The Amateur Spy

by Dan Fesperman

  The third name on my list might be described as a former adversary, although I had always respected his talents and his restraint. During the intifada I knew him as a patrol leader for the Israel Defense Force. Captain David Ben-Zohar was the one who figured so prominently in the famous blowup with Omar and me, when we were inquiring aggressively about the well-being of a Palestinian captive. For the most part he had treated us fairly, considering the circumstances, and had often been willing to barter information. With any luck, he still would be.

  Supposedly he had been promoted up the ranks, all the way to brigadier general, before he took an early pension and formed his own security consulting business in Jerusalem for corporate clients. Yes, that line of work again—one of the world’s growth industries.

  Both he and his company were easy to find, although I was a bit queasy searching for them on a Jordanian computer network. A new customer sat down two seats to my left just as the logo of Ben-Zohar’s company popped onto the screen in English and Hebrew, so I shifted in the chair to block his view. A moment later someone else began browsing the paperback shelves behind me. I minimized the screen and waited him out.

  When the coast was clear, I clicked on an e-mail link, offered a bland hello and mentioned I was now in Amman, teamed with my old UNRWA partner, Omar al-Baroody. That alone would get his attention. Then I asked, as casually as possible, if we might meet the next time I happened to be over his way.

  That was about all I could do for now. Send up a few flares and wait for help. The rest of my work was out at Bakaa, where, whether it was hazardous or not, I needed to probe deeper into the background of Nabil Mustafa and friends. Maybe that gun would be of some use after all. It was back at the house, in the same dresser drawer where I had stashed it the day I got it.

  The bookstore was about to close, so I clicked on the history folder and erased the record of the sites I’d visited. I paid a few dinars and walked back to the house, and considered it a minor triumph when no message was waiting on the doorstep. After cooking up a light, simple dinner, I crawled into bed, tired yet oddly exhilarated by my small declaration of independence. The last thing I heard before falling asleep was my fellow lodger, the mouse, rising to resume his endless task of gnawing behind the baseboard.

  I arrived early the next morning at the office, where the iron maiden Raniya curtly informed me that Omar was not yet back from Greece. He was two days overdue.

  “Is he all right?”

  Raniya seemed unmoved by my concern.

  “His business took longer than expected. He asked that I tell you to take the rest of the week off. So that you may be better settled in by the time he returns.”

  It was an odd request, as if he knew I might snoop around in his absence.

  “When will that be?”

  “He will see you here on Monday.”

  Not exactly an answer to my question, but maybe Omar preferred it that way. Had he spotted me in Athens? Or maybe Krieger found some way to identify me. I had the whole weekend to stew about it.

  “I’ve got some paperwork to do first,” I said, unwilling to give in so easily.

  I checked the files—fruitlessly—for anything under the heading of “Krieger” or “Soukas.” Each time I opened a drawer Raniya sighed as if I had just stolen another dinar from the coffee fund. Two hours of this festive atmosphere was all I could stand. I decided to put off visiting Bakaa until Monday. No sense checking further on Nabil until I’d run his name by at least one of my contacts.

  On my way home I stopped by the bookstore to check my Hotmail account and got a pleasant surprise. Chris Boylan had answered. Good news, if a bit cryptic.

  “Freeman! Blast from the past! Yes, am still in the region. As luck would have it will soon pass your way for r&r. Can meet Tuesday if u like. Noon, courtyard Husseini Mosque? Yes-no only, pls. Regards, CB.”

  He was in Iraq, by the sound of it, but apparently not in the mood to reveal much by e-mail. Maybe his employer often checked over his shoulder. I fired off a quick “Yes” and continued home, where I celebrated that little success with a late lunch.

  I threw open the kitchen window to the afternoon air and chopped tomatoes and peppers on a board while garlic simmered in an oiled skillet. Birds chirped and flitted in the jasmine bush outside, and I began to relax.

  A pleasant voice piped up, startling me.

  “Whatever you’re cooking smells lovely.”

  It was Fiona, calling out from her garden, where she was again on her knees in the dirt, planting and pruning. She stood gracefully, thigh-high shorts showing off attractive legs, her face shaded by a straw hat. The wide brim reminded me of the one Ingrid Bergman wore in the closing scene of Casablanca. Or maybe Fiona’s brown eyes brought the image to mind.

  “You’re welcome to join me,” I shouted through the window. “There’s more than enough.”

  “Only if I can bring the wine.”

  “Perfect. There’s not a drop in the house.”

  “I thought that might be the case. It can be hard finding it this month.”

  She seemed to pointedly avoid saying “Ramadan,” as if that would have been singling out Islam for blame.

  The wine was already chilled.

  “I’m not even sure I have a corkscrew,” I said, still busy at the stove.

  “Brought that, too. The glasses are up to you, I’m afraid.”

  “Upper right cabinet.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at the label as she poured, and was surprised to see it had come from Israel.

  “Wouldn’t have expected to see that here.”

  “Actually I bought this during a photo shoot in Galilee. But you can find it in Jordan if you look hard enough. Israel’s doing quite a bit of business here these days. Not just selling, either.”

  “Investing in the boom?”

