by Noel Hynd
Bissinger leaned back in his chair.
“Want some hardware?” he asked. “I’d suggest you carry some.”
“Absolutely,” she said.
“Come along,” he said. “This is usually everyone’s favorite part of an embassy visit.”
They proceeded to a separate room down the hallway. In a well-fortified storage area, which he used his own pass to enter, he led her to a closet enclosed in steel, which had several shelves of metal boxes.
“Preferences?” he asked.
“Do you have a Baby Glock?” she asked.
“That nifty little German problem-solver?” he asked. “A Glock 27? Can’t go wrong with one of those.”
“That’s the one.”
“Excellent choice.”
“So? Do you have one?”
“No. No got. Never seen one here. A shame, really.”
“What do you have?” she asked.
“Here’s a hint,” he said. “The Egyptians do a lot of business with Italy.”
“Okay. I like the feel of a Beretta,” Alex said. “Something small and compact. There are a few Colt models that will do.”
“Good call,” he said.
He scanned the boxes, pulled one off a central shelf, unlocked it, and handed it to her. The box clicked open. There was a small pistol within, with a hip holster. She pulled it out and hefted it in her hand. It was an attractive new piece, a Beretta Px4 Storm Sub-Compact pistol.
“Easy to conceal. I’ve used one,” Bissinger said. “It has large frame firepower. This one packs 9mm, thirteen to a clip. Does that work for you?”
She admired it. “Looks like it should.”
“It’s a nice weapon for Egypt,” he said. “It’s corrosion resistant. So you can sweat like a sow all over it with no damage. Sign for it and return it when you leave the country. I don’t want to see it pop up on Egyptian eBay.”
She examined it thoroughly. It wasn’t loaded. She hefted it again in her hand. Slim and sleek, it would indeed pack and conceal well beneath a light jacket. Bissinger gave her two clips, two boxes of bullets, and a two-word benediction.
“Happy hunting,” he said.
She loaded the weapon and affixed the holster on her right hip.
“Is that it for now?”
“Not entirely,” he said. “I’ll walk you down to the lobby; there’s someone else I want you to meet.”
“Who would that be?” she asked.
“Amjad,” he answered. “Amjad is going to be one of the most important people during your assignment here. Come along.”
They took the elevator down to the main floor. When they emerged from it, Bissinger spoke again in lowered tones.
“The guy I want you to meet is our top Egyptian security person. By Egyptian, I mean he’s one of them, but he’s been in the embassy here for years.”
“He’s a local cop?”
“Yes. Rank of colonel. The police here have ranks similar to army ranks. Holdover from when the British ran the place. Anyway, Amjad is one of the top guys in the city dealing with the diplomatic community. You should know who he is.”
Alex was wary.
“I’ve been told they’re not that trustworthy, the local police,” she said.
“Ah, don’t believe everything you hear, unless it comes from me or Voltaire,” he said. “The Arabs are a mixed lot, I admit. But the ones you can trust are the most loyal, steadfast friends you’ll make this side of Valhalla. Then there’s the rest. Those will cut your throat.”
“So this is someone I can trust? Maybe?”
“Ha!” Bissinger said under his breath. “Not a bit. But, hey! There he is. Amjad!”
Not far away stood a thick man in a khaki Cairo police uniform. He was about six feet tall and when he turned, his face was tanned and grave with a moustache. He was a dour-looking big man with a sad expression and dead eyes set back in his head. With his puffy eyelids and sagging jowls, like an old poodle. But he also looked strong and wore a sidearm. He seemed like a man who knew how to get things done and was widely disliked for it.
Then, when he saw Bissinger and Alex, his face transformed. He smiled. “Why, Mr. Bissinger. Charmed,” he said with a slight bow. And indeed he seemed to be just that. Charmed.
Bissinger handled the introduction of Colonel Ahman Amjad to Josephine from Toronto.
“I have my car outside,” Colonel Amjad said. “I could drive you.”
“I really don’t mind walking,” Alex insisted.
“I insist,” the colonel said. “You must be tired.”
Alex was about to refuse again, but her feet were killing her and the jetlag was catching up. Then there was the din and grittiness of the walk over, the catcalls from men in trucks and taxis. She thought better of it.
“All right,” she said.
The colonel gave her a bow. “I’m honored,” he said.
He led her to his vehicle, an unmarked police car. He held the door to the backseat open and she climbed in. He came around, slid in, and started the car. The ignition sputtered and resisted slightly, and for one horrible stretch of seconds, Alex wondered if that was how Carlos’s car sounded before it turned into a flaming execution chamber.
The car failed to start. She was ready to bolt.
Then Colonel Amjad turned the ignition a second time. The engine kicked in. He pulled out of the secured embassy parking and into traffic on the motorway along the river. Traffic was moving faster than a crawl now, a propitious sign.
“You are American? From where?” he asked, glancing into his rearview mirror as they drove.
“Canadian, actually.”
“Ah! Canada!”
“You’ve been there?” she asked.
