest in a couple of weeks. I could leave on a Sunday, when the ferry schedules are better. That way I’d be back in Amman by the middle of the week.”

Had I again been too clever? Even to my ears it seemed painfully obvious that I had just mentioned dates virtually the same as those of Omar’s arrival and departure. I glanced at Raniya, but she was already tapping at her keyboard.

Omar frowned.

“Are those dates a problem?” I asked.

“No. It’s just that I’ll be out of town, too. I was hoping you’d hold the fort.”

“Hmm. I’d switch, but those dates work better for Mila, too.”

“Then by all means take that weekend. I’ll just shut down the office for a few days. With pay for Raniya, of course.”

She didn’t even look up. Omar threw me a questioning glance, as if checking to see if the idea met my threshold for fiscal responsibility.

“Of course,” I said. “Where will you be going?”

A pause. Maybe he wouldn’t say.

“Athens.”

“Goodness. What a stroke of luck. Maybe we’ll be on the same flight.”

He smiled weakly.

“Maybe.”

“Meeting donors?”

“Something like that. Potential donors anyway. A European foundation has expressed an interest.”

“Great. Sounds big.”

“Potentially.”

“I don’t remember them from the files.”

“They’re not in there. They’re a bit, well, shy about attention.”

“Anyone I’ve heard of?”

“Doubtful. But you will if they come through, of course. For now they’d prefer to remain under the radar. They’ve asked me not to bandy their name about. At least not for now. I’m sure you can understand, given the climate.”

“Certainly.”

I assumed he was referring to the general nervousness over anything to do with fund-raising for Palestinian causes. In attempting to shut down terrorist financing pipelines, the U.S. Treasury Department had red-flagged so many Middle Eastern charities that no one was quite sure who was okay to deal with. It was overkill, of course, but try telling that to some nervous banker in Zurich who controlled the purse strings for your philanthropic foundation.

“Good,” Omar said, clearly relieved to move on. “Have Raniya book your flights. We’ll pick up the tab. And you’ll of course give my love to Mila.”

“Of course. And thank you.”

Generous of him, although on second thought I realized it allowed him to ensure that I didn’t end up on his flight. I was already a little queasy about following him. Part of me hoped Black would want someone else to do the job. Then I could go to Athens anyway and just spend time with Mila.

“Oh, one more thing, Freeman. Your car will be delivered tomorrow. A Passat, in fact. And with our logo prominent on the side.”

Omar and I then retreated to his office to discuss my salary. It was small, just as he’d hinted, but I assured him it was fine by me. I spent the rest of the morning snooping through the files for more information, but didn’t turn up anything of interest. At lunch I caught a cab back to Othman Bin Affan Street, where I spent several minutes at the laptop, e-mailing details of Omar’s travel plans and asking for further instructions. As I sent the message it occurred to me that Omar might be having some sort of affair. A weekend fling to the ruins of the Acropolis with a lover, perhaps? It even seemed possible he could be traveling with Raniya, who would have booked her own ticket separately. Stern or not, she was quite attractive, and I could imagine the two of them in one of the fine rooms of the Grande Bretagne—Raniya flushed and breathless, pulling open the brocaded curtains onto a sunny view of the leafy park scene of the parliament square; her fine features smiling up from the bed, hair unpinned. An affair with the boss would certainly explain her wariness around me better than secretarial zeal. If it was true, then I pitied poor Hanan, who deserved better.

I returned to the office to find that Omar was away, gone to another appointment with Dr. Hassan. He had left the message that I was welcome to join them. But I had another Bakaa destination in mind—the gun seller’s address Nabil had given me the previous morning. I was just leaving my cubicle when the phone rang.

“For you, Mr. Lockhart. An American.”

A quick response to my e-mail, perhaps? Surely Black wouldn’t call here.

“Freeman?” a man’s voice said.

Familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“So it’s true. You really are in town. Mike Jacoby here.”

“Good God. You’re with the embassy, aren’t you?”

I detected a flicker of interest from Raniya, so I swiveled the chair away from her and lowered my voice. My antenna was on alert. If someone at the embassy had heard I was here, the news must have come through back channels via Black, White, and Gray.