  “Buying land, even.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Not always in the open, of course. But they find their ways.”

  I worried for a moment that she was about to remark on the shrewdness of the wily Jew, but perhaps I’d misinterpreted the tenor of her remark.

  “How so? Silent partners?”

  “Or very noisy partners, ones who’ll go around proclaiming their pan-Arab brotherhood before handing over the deed to some consortium in Tel Aviv.”

  “That must go over well.”

  “The people making a killing from it don’t seem to mind.”

  “Like Sami Fayez?”

  “Far from it. Sami’s one of the holdouts.”

  “Maybe he’s waiting for the price to go higher.”

  “That’s what the cynics say. Sami does have his doubters, even his enemies. But I don’t think so. I’ve done some work for him, writing about a few heritage sites he owns. Places he wants the palace to protect before some foreigner gets hold of them.”

  “Is the palace receptive?”

  “More often than you’d think. When half the king’s friends are striking it rich, it isn’t always easy saying yes to the preservationists. Of course, it isn’t easy saying no to Sami, either. Just ask your friend Omar.”

  “Omar’s been cashing in?”

  “For a while he was. Then Sami made sure he got religion. Now he’s on the side of the angels, supposedly. Protect everything before it’s gone.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “It’s not exactly a secret. Ask him. You might even get a free weekend in the desert into the bargain. Omar takes little expeditions to collect artifacts and botanical samples, he and his artist friend. They’re a regular Stanley and Livingstone.”

  “Issa Odeh, you mean? The painter?”

  “Yes. You’ve met him?”

  “No. Saw his work in Omar’s dining room. Very nice. He sounds like quite the Renaissance man.”

  “Or a big fish in a small pond. In Jordan you can be out on the cutting edge in about three places at once.”

  “You’re pretty fond of this place.”

&nbs
p; She smiled shyly, and turned away with what might have been a blush. The gesture was appealing, and I found myself again wondering how to gracefully mention I was married. The optimum moment had passed, and I guiltily realized I was glad. My answer to Petros, I suppose. No harm in a little flirting.

  “By the way, there was a woman who came calling for you while you were away.”

  “A woman?”

  “Yes. Quite attractive, too. Her name was Nura. I don’t remember the last name.”

  “I’m not sure I know any Nuras.”

  “She said you were old friends. Or old colleagues, anyway. From some aid organization. She still does contract work for Save the Children.”

  A face from my past slowly came into focus.

  “Nura Habash, maybe?”

  “That sounds right. She said to tell you she’ll be back in touch.”

  Now I remembered her well. Cute and full of energy. We had worked together during those frantic days on the Iraqi border in ’91, a few years before I met Mila. The sort of woman who in a crowd seems to dart from person to person, sipping conversations like a hummingbird set loose in a field of blossoms. I wondered how she had known I was in town and, more to the point, how she found me.

  “Did she leave a number?”

  “Now you don’t think I would have helped her with that, do you?”

  The remark was coy enough that I was on the verge of asking her over for dinner on Saturday, before a small inner voice told me not to cross that line. Later I was grateful for my caution, when Fiona told me she was heading into the desert the next morning for a weekend photo shoot. Another archaeological site, she said, one of Sami’s acquisitions. She would be photographing it from the air, hitching a free ride in a Jordanian military helicopter.

  I wondered anew at her closeness to the palace. So many tight little orbits here, all of which seemed to spin perilously near to the center of power. A small country, indeed. Say the wrong thing to one person and someone clear across the kingdom might have heard it by the following morning.

  The wine was cool and crisp, and Fiona was pleasant company, but as an amateur I supposed I had best take care in my friendships.

  23

  New women seemed to be walking into my life from every direction.

  The latest arrival, on Monday, was an American—an Arab American, to be precise, even if she had spent only the first five years of her life on the West Bank. Our introduction provided an appropriately awkward ending to a day of uncomfortable events, odd happenings that made me question my chances for success.

  The strange doings began in early morning with Omar’s return. Instead of greeting me with his usual bear hug, he offered a pained smile and seemed to edit his remarks for the hovering Raniya, who as usual was strategically placed between us, listening intently from her desk.

  “Welcome back,” I shouted across the office as he came through the door.

  “A relief to be back, after everything that happened.”

  He paused at the threshold of his cubicle, looking as weary as if he had returned by camel caravan.

  “Bad news?” I asked.

  He glanced at Raniya. Her eyes were locked on the computer screen, but her hands were motionless above the keyboard.

  “Somewhat. In fact, there is some business we should get to right away, if you have a minute.”

  “Sure.”

  When he asked me to shut the door, I experienced a sense of dread. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had then produced a Tyvek envelope just like Black, White, and Gray’s, only this time stuffed with incriminating photos of Freeman Lockhart in the National Garden of Athens, Freeman Lockhart riding the funicular up Lycabettus Hill, Freeman Lockhart ducking into a dark taverna in the Peloponnese. I imagined how I must have looked through a long lens as I went about my duties, lurking at park benches and peeping through hedgerows, as tawdry as a flasher.

  Omar drew a deep breath, and in my growing anxiety I couldn’t help but do the same. Was he about to fire me?

