During the early twentieth century, Cairo had been one of the world’s most cosmopolitan cities, a place where Muslims, Christians, and even Jews lived together peacefully. During World War II, brothels had operated openly just east of downtown, in a district Cairenes had jokingly called “the Blessing.” Egypt’s version of Islam was generally more moderate than that practiced to the east in Saudi Arabia. After all, Egypt’s history long predated Islam. Its proudest moments had come not as a Muslim state but under the pharaohs. And almost ten percent of Egyptians were Christian.
In theory, Egypt still remained moderate today. The nation was the only big Arab power to have made peace with Israel. Women here were allowed to drive and didn’t have to wear head scarves, much less burqas. Cairo was home to an English-language radio station whose announcers openly offered relationship advice. Alcohol was legal, and the city’s big hotels even had casinos, though they weren’t supposed to be open to Egyptians.
But in reality, Egypt had swung toward Islam since throwing off Britain’s colonial yoke in 1952. High birth rates, government bureaucracy, and slow economic growth had left tens of millions of Egyptians living in destitution in the vast slums in and around Cairo. Millions more aspired to the middle class but could not find decent-paying jobs despite college degrees. Many saw Islam as the answer to their country’s crisis. Islamic charities fed and clothed poor families. Islamic courts offered quick decisions to people who couldn’t afford to wait years to be heard by the overcrowded government court system.
But as they promoted charity and community values, Islamic leaders also stoked a fierce anger among their followers: at Egypt’s government, at Israel, and at the United States, which supported both. The United States, so concerned about bringing democracy to Iraq but happy to look the other way when Hosni Mubarak, Egypt’s president, rigged elections to stay in power. Egyptians called Mubarak “the pharaoh,” not only because he had been president for almost thirty years but because he was trying to anoint his son Gamal as his successor.
Year by year, the radicals gained influence. Despite being outlawed, the Muslim Brotherhood, the most important Islamist political party, had won twenty percent of the seats in the Egyptian parliament in the 2005 elections—more than ever before. On the streets, too, the changes were obvious. Even in downtown Cairo, most women wore head scarves, and burqas were not uncommon. Alcohol had largely disappeared outside hotels and a handful of restaurants that catered to tourists. The calls to prayer grew louder each year. And except for the Egyptian Museum, the pyramids, and a few protected neighborhoods, tourists—or non-Arab foreigners of any kind—were almost invisible in Cairo. Despite its grinding poverty, the city was not particularly dangerous for locals. In fact, street crime was rare. But foreign visitors, especially women, faced constant harassment. And with the threat of terrorism vague but real, most tourists stayed off the streets.
Too bad, because Cairo was fascinating, Wells thought. After breakfast he’d walked around downtown, orienting himself, talking to shopkeepers to scrape the last of the rust off his Arabic. Now he was heading east along Sharia al-Azhar, a narrow road that ran under the concrete pylons of an elevated highway. The streets around him formed an area called Islamic Cairo. Almost all of Cairo was Islamic, of course, but this district was the historic center of Islam in Egypt, filled with mosques and madrassas. At its center was al-Azhar University, the second-oldest degree-granting school in the world, established in 975 A.D., hundreds of years before Oxford and Cambridge.
Around Wells, boys carried trays of tea and coffee to men who stood outside their shops. In Cairo, as in many Third World cities, the stores clustered by type. This stretch of road had nothing but textile stores, as though humans needed only brightly colored cloth to survive. The din was constant. Three-wheeled tuk-tuks and skinny 125cc motorbikes buzzed by, and shopkeepers incessantly shouted the praises of their wares.
“Best quality, best quality!”
“Extra-special!”
“Sir, sir! Take a look!”
And step-by-step Wells edged closer to his destination, a mosque a few blocks south, in the very heart of Islamic Cairo.
AN HOUR LATER, just in time for midday Friday prayers, he arrived. The mosque wasn’t big or famous or even particularly old. It had yellow-painted concrete walls and a low minaret mounted with speakers to broadcast calls to prayer. It was the home mosque of Alaa Zumari, the would-be cell-phone mogul scooped up in Iraq and sent to Poland for interrogation by 673.