“Yes,” Jacoby said. “I’m the press officer. Third year in Amman. Not as exciting as what we used to get up to in Gaza, but it’ll do.”

Mike Jacoby had started out with the same cheap aid agency as I had. He, too, knew Omar from back in the day. Since then he had taken the Foreign Service exam and joined the diplomatic corps. We hadn’t spoken in years.

“Anyway, I heard you were in town.”

“I’ll bet.”

“’Scuse me?”

So he was going to play dumb. Fine.

“Nothing. Inside joke. It’s good to hear from you.”

“I was hoping you might want to stop by. See our new digs in the high-rent district.”

Was this official? He was certainly convincing at making it sound offhand. Maybe he, too, had learned to play this game. Press officer seemed as decent a cover as any.

“Love to.”

“Maybe we can go for a bite afterward.”

“Sure. When’s a good time?”

“Around seven? That way we beat the crowds. The hottest places are packed by nine.”

“Sounds good. See you then.”

Interesting. Maybe this was Black’s way of relaying some sort of message. And, conveniently, the hour of our appointment still left me with enough time to do a little snooping in Bakaa. I fingered the business card Nabil had given me and headed for the door.

The taxi driver was reluctant to wait for me in that part of Bakaa, but the promise of an extra ten dinars overcame his anxiety. I could understand his concern. This was a district of metalsmiths and welders, of blank storefronts and locked metal security awnings. Instead of pulsing with busy shoppers and playing children, it was sparsely patrolled by watchful young men. A few carried weapons, and all wore an earnest, burning look that said they were out to earn their stripes.

All this tended to make a yellow Mercedes taxi look vulnerably out of place—even more so when an American in khaki slacks and an oxford shirt stepped out from the passenger door and began trying to act like he belonged.

Maybe this was the sort of neighborhood Omar had in mind when he warned me not to travel alone. It also occurred to me that Nabil had arranged a setup, if only to teach me to back off.

The name on the card he gave me was Malik al-Masri, but there was nothing on the rusting gray door to indicate either Malik’s presence or that of a gun shop.

I tried the handle. Locked.

Turning around I saw two armed men staring from across the lane.

I knocked, loudly, then heard the scuffle of sandaled feet and the groan of rusty hinges.

A strong smell of hot oil and metal poured from the opening. A bearded man stepped forward. He beheld my presence as incredulously as if I had just descended from the clouds.

“Nabil Mustafa gave me your address,” I said in Arabic.

He nodded, puzzle solved, then stood aside for me to enter. It was a dim, windowless room, lit only by a bare forty-watt bulb dangling from a cord above a service counter. The air was dusty, and so were the counters. But all the boxes stacked on shelves that ran the length of the room were quite clean. In a seller’s market I suppose they didn’t have time to collect dust.

My host said nothing. He shuffled behind the counter while a second man watched from the most distant corner, peering through the gloom without expression. Some sort of big ugly gun was slung across his back. There was an unintelligible shout from somewhere in the back, and a new face appeared behind the counter. It was Hakim, the fellow I’d seen at the field office carrying the AK. No wonder, if he worked here. Maybe he got an employee discount. In his hands was an unmarked white box. Hakim set it on the counter and signaled that it was mine.

Under the circumstances, I supposed I had better buy it. I dug out my wallet, hoping I had enough cash.

“How much?” I asked in Arabic.

“No,” Hakim said in English, waving his hand in refusal. “It is gift. Gift from Nabil.”

“Gift?”

He nodded.

“In exchange, you must come see. See with me.”

“See what?”

“Here. I show you.”

He handed over the box, unexpectedly heavy, but guns almost always are. Then he came around the counter and led me to a side door, next to the glaring sentry. It opened onto a smaller room, empty, with yet another door. Hakim opened that, and we entered a world that might as well have been in another dimension, so different was its lighting, atmosphere, cleanliness, and bustle from the one we had just left. Several children played with blocks in a corner. Three more sat in blue plastic chairs alongside their mothers. They looked a little sleepy, maybe sick. The walls were painted bright green, with a quote from the Prophet in shaky Arabic beneath a hand-drawn Palestinian flag. A main entrance opened onto the street just around the corner from the gun shop.