The mustached man was named Mustafa Rahmani. He was small and damp-looking, with dark eyes and tufts of oily black hair hanging down to his thick eyebrows. He was a colonel in the Département de Surveillance et de la Sécurité, he explained patiently as his two associates walked Milo into an office building in some residential neighborhood they’d reached by driving inland. Only when they entered did Milo spot crayon drawings of families under happy suns and realize that it wasn’t an office at all but an elementary school. Only Rahmani and Milo entered the small first-floor room with the lazy ceiling fan and a view of a green courtyard.
Milo made sure not to look too put out by his second kidnapping of the day. Even though Algeria was one of the twelve countries that secretly contributed to the Library’s budget, he doubted that the DSS would have been happy to learn that its own politicians didn’t consider its intelligence sufficient to keep the nation in step with the West.
They’d already been through his carry-on, which only held his clothes, and Milo placed his UN identification card on the desk at the front of the classroom. Rahmani examined it closely, then smiled up at his guest. “This is very good.”
“You don’t doubt it’s real, do you?”
“Why would I?” Rahmani shrugged and leaned back. “Tell me, why were our Russian brothers pushing you into an automobile?”
“What did they say?”
He raised his hands, waving away the question, then spoke at length. “Understand me, Mr. Weaver. We are not interested in angering the Russians. We are a people under threat. These Islamists, they don’t see Algeria on the map. They see the larger Maghreb, and they want to turn all of the countries in the Maghreb—us, Libya, Morocco, Tunisia, Mauritania—into a single caliphate. Crazy, yes? They do not believe in sovereign national borders. We have been fighting the Islamists since 1991, long before the West even noticed the threat. We cannot afford to make enemies.” He shook his head. “Now we look to Syria and see how well those Russian weapons perform, and we sign a billion-dollar arms deal with Moscow. The battle tanks—they’re so good. Really. And the Russians—they don’t want to anger us either. They spent the Cold War throwing money at Africa for ideological reasons, but now they do it for market reasons. Geopolitical reasons. They want our warm-water ports to park their ships, maybe even warships. And if they position themselves in North Africa, then that keeps France and America out. It is win-win.”
“I’m very pleased for you,” Milo said, then gave him a smile for good measure.
“Thank you,” said Rahmani. “But then you show up. On the same day the good Russian consul, Mr. Egorov, dies of a heart attack in his home. You, an esteemed representative of the United Nations, come to our city and go to a little apartment in the middle of Bab El Oued. Then the Russian vice-consul comes to harass you.” He opened his hands. “Surely you see that this is odd.”
“I thought it was odd as well. Were you following me, or the Russians?”
A tight-lipped smile. He raised an index finger and wagged it at Milo. “I will tell you something, Mr. Weaver. I will let you in on a secret. While I love our Russian brothers, I cannot say that I trust them all the time. No one is perfect—I understand this. Your own countrymen, too. Americans send mercenaries to fight your wars, and what do they do? Slaughter civilians. We all see it on TV.”
Milo considered answering but found he had nothing to say.
“Of course, no one is perfect,” Rahmani went on, “but the Russians…” A shrug. “I suspect that they want to control us the way they control places like Armenia, like Georgia, like Ukraine. So I keep an eye on them. I note strange behavior. For example, the dear departed Kirill Egorov—I met him, you know? A good man. But we watch him, as we must. And a few weeks ago, when he gets back from Paris, his movements, they go crazy! He no longer goes to his neighborhood café for coffee and biscuit each morning. He instead goes to the other side of town for coffee and biscuit. His mistress, who used to come to his house once a week—now she joins him for coffee, and they perform their lovemaking at her home.”
“Is that so strange?”
“When he then dies on the day you magically appear, yes.”
Milo wondered about that as well but didn’t have enough information to understand anything just yet. “When did this start?”
Rahmani tilted his head, examining Milo, who suddenly worried he’d shown too much interest. “August twenty-two. Does this mean something to you?”
Milo shook his head. “Do you know why he was in Paris?”
“A security conference—the usual. Can you tell me why you are here?”
“Egorov wanted to talk to me. I don’t know what about.”
“It was something he could not mention over a telephone?”
“I got that impression.”
“And do you, Mr. Weaver of UNESCO, often fly to North Africa when elderly Russians call you?”
“He was a friend of my father’s, long ago.” That was true, but the next was not. “I thought that it might have had to do with him.”
“Yevgeny Primakov.”
“Yes,” Milo said, realizing that Rahmani knew a lot more than he was saying. Did he know about the Library? Maybe. But that, at the moment, was less important than what else Rahmani was telling him. Kirill Egorov’s patterns had abruptly changed four weeks ago, after his return from Paris. Was that when his mysterious ward had shown up, the person he wanted Milo to protect? Milo leaned closer. “Where did Egorov go to get breakfast?”
A smile flickered on Rahmani’s face. “El Kahwa El Zarka, over in Dar El Beïda.” He blinked at Milo. “But before you become too excited: He never met with anyone of interest there. Only his mistress.”
“Who is she?”
Rahmani smiled but said nothing—he’d shared enough.
“Then I suppose Kirill found better coffee,” Milo said, even though he didn’t believe it. Neither of them did.
There were more questions, but by then the purpose of the interrogation had been satisfied. Rahmani tried to poke holes in his story, but only halfheartedly, then returned to the subject of his Russian brothers and Algeria’s precarious position in the world. Eventually, Milo explained that he needed to fly to New York. “UN Headquarters,” Rahmani said, nodding somberly.
“Are you going to let me go?” Milo asked.
Rahmani raised his hands, energy flowing back into him. “Let you go? Let you go? Have you not been listening to a word I am saying? Algeria cannot afford to make enemies. And to hold you here and anger our great friends in America and the United Nations? Perish the thought!”
Milo was surprised that Rahmani personally brought him to Houari Boumediene and walked