“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.”
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
N
ew 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 knew, 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.”
“I’d have thought everyone would want to be with their families for Eid.”
“Oh, we will be for the big feast day on Friday morning. But my family lives right in town, so I don’t need to travel. I’ll have to help my mother Thursday with the shopping, but by that night I’ll be ready to blow off a little steam.”
“In that case, count me in. Where are you meeting?”
“The InterCon. Just like old times.”
“I was there the other day. Saw they’d remodeled, but didn’t make it to the bar. Still a good one?”
“They’ve got a Mexican place, Cinco de Mayo, with a bar we like. The drinks are a little pricey, but the snacks are free. Sometimes from there we go to dinner. Plenty of places right in the neighborhood. So we’ll see you, then?”
“Absolutely. What time?”
“How ’bout seven?”
“Perfect. See you there.”
It was surprising how good it felt to be in demand again by females, even if just for a drink at a casual mini-reunion. Between Nura and Fiona, I supposed I wouldn’t be lacking for company.
My reception at the field office in Bakaa was considerably chillier. As before, two men who seemed to have nothing to do with fund-raising for a hospital were holding down the fort, pecking away at manual typewriters, although Hakim and his cut-rate automatic rifle were nowhere to be seen. The men briefly looked up when I entered, then resumed their typing. One was close enough that I could see he was working on a flyer announcing a political rally. I made a note to get a copy before I left. Maybe I would attend the event. It might be instructive to see who came.
“Is Nabil around?” I asked in Arabic.
Neither said a word, but at least they stopped typing. They exchanged glances before the second one mumbled something in street dialect about Nabil’s being “on a tour.”
“You will have to come back,” the first one said. “This afternoon.”
“Maybe Nabil is at home. Doesn’t he live right across the street?”
My knowledge seemed to surprise them, and they exchanged another glance.
“He is not home,” the first one said. “It is just as Mohammed said. Nabil is escorting a guest through the camp. It is a tour.”
“Who’s he showing around, someone from the government?”
“No. An American.”
That got my attention.
“A guest of the charity’s?”
“Yes. A donor.”
“Then if you don’t mind, I’ll just wait here.”
Apparently they did mind. Both of them left within minutes. Each heaved a great sigh, as if my lingering presence was the rudest sort of imposition. Unfortunately they took their work with them, so I never got a chance to read their creations. I checked around the office for anything more, but there was only a stack of pamphlets promoting the charity.
I tried to imagine how an American had arranged to visit without Omar telling me. And why would Nabil be leading the tour? If the object was to impress a Westerner, a staff member with possible ties to Hamas seemed like a shaky choice, especially when Dr. Hassan offered the pedantic self-importance that overseas benefactors had come to expect in places like this. Maybe he was too busy seeing patients, although even then I found it hard to believe that Omar would leave an American in Nabil’s care.
I took a seat allowing a decent view into the street through the open door, and a half hour later I spotted Nabil walking slowly toward the office alongside a sturdily attractive middle-aged woman. She wore stylish yet modest Western clothing, with a jade silk scarf covering her hair. As they moved closer I realized they were speaking Arabic, and the woman seemed entranced.
Maybe the choice of Nabil made sense, after all. I can’t imagine any woman who would have preferred Dr. Hassan’s stuffy company, while Nabil was the prototypical tall, dark, and handsome man. He carried himself with confident grace. You might even have called him dashing, and, as I had discovered during our conversation downtown, he could be quite engaging when he turned on the charm.
“Hello,” I announced in English.
Nabil stopped speaking in midsentence. I was able to pick up only the cryptic phrase “It mostly depends on how you’re wired” before he looked up in surprise. Intriguing choice of words, I thought.
Nabil immediately switched to English, perhaps to let his guest know where I was from, although in short order his decision would prove to be a tactical error.
“No one told me you were coming,” he said.
“I wasn’t aware I was supposed to give advance warning, seeing as how I work here.”
“Does he know why I’m here?” the woman asked in Arabic. Her tone sounded worried. She probably assumed I didn’t speak the language.
I replied in Arabic.
“No,” I said, “I don’t. But that was my next question.”
She blushed and turned to Nabil.
“You must be tired from all your traveling,” he told her calmly. “Don’t worry, he is not here to pressure you for an immediate donation. All in good time.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m being impolite. I should have introduced myself right away. Freeman Lockhart, Omar’s director of programs. You’ve met Omar?”
She again turned to Nabil for help.
“That introduction has been delayed due to Omar’s absence abroad. As I said. All in good time.”
“Of course. In the meantime, maybe I could offer some assistance, Ms….?”
“Mrs. Aliyah Rahim,” Nabil said. “From Washington. Although she was born near Jerusalem.”
“Washington? Are you with the government?”
This time she spoke for herself.
“Oh, no. Nothing like that.”
“An NGO, then?”
“Just an interested citizen. I haven’t lived in Palestine since I was five, and I’ve come to see the sights of Jordan.” Her Arabic was rusty, with a pronounced American accent.
Often when two Americans meet abroad in a benighted place like Bakaa there is a brief flare of kinship, usually marked by an exchange of information about hometowns and occupations, followed by the obligatory session of “Do You Know?” Then someone might offer a light remark about the state of affairs back home, or commiserate about how long it took to get there. Mrs. Rahim offered nothing of the sort, and seemed quite willing to let the conversation die. But I wasn’t, so I lobbed her another question.
“How did you hear about us?”
Another glance toward Nabil, who supplied yet another answer.
“There was some literature about our organization at her hotel.”
“The InterContinental,” she added.
“Nice place. How long are you staying?”
“A week or so.”
“And now,” Nabil said, “I am afraid we must keep moving. Dr. Hassan is expecting us. Unless, of course, you needed to see me about something urgent?”