Wells could have gone straight to the house of Zumari’s family, of course. His dossier had the address. But Zumari was missing. And his mother and father wouldn’t exactly be eager to help a CIA agent find him.
The call to prayer blared. Wells shucked his sandals by the front door and joined the stream of men stepping inside. Islamic law barred artists from painting images of Allah, Muhammad, or even ordinary men and women. Such portraits were considered distracting and disrespectful to God’s majesty. So the mosque had almost no decoration, though its mihrab—the nook that faced toward Mecca—was laid in an ornate pattern of black-and-white tile. With high ceilings and fans spinning overhead, the mosque was notably cooler than the streets. Unseen pigeons cooed from windows high on its back wall.
The mosque’s central hall was nearly one hundred feet square, much bigger than it seemed from outside. Hundreds of men had already arranged themselves in front of the minbar, the wooden pulpit where the imam gave his weekly sermon. Muslims prayed five times a day, every day. But the Friday midday prayer was the week’s most important service, the time when the community gathered. Most men sat near the pulpit, but some stayed back, the cool kids in class, leaning against the walls and chatting with friends as they waited for the service to begin.
Men streamed in, filling the hall. Wells estimated at least a thousand had already arrived. And this was just one mid-sized mosque. Some, like the Mosque of Ibn Tulun south of here, were open squares as big as a city block, capable of holding tens of thousands of men.
The room was notably warmer now, and the odor of a thousand sweating bodies filled the air. Men were supposed to bathe before the midday prayer, but many came straight from work. The men were mostly Arab, though a handful were black, probably Nubian Egyptians or Sudanese from the Upper Nile. Many had faint bruises on their foreheads, a sign of piety. The bruising came from touching their foreheads to the ground as they prayed.
Suddenly the imam mounted the wooden pulpit and began the Surah Fatiha, the first verse of the Quran: “Bismallahi rahmani rahmi al-hamdulillah . . .” In the name of Allah, the most gracious, the most merciful; All praises to Allah . . .
The imam spoke beautifully, Wells thought. Even without amplification, his voice filled the mosque. He finished the surah and began his sermon. “Brothers. Allah tells us that we are not to call ourselves pure. Only he knows who is truly righteous. . . .” Good deeds would not please God if they were done for selfish reasons, he explained. “Actions are judged by motives.”
As he listened, Wells remembered what he loved most about Islam, the strength and simplicity of its doctrines. The religion had five basic tenets: accept God and Muhammad as His prophet; pray five times a day; give to charity; fast during the month of Ramadan; and travel to Mecca for the sacred pilgrimage of the hajj. Anyone who followed those rules, or sincerely tried to, was a good Muslim.
The men paid rapt attention to the sermon. No watches were checked, no cell phones pulled out. Wells didn’t know how long the imam spoke; his words flowed together as smoothly as the Nile. When he finished, the muezzin gave the iqama, a second call to prayer performed only at the Friday midday service.
The men in the mosque clustered together shoulder to shoulder for the rakaat, the core Muslim prayer. Side by side they dropped to their knees and touched their foreheads and hands and toes to the floor, a thousand men affirming God as Muslims had for a thousand years.
AFTER THE SERVICE, the imam stood beside the pulpit, clasping hands with
men who’d come forward for advice or a benediction. Finally, the last of the worshippers left and the imam was alone. Wells intercepted him.
“Salaam alekeim.”
“Alekeim salaam.”
“Your sermon today was filled with wisdom.”
“Thank you.” The imam gave Wells a puzzled smile. “I haven’t seen you before.”
“I’m from Kuwait.”
“You came this far to hear me preach?”
“I hoped you might help me find someone.”
The imam glanced at the front of the mosque, as if he wanted to ask Wells to leave. But he said only, “Please, come with me.”
