Reprisal (21 page)

In his new role as a tourist, he spent the day walking around places he had avoided before. He climbed to the observation
platform of the six hundred-foot-tall Cairo Tower on Zamalek Island. To the west, he could see the pyramids and the Sphinx,
the desert stretching endlessly away beyond them. White-sailed
feluccas dotted the Nile, with its ribbon of green vegetation on each bank and the luxury apartment buildings and highrise
hotels—the Marriott, Sheraton, Meridien, Nile Hilton, Shepheard. North of the tower, on the island itself, were the grounds
of the Gezira Sporting and Racing Club. Across the Tahrir Bridge was Tahrir Square, from which broad thoroughfares radiated
out to all parts of the city. Away to the east, the medieval bulk of the Citadel loomed, with silver domes shining in the
sun. Beyond the Citadel lay the Mokattam Hills.

With other tourists, he wandered among the bookstores, jewelry shops and boutiques on the elegant avenue of Kasr-el-Nil—not
the kind of surrounding Dartley usually found himself in. He spent time in the bazaar of the Khan-El-Khalili and watched tourists
bargain with craftsmen in the maze of twisting alleyways. Dartley was not wasting time. He knew exactly what he was doing.
He was accustoming himself to his new role as a tourist. Even when he did understand what was said to him in Arabic, he pretended
not to. His previous line of attack in Cairo had not worked—which was, why he had gone to Aqaba—and now that he was back,
he would have to try something new. He was not sure what as yet.

He was almost surprised to find himself enjoying what had first appalled him about the city—the noise, anarchy of the traffic,
the construction sites everywhere, the crowds, the fumes, the heat. He got a chance to see the beautiful old mosques and walk
down wide boulevards lined by parks and vivid flowers. When he was fully satisfied with himself as a tourist, he went to find
Omar Zekri.

To Dartley’s satisfaction, Omar did not recognize him. He even tried to sell him a small stone statue of a cat which he claimed
had been found in a tomb dating back to King Tut’s time.

“Where can I find Laforque?”

This question stopped Omar in mid-sentence. He tried to peer around the sunglasses to see the eyes. “Mr. Lewis? What a pleasant
surprise.” The stone cat was slipped into a side pocket. “I don’t think Monsieur Laforque is in town at present. I will inquire.
Where can I contact you?”

Dartley smiled a cold smile and poked the Egyptian hard with his fingertips in the solar plexus. “You little shit! I ought
to kill you!”

It hadn’t been much of a blow, but it winded the plump Egyptian.

“Thing you better never forget, Omar, is you’re sitting out here, an easy target any time I take a violent dislike to you.
Now I got the notion you’ve been crossing me up. So how long do you think I’m going to put up with that? Come on, tell me.
You’re a good judge of character, Omar. How long would you say I’m going to put up with crap from you?”

“Mr. Lewis, please understand, I have never done anything to—”

“I asked you a question, Omar. Answer it.”

“No more crap, Mr. Lewis.”

“That’s better. When do you expect Laforque to come back?”

“I don’t know,” Omar said truthfully. “He stays at the Hotel des Roses when he comes, under his name.”

“Does Pritchett at the American Embassy know about Laforque looking for me?”

Omar hesitated a moment. “Yes.”

Dartley laughed. He had come to see that intrigue was an essential part of life in Cairo, and that for this reason, no one
could hope to operate unnoticed by professional observers in spite of the huge size of the city. Instead of hiding, from now
on Dartley intended to use people. If Laforque’s stupidity gave away France’s secret involvement to U.S. intelligence, all
the better!

“Come with me, Omar. I want you to hire a car for me under an Egyptian name. There’ll be some cash in it for you.”

Omar Zekri watched the American drive off in the hired car. Omar was frightened. He was used to threats, he was even used
to occasional beatings, but he normally knew how far he could go and expect to survive. He survived because people needed
him. At some moments they might want very badly to kill him for something he had done, but his future use to them outweighed
the immediate satisfaction they would gain from killing him right away. Omar knew Awad and Zaid would not kill him—he feared
torture and maiming from them. Pritchett and Laforque didn’t even dare push him around; they needed him more than he needed
them. But this American called Lewis was a different matter. That one would kill him and not think twice about it. Like throwing
a cigarette away.

