The Amateur Spy Page 16

  Somehow I had expected to receive more. I rechecked the DHL envelope for any notes or instructions I might have overlooked. Empty. Would there be no “dead letter box,” then, like the ones you read about in novels? No fallbacks or contact signals? I had been looking forward to learning a few tricks of the trade—chalk marks on a sidewalk cedar to signal for a meeting, perhaps, or a flowerpot on the corner of my porch. As with other aspects of life, technology seemed to have made even the business of espionage more prosaic. It was worrisome, too. Computers crashed. Electricity failed. What would I do in an emergency?

  It was nearly 1 p.m. by the time my taxi reached the office, and Omar seemed impatient to get out the door.

  “Success with your house hunting?” he asked.

  “Yes. It’s a very nice place. I’m lucky to get it. Friendly neighbors, too. Someone named Fiona said hello.”

  “Ah, Fiona Whitt? Lovely woman. And helpful to know. She’s become a favorite at the palace.”

  “I got that idea.”

  “And now, to set your mind at ease.” He handed over two file folders, each no more than an inch thick. “Donations in the blue one. Expenditures in the red one. Summaries only, of course. I wish I could say we had more, but that’s part of the reason you’re here. To make sure these folders grow fat and multiply. Especially the blue one.”

  I’d figured on taking the material into my new office, which, like Omar’s, was partitioned and offered some privacy. But Raniya, who hadn’t said a word since my arrival, quickly set me straight.

  “I have cleared some working space for you on the table,” she said, pointing to a Formica countertop a mere six feet from her desk. “That way, if you need further details on any of the transactions, I will be able to locate them quickly.”

  It would have seemed churlish to say no, although I suspected she only wanted to keep an eye on me. If Omar noted the tension between us, he didn’t acknowledge it. Or maybe this was his doing.

  “And where are you going?” I asked him.

  “To Bakaa, with Dr. Hassan. He has arranged a meeting with a hospital architect, to discuss design possibilities. You would be welcome to join us, of course, but—” He gestured toward the folders.

  “Absolutely. I’ll have plenty to keep me busy.”

  “Once you’ve put your mind at ease, tomorrow we will get down to business. And, Freeman?”

  “Yes?”

  “Aren’t you going to ask about salary?”

  “I was getting to that.”

  “Tomorrow. We’ll wrap up everything over coffee and sweets in the morning.” He glanced guiltily at Raniya, who of course wouldn’t be having a daylight snack tomorrow or any other day of Ramadan.

  “Splendid.”

  “I hope you’re still saying ‘splendid’ after you’ve heard what I can afford to pay you. We’ll also provide a car, of course. In the meantime, keep your taxi receipts. Oh, and one last thing.”

  He ducked into his office and rummaged through a desk drawer. I glanced at Raniya for a hint of what was coming, but she maintained her rigid expression. Omar returned smiling and held out a set of keys.

  “These are yours. One to the office, one to your desk, one to the filing cabinets.”

  It seemed too easy.

  “Good luck with your meeting.”

  “Good luck with your explorations.”

  He said it with the carefree certainty of a man with nothing to hide.

  The moment he was gone I surveyed the field of play, with all its cabinets and drawers, and a copy machine in the corner. Easy pickings if not for the imperious Raniya. If I was the fox in the henhouse, then she was the fighting cockerel with talons of steel. The office was going to be a very icy place while Omar was away. I settled in at the table and opened the blue file.

  So far, Omar had managed to bring in about $1.4 million. Not terrible, but nowhere near what would be needed to build a hospital. He had said the night before that more money had been pledged but not yet received. The visitors from the Gulf whom I had seen the other day—from Dubai, it turned out—had promised to pony up $5 million.

  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 t
o 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.