“I’ve been to America and I’ve been to Canada,” he said proudly. “I have one brother in Vancouver and a half-brother in New York.”
“That’s very nice,” she said. She couldn’t get a range on him. Was he snooping or being sincere?
“Maybe next year I go and visit again,” he said. “I don’t know.”
He hit some traffic and started to work his horn, not that anyone paid any attention. Another driver started to give him a threatening gesture but backed off immediately when he noticed the police uniform.
“Well, I’m sure you’d enjoy your trip,” she said. “I hope you’re able to visit.”
He shrugged while driving. Then, seeing an opportunity, he switched on a small blue flashing light on his dashboard. Traffic ahead of him gave way and Colonel Amjad edged through it like a weasel.
“There is a phrase in Arabic,” he said. He then gave it in Arabic. Alex didn’t understand. Arabic was still beyond her dossier. “The phrase says, ‘Let every man eat bread,’ ” Amjad said. “We are also so busy here. Police. One thing stops and another starts. Very hard for me to travel and get away.”
“I understand,” Alex said, who wasn’t sure if she did.
He found the exit from the motorway, and they were back at the hotel within a few minutes. After her initial reservations, Alex was satisfied with the trip, and with Colonel Amjad. A chauffer was a great thing, a police escort something even greater.
Colonel Amjad pulled into the semicircle in front of the hotel. The doormen knew enough to stay away until the proper moment. The colonel turned around from the front seat.
“May I give you some advice?” he asked. “For your personal safety? About Cairo.”
“Please do,” she said.
“When walking on the street, walk as far away from the cars and motor scooters as you can,” he said. “Bad people, they pull up right next to you, grab your purse, and drive away. Or, with a single Western woman, they force you into the car. Stay close to the buildings. Don’t give money to beggars. Some of them will stalk you and send their family members to follow you home and harass you for more money.”
“Simple urban precaution,” she said. “Thank you.”
He nodded politely. “Yes, you could say,” he said. “And may
be,” he said, giving a nod to her head, “if I am not being presumptuous, you might purchase a headscarf or two. It will help you fit in. Even in Western business clothes, for a woman the hijab is a good idea.”
She thought about it. “Good advice, Colonel,” she said.
“Are you really Canadian or are you American working undercover with the embassy?” he asked.
She laughed. “Got to admit it!” she said, not missing a beat. “I’m a spy!”
“You are?”
She laughed again and shook her head. “You flatter me, Colonel. I’m a visiting scholar and a personal friend of Mr. Bissinger at the embassy. Everything I know about spies I saw in James Bond movies.”
“You are very pretty. You could be a Bond girl.”
“That would pay better than what I do as a teacher, Colonel. You flatter me again.”
“So be it,” he said. “It is my pleasure to be at your disposal while you are here.”
She gave him a final smile.
“If at any time you feel there is a threat or a danger, please call me. I insist. Here,” he said. He wrote out his cell phone number and handed it to her. “I oversee security for the Americans, Canadians, and British. I am often at the big hotels.”
She thanked him again. “And I’ll get myself some scarves.”
Then she was out of the car. He pulled out of the driveway and back into the endless Cairo traffic. From the corner of her eyes, she watched the car disappear.
“What a creep!” she thought to herself.
THIRTY-FOUR
It was past 3:00 p.m. when Alex left the hotel, wearing the Beretta concealed beneath the linen jacket. Anxious to adapt to Egyptian time, she went walking in the city, curious to see what she could while she had a small amount of downtime. On her stroll, she reversed course several times to make sure she wasn’t being followed. When she was convinced that no one was trailing her, she relaxed slightly.
She was in one of the more affluent neighborhoods. She could read the streets enough to tell that much. But as a single Western woman alone on foot in Cairo, she had her difficulties. When she stopped and looked at postcards in a souvenir stand, an Egyptian man approached her, stood too close, and spoke to her in English.
“You are American?” he asked.
She tried to ignore him.
“British?”
“Soy Mexicana,” she answered in Spanish, stepping away.
He persisted in English. She tried to throw him by crossing the street, but he followed and persisted. “I help you see city,” he said. “I can be guide.”
Finally she said, “I don’t need help,” in English.
“We have a drink now,” he said. “And I tell you about Cairo.”
They stood near the entrance to a café. She turned to him and glared. “All right,” she said. “Let’s go in here. Buy me a Coca-Cola.”
They sat. He ordered. Then Alex made a motion with her hands as if to wash them. “Bathroom,” she said. “Wash up.”
He nodded. The waiter arrived with their drinks. She took a long sip. Then she excused herself to use the washroom. While he waited, she eased out the back entrance of the café, jogged a block through a crowd, and continued on her way.
By 4:00 p.m. she had arrived in Old Cairo. She spent an hour wandering through crowded markets. The aroma of herbs and spices pervaded the air: cayenne, coriander, saffron, sesame, turmeric, and cinnamon. On the streets, in the public squares, there were beggars, snake charmers, acrobats, rug peddlers, minstrels, astrologers, and would-be medicine men.