Why hadn’t he asked Omar more questions? Tried to catch him in lies? This American did not even
bother to play the game of pretending that they could deal straightforwardly with each other. With him, it was do this or
you’re dead. It was only a matter of time before he decided—rightly or wrongly—that Omar was responsible for something he
didn’t like and killed him for it. As the American had openly said, Omar was an easy target. Omar couldn’t change that. The
nature of his business dictated that he be easy to find, and he made himself available by following regular rounds every day
without fail. Those who knew him were aware he would be in a certain place at a certain time of day. An easy target.

But Omar hadn’t lived this long by standing passively around and letting things happen to him. Omar believed in preventive
action—not by himself directly, of course. It was always easy to find muscle.

Pritchett’s attitude decided him. The CIA man had definitely not suggested that this American called Lewis be liquidated,
but he definitely had said it was no concern to the embassy what happened to him. This Thomas Lewis would be no loss to anybody.

Omar was also a little worried about the fact that he had been contacted by Laforque, Lewis and the Israeli spy who got killed
at Aqaba. An outsider might reasonably make the mistake that Omar too was involved in the assassination attempt on Ahmed Hasan.
After all, he had met all three participants. It would be hard to believe he did not know what they had in mind—especially
since he had said nothing about them to his Egyptian intelligence contacts. Who would believe he had thought them after atom
secrets and that it had never occurred to him they were out to kill Ahmed Hasan? No one would believe
it. Omar’s involvement with any of this must never become known to Egyptian intelligence.

He toyed around with telling the Cairo authorities about Laforque, but decided not to for the same reason he had not done
so before—his own position in the affair would not be believed by them and he would be worse off than if he had kept his mouth
shut.

Now this Thomas Lewis was back in Cairo, threatening him and forcing him to hire a car for him. While this man Lewis was in
the city, things were not going to stay quiet, die down, fade away, evaporate… Things were going to get much worse. And Lewis
was already involving him.

Omar stopped at a public phone. He had to try three times before he got through, losing his coins each time, but he persisted
until he succeeded.

Zaid answered at the other end of the line.

John Keegan’s superior at the State Department, F. Conrad Bigglesley, told his secretary he was not taking any calls and closed
his office door.

“John,” he said, “we’ve been reviewing your report of possible French involvement in the Aqaba incident. I’ve passed your
memo to me to various other levels. To tell the truth, reactions vary. But a few very similar comments came back from nearly
everyone. Ill summarize them for you. The French would never work with the Israelis on something like this—their mutual distrust
would make it highly unlikely. The second thing that struck nearly everyone forcibly was the suggestion to you that this American
might be associated in some way with the
Department of State or even the White House. That strikes most of us as grasping desperately at straws. It makes us almost
certain he’s tied to Central Intelligence or Military Intelligence or the NSA. He may not be a salaried employee. He might
be one of these dreadful freelance people they favor doing business with. I like your suggestion that he could be some kind
of rogue employee, and I think your Langley contact was a little too quick to deny this possibility. In other words, we all
think Langley is trying to pull the wool over our eyes.”

John Keegan had expected this. “I think that’s a very sensible set of reactions, Conrad, based on past experience. The only
thing we have to be wary of, then, is whether we’re putting too much reliance on past experience, and by doing so, possibly
missing a new development. And, I should add, a new development our friends at the Agency will be able to justifiably say
they gave us timely warning about and were ignored.”

“Are you telling me that you believe the French government is involved in trying to assassinate the Egyptian president?” Bigglesley
asked with an edge in his voice.

“I don’t see why we must be put in a position in State where we have to believe or not believe. I’d like to keep an open mind
on this.”

“That’s fine, John,” Bigglesley snapped, “just as long as you keep your open mind to yourself.”

“If you say sa.”

“I do.”

Keegan tried another angle. “Surely the Agency contacted the White House staff independently on
this. What does the National Security Adviser have to say?”

“He disagrees with the Secretary of State.”