  “From now on,” he said, “I must ask you to take special care wherever you go. Particularly when you leave the country, but also in Jordan.”

  “Yes?”

  “I say this because I recently learned that while I was in Athens I was observed—perhaps even photographed—by agents of the Mossad. Some of their men out of Europe, I am told.”

  I suppose my jaw must have dropped. Omar nodded as if he understood.

  “I know,” he said. “I couldn’t believe it either. I seriously considered not telling you. But I decided that I owe it to you, if only to let you know the stakes of what we’re playing for, the odds we’re up against. I suppose I also wanted to offer you a graceful way out, before you get in any deeper. Work for me long enough, and in some quarters you might never be trusted again. Maybe that is already the case. If so, my apologies.”

  “No need to apologize. And I’m not quitting. But thank you all the same.”

  He nodded resolutely, as if to say he had expected nothing less than steadfast loyalty from his old friend and fellow warrior. The ashiness on my tongue was the taste of betrayal, but Omar misread my expression of self-loathing.

  “You don’t look too pleased with me,” he said. “Can’t say that I blame you.”

  “It’s not you I’m angry with. I would hope that’s obvious. Any idea why they were targeting you?”

  “None at all.”

  A disingenuous answer, I thought. It occurred to me later that I should have asked then and there about the source of his information, even though I doubt he would have told me. Maybe it was Norbert Krieger. Or someone he had met after I left Athens.

  “None whatsoever?”

  “I’m afraid it’s just an occupational hazard of doing business as a Palestinian. Give an Arab from the West Bank some money and a tiny bit of influence, and suddenly he is seen as a threat, even on the streets of Athens.”

  That sounded like a weak rationale, even for the Mossad. Perhaps they were probing for the same connections I was. Maybe they had even found them. They must have picked up my trail as well. In fact, the two intimidating fellows on motorbikes suddenly made a lot more sense, even if some of the other pieces still didn’t fit. Whatever the case, yet another player was now on the board in what was rapidly becoming a crowded field. I would wager that by now the Mossad had found out more about Norbert Krieger than I had. Maybe I should just tell my handlers to ask their friends in Tel Aviv for help. Everything that had happened in Athens now seemed like a comedy of errors for both of us. Me trailing him, and God knows how many others trailing the two of us—a grimy kite’s tail of watchers and confidence men, with me as the loosest knot.

  “Is this why you were gone longer than expected?”

  Omar shrugged.

  “Did they threaten you?”

  He shook his head.

  “I didn’t even know they were there at first. Too naive, I guess.”

  “Then how do you know it was Mossad?”

  “Certain information I received later. And I wouldn’t be doing you any favors by telling you what. The less said about it here, the better.” He nodded toward Raniya, visible through the glass, still bent over her keyboard. “Suffice it to say that I was convinced.”

  “How did it go otherwise?”

  He frowned, seemingly lost in thought.

  “The fund-raising,” I prodded. “In Athens.”

  “Oh, that.” He waggled a hand in midair, a gesture of ambiguity. “Okay, I guess. Nothing concrete. I may have planted the seeds for future success. But after this news, who knows. Just about any potential donor might be scared away by this kind of attention.”

  “Anyone I need to follow up with?”

  The question seemed to annoy him.

  “Not for the moment. I will keep you posted, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  He wasn’t a convincing liar. It was the worst I’d felt about Omar and his enterprise since coming aboard. For all I kn
ew, the Mossad had good reason to be interested.

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said. “I’ll watch my back.”

  Omar nodded blankly, again lost in thought.

  I decided to head out to Bakaa. I had put the gun in my satchel, although I had yet to buy any ammunition. I supposed that simply waving it around might offer some protection, if the need arose. But the phone rang before I could leave.

  “For you, Mr. Lockhart,” Raniya said. “It is a woman.”

  Mila, perhaps? That would be a pleasant surprise.

  “Hello?”

  “Freeman?” The voice wasn’t familiar. “I don’t know if your neighbor mentioned I dropped by the other day, but…”

  “Oh, yes. Nura Habash?”

  “Yes. You remembered!”

  “It’s been what, fourteen years? How are you?”

  “Holding up. Still in the aid racket. Working mostly with Bedouin women and children, so I’m out in the desert a lot. You’ll be able to tell from the tan.”

  “But still living in Amman?”

  “Oh, yes. And I heard you were back. Maybe for good this time.”

  “News travels fast.”

  “You might say I had an unfair advantage. You got the job I wanted!”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  She laughed.

  “It’s all right. I didn’t have your qualifications. I figured if Omar got desperate enough, maybe I could end up as Plan B. Lucky for him, Plan A came through. You’re the perfect choice.”

  “Probably not, but thanks for saying so. So tell me what you’ve been doing. Do you keep up with any of our old crew from ’91? I figure half of them must be in Iraq by now.”

  “About half of them were, me included. But it got too dangerous. Most of us ended up here. Which is why I’m calling. A few of us are meeting for drinks this Thursday, if you can make it.”

  “Thursday? Isn’t that the last day of Ramadan?”

  “All the more reason to celebrate.”