She tasted different spices and examined some earrings but was more in the mood to look, not to buy. She did follow Colonel Amjad’s advice, however, and purchased three scarves. They were beautiful pieces in tan and green silk with very Egyptian designs, each slightly different. They would help her blend in somewhere later perhaps, or so she reasoned.
She stopped for a tea and was again relieved that no one was following her. Across from her, a row of men smoked hookahs and quietly assessed her as they sipped tea along with their smokes. Finally, in response to their persistent and curious gaze, she smiled back and nodded to them.
She recalled her teenage friend, René, from years ago.
She looked at the men. “Marhabbah. Assalaam Alaikim,” she said. Hello. Peace be with you.
They broke into surprised smiles. They nodded respectfully and smiled broadly.
Then, late in the day, she went up to the Citadel, the thousand-year-old fortress originally built to protect Cairenes from the Christian crusaders of Europe. As she stood on a promontory overlooking the city, she could hear the athan, the call to prayer, sounding from all angles. There seemed to be a masjiid, a mosque, in every direction, each equipped with loudspeakers attached to its minaret. Like the street vendors and hawkers, even the mosques were competing for attention and customers in this small, crowded universe. And yet, in a cramped, sooty, elbow-to-elbow way, the city had its charm—or at least her first view of it. Alex felt as if she were picking up the feel of the place.
The sun was setting. She bought a cheap digital camera, took some pictures of the Citadel, and headed back to her hotel. Back in her room, she went again to her window to savor her new venue. Below her, in the back lot of the hotel, the blue pool gleamed. Tourists with brown bodies frolicked and splashed in it. Beyond, the sun set on the Nile, and she watched a few pleasure craft and sailboats navigate the river.
Toward 8:00 in the evening, Alex had dinner alone in her hotel room. There were three different menus: American, European, and Muslim. She ordered from the European. From her window again later in the evening, she could see the lights of part of the city.
She realized anew how exhausted she was. She made sure her door was bolted properly and, after her experiences in Geneva, examined all the walls for any false entrances or exits to her room. As was her habit, she placed the loaded gun by her bedside. She had no desire to wake up in a place different from where she had fallen asleep. It had happened before.
Toward 10:00 in the evening, Cairo time, she reviewed secure email on her laptop. There was nothing of importance from back in the United States, where it was now midafternoon. Nothing from her contacts in Cairo either.
Then, just as she was about to log off, her secure email came alive again. It was from Rizzo. He had spotted a newspaper article that had just appeared. He enclosed a link.
She clicked on it and read:
EXPERT IN RUSSIAN POISONING CASE IS SHOT
FBI joins investigation,
but officials think it’s just local crime
By Evelyn McFedries
Special to The Wall Street Journal
WASHINGTON—FBI agents are assisting Washington, DC, police, who are investigating the shooting of a Russian expert, a man who spoke out on NewsLine NBC last weekend and strongly suggested that veterans of the KGB were responsible for the poisoning death of Alexander Litvinenko.
The Russian expert, Grigor Popov, was shot Thursday night as he stepped from his car in front of his house in Bethesda, Md. Police in Prince Georges County say witnesses claim to have seen a lone gunman running away after the shooting. Popov remains hospitalized in critical condition with a gunshot wound to the lower abdomen. He is under police guard at the hospital.
Popov was a longtime consultant on Russian affairs. From 1990 to 2002, he was director of security for the Senate Intelligence Committee.
On last weekend’s NewsLine, he said of Litvinenko’s death: “A message has been communicated to anyone who wants to speak out against Vladimir Putin and the Kremlin: ‘If you do, no matter who you are, where you are, we will find you and we will silence you.’”
FBI and Maryland police are aware of Popov’s theories regarding the Litvinenko death. But local investigators are highly skeptical that this was anything other than street crime. The FBI, however, has theorized differently.
In an additionally bizarre coincidence, another person who appeared recently on a NewsLin
e broadcast died of a heart attack last month. Reporter Howard Dunbar of the Times of London, who had also written about the Litvinenko case, died Feb. 20, before the NewsLine segment was broadcast. He was 52.
Mr. Dunbar was a veteran British foreign correspondent who had reported from Eastern Europe. Just before his death, he had been reporting in Ukraine.
She read the article twice.
Okay, good to know. Continuing background.
Russia. Ukraine. Putin. Mysterious death. Apparent political assassination.
Special significance beyond that? If there was any, Rizzo didn’t note it and she didn’t catch it.
She yawned. She undressed and showered. She brushed her teeth.
She collapsed into a very comfortable bed and was asleep within seconds.
THIRTY-FIVE
In the 1300s, Cairo had been the crossroads of trade between Europe and the Far East. As Cairo grew as a commercial center, the need expanded for space within the city for traders to gather, open stalls, and engage in commerce. The horse keeper of one of the sultans, Gharkas al-Khalili, seeking appropriate new quarters for Muslim merchants, purchased the land of the old Fatimid royal cemetery. He dug up the bodies that had been interred there, transported them by horse-drawn carts to a place outside the city walls, and dumped them to rot in the heat and sunlight.