Keegan laughed. “Nothing new there.”

Bigglesley assumed a paternal air. “That’s what I’m warning you about, John. You tend to throw your opinions around without
testing the air. That can easily be misinterpreted. You could find yourself trapped in alliances that would do your career
no good.”

“So what do I do?” Keegan asked with resignation. “Tell Langley they’re full of horsefeathers?”

“Absolutely not. Pretend to go along with them, as if we believe every word they’re feeding us.”

“Very well.”

“Good.” Bigglesley was pleased. “I must say Alice looked delightful at the Paraguayan Embassy cocktail party.”

Yes, and you couldn’t keep your goddam paws off my wife, Keegan felt like saying.

But he didn’t.

Ahmed Hasan was back to his old ways, tearing back and forth between the presidential palace and the Citadel, always surrounded
by his armed bodyguards. The speed, suddenness, and chaos of these moves were what protected Hasan most effectively. Dartley
watched from his parked car at four points for two of Hasan’s trips, coming and going. It began to look like he would have
to wait for Hasan to break his routine again.

Time was beginning to work against him now. Sooner or later the government agents would get
lucky and pin him down. His only hope was in the recklessness of Ahmed Hasan himself. Hasan had stood erect on the stern of
the launch while everyone else on board had sought cover. On his return to Cairo, there seemed to be no extra security precautions
in place. Plainly Hasan liked to live on the edge… play with fire. He might even taunt a would-be assassin with his seeming
accessibility. Certainly he was not running away or hiding himself more than he had done before.

The newspapers and TV and radio broadcasts were strident with accusations against Washington and Tel Aviv. But there was nothing
much that was new there—it was more a matter of increased quantity than any change in quality. Yet American tourists wandered
the suqs and visited mosques, unable to understand the Arabic vituperation beamed about their homeland from transistors everywhere,
which seemed only to amuse the Egyptians. They rarely showed dislike of these corrupting foreign agents of the Devil with
their dollars and their interest in what they liked to call Egypt’s majestic and mysterious past.

Zaid had no idea where Awad had taken himself off to and did not know when he would be back. He put the description of the
hired car out in a bulletin, with instructions that the vehicle or its driver was not to be approached, only their whereabouts
reported and surveillance to be maintained. Zaid himself was ready to move, before any clumsiness on someone’s part alerted
the American to the fact he was being watched. The men would receive instructions to withdraw
after Zaid himself arrived, and he would take it from there.

Zaid’s wolfish face broke into a grin. He’d show that fat slob Awad what he could do without him. Still and all, if Awad showed
up before the call came in that the American’s car had been located, Zaid would be glad to have him along. But Zaid wasn’t
waiting. And he wasn’t going to take some other agent along, someone he wasn’t used to working with. He’d feel safer on his
own than working with someone he didn’t know well enough to trust. The fact was, the only one he could depend on was Awad.

He would go on his own.

If the call came in. If. Zaid had no illusions about that. However, the bulletin was coded as a government request, and that
might frighten some of them into bothering to read registration plates. When the government wanted something, there was always
the chance that it was Ahmed Hasan himself who was making the request. That possibility was enough to frighten a lot of people,
especially the more intelligent ones who had been hearing things.

No sign of Awad. He took off like this at times, without a word to anyone, in a black mood. At times he would be gone for
hours, at times for days. Then he would be back, and no one dared ask for an explanation. There were whispers that he took
secret assignments. Zaid knew better. Awad spent these times in a cheap hotel room sleeping off his depression. Sometimes
he would have hashish or liquor, but mostly he just slept. Zaid knew him well enough to see the really bad spells coming on.

If Zaid went out and took this American, dead or
alive, by himself, Awad would be so infuriated he’d grumble about it for a year.

From time to time, Zaid raised hell because there was still no response to the bulletin—just letting them know that results
were expected so that they in turn could put pressure on men in the street. He checked on the men he had placed at the Beta
depot on Mahmoud Bassionni Street, where the car had been rented. These men’s instructions differed from those of others.
If the car was returned, they were to kill the driver if he was a foreigner and take him alive only if he looked Egyptian.