He led Wells through a nook in the wall behind the pulpit and down a concrete corridor. His office was simple, square, and furnished only with a wooden desk and a bookshelf filled with Quranic commentaries. A barred window looked into a narrow alley. A heavy man with the full, bushy beard of a believer sat beside the desk, sipping tea. He hugged the imam, then looked suspiciously at Wells.
“Salaam alekeim,” Wells said.
The man let the greeting hang like an unwanted hand extended for a shake. Finally, he murmured, “Alekeim salaam.”
The imam nodded for Wells to sit. “Leave us, Hani,” the imam said. “And close the door.”
The man hesitated, then walked out. The imam regarded Wells across the desk.
“Your name?”
“Nadeem Taleeb.”
“From Kuwait?”
“Kuwait City, yes.”
“Where are you staying in Cairo?”
“The Lotus Hotel.” Wells paused. “I understand why you wonder about me. When I arrived, I saw a man watching this place. He wore no uniform. But I’m certain he was mukhabarat.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. He wore a black shirt and pants. He was drinking tea at the shop on the corner. The one that sells ice cream. He pretended to read, but he was watching your front entrance. Have your men check.”
“Hani—” the imam said. The door opened, and the fat man scuttled in. The imam whispered to him.
“Aiwa,” Hani said. Yes. He glared at Wells before he left.
“So, Kuwaiti,” the imam said. “Who are you looking for? ”
“Ihab Zumari.” Alaa’s father. “A friend told me he worships here.”
“You should leave,” the imam said. “Finish your tea and leave. I don’t know what game this is, but I know it’s dangerous. For both of us. I’m a peaceful man.”
Wells pulled a pen and pad from his robe and scribbled on it in English and Arab.
“You use computers, sheikh? The Internet?”
The imam looked almost offended. “Of course.”
“My apologies. Please. Look at this site. You’ll understand. I’ll come back tomorrow for another cup of tea. Inshallah”—God willing—“you’ll see me. If not, I won’t bother you again.”
Wells slid the paper across the desk, stood, and walked out, leaving the imam looking at a single note. A Web address: PrisonersofAmerica.com.
THE DIRECTORATE OF SCIENCE and Technology had done a good job, Wells had to admit. Two videos were up. They looked professional but not too professional, the interviewees giving long speeches about how they’d suffered as captives of the United States. One was supposedly an Algerian captured in Iraq in 2006 and released two years later, the second a Pakistani caught in Afghanistan in 2005 and let go in 2009. Both men wore bandannas to hide their mouths and had exceptionally common names: Mohammed Hassan and Ahmed Mustafa. They gave detailed descriptions of the deprivations they suffered. They spoke angrily but not so passionately that they seemed unhinged.
They were fakes, CIA employees, analysts in the Directorate of Intelligence. They’d agreed enthusiastically to the assignment, knowing that the interviews might be as close as they would ever get to the front lines.
The technical details were right, too. A commercial Russian Internet service provider hosted the site. Its content was uploaded through a Finnish server that guaranteed anonymity to its users. Even the IP address registration was backdated, so that the site seemed to have been up for months.
The site itself had a straightforward front page in English and Arabic: “Here you will find the stories of Muslims held captive. Here you will find the truth about the ‘peace-loving’ Americans.” No over-the-top rhetoric. And, of course, no pictures of Wells as Nadeem anywhere. He wouldn’t have been foolish enough to give up his anonymity.
WELLS LEFT THE MOSQUE and a few minutes later found himself on Sharia al-Muizz, a narrow street in the heart of Islamic Cairo. He took his time. If the imam had ordered him tailed, he wanted to show that he had nothing to hide. But no one seemed to be on him. After an hour of browsing the storefronts, he grabbed a cab to the Lotus. He would leave his room at the Intercontinental unoccupied tonight, the bed unmussed. The hotel wouldn’t care unless his credit card bounced.
At the Lotus, he couldn’t fall asleep for hours. During his time off, he’d forgotten the intensity, the perpetual vigilance, required for these missions. Finally he faded out. He found himself in a windowless room with Exley, interviewing her for the site. She wore a blue hijab and sunglasses and held a duck in her lap.
“Next question,” she said in English.
“Did they let you pray?” he said in Arabic.
“I prayed for you, John.”
“Please speak Arabic.”
“You know I can’t speak Arabic.”
The duck quacked madly. Exley petted its feathers. “He doesn’t mean to upset you, Ethan. He doesn’t know any better.”
“You named the duck after Evan? My son?”
“No. His name’s Ethan. Not Evan. He’s named after our son.”
Wells was confused. “We didn’t have a son—”
“We did. Would have, I mean. I was pregnant, that day Kowalski sent his men—”
No, Wells thought. It wasn’t so. He knew she was lying. “Tell the truth, Jenny.”
“You can’t handle the truth,” she said in Jack Nicholson’s voice.
“Why can’t you let me go?”
“I think you have it backwards, John—”
And with that, a strange scratching pulled him back to the world. Exley disappeared as he opened his eyes. The room was empty. He didn’t know the time, but the city was close to quiet. He guessed it was between 3 and 4 a.m., the quiet hour, when only insomniacs and cabbies prowled the streets.
The scratching, again. Low and quiet. At the door.
Wells waited. Let them come. Nadeem Taleb wouldn’t resist.
The door creaked open. Hani slid into the room, followed by a dark-skinned, wiry man. Hani flicked on the overhead bulb. He held a pistol, a small one. It looked almost silly in his pillowy hands. “No noise,” he said. He gathered Wells’s passport and watch and wallet from the nightstand and moved over to the window and tucked his pistol into his jeans. He flipped through the passport and set it aside. His movements were easy and purposeful, and something in them bothered Wells. Wells flicked his tongue over his lips in a show of nervousness. Then stopped, reminding himself not to overact.
“Get up, Kuwaiti. If that’s what you are. Get dressed.”
Wells rolled out, pulled on a galabiya. The wiry man rousted the room, pulling open drawers, rooting through Wells’s toiletries kit, shining a flashlight under the bed, a cursory but efficient search. Wells watched in silence until the man reached the suitcase.
“It’s locked,” he said.
“Why?” Hani said.
“There’s a camera inside.”
“Open it.”
Wells extracted a key from his wallet and unlocked the case. The wiry man pulled out the video camera almost triumphantly.
“Why do you have this?” Hani said.
“To film the interviews.” Wells took a slightly aggravated tone, as if he could hardly be bothered to answer such a stupid question.
Hani held up Wells’s Rolex. “You’re a rich man, Kuwaiti. Why
stay here? Why not the Hyatt, with your cousins?” The Cairo Grand Hyatt had paradoxically become the favorite of the Gulf Arabs who visited the city. Paradoxically, because Hyatt was owned by the Pritzker family, who were not just Americans but Jews.
“The Hyatt? So the mukhabarat can watch me come and go? Does that seem like a good idea, habibi?”
“Stuff your mouth with sand and see if you make such smart remarks,” Hani murmured, to himself as much as to Wells. Again, his manner troubled Wells. A decade ago, in Afghanistan—and especially in the abattoir that was Chechnya—Wells had seen men who responded to any uncertainty with violence, the quicker and messier the better. Hani might be one of them. And yet he didn’t seem angry or volatile. Perhaps he didn’t want to be here, and the imam had forced the mission on him.
Hani pulled out his cell phone, typed a quick text, slipped it away. He tucked Wells’s passport and wallet into his jeans. “Time to go.”
“Where?” Wells wasn’t expecting an answer.
But he got one. “You wanted to meet Ihab Zumari, Kuwaiti? Now you will.”
OUTSIDE, A PEUGEOT 504 IDLED. A four-door sedan, boxy and black, with tinted windows. Hani ushered Wells into the back, tied a black bandanna over his eyes, tightly enough to ensure that light didn’t leak through.
Wells lay back, closed his eyes, tried to sleep. He wasn’t overly worried. Most likely the imam was just being cautious. And if not . . . he’d faced worse odds than this.
The car turned left, right, then accelerated. Even without the blindfold, Wells would have been lost.
The Midnight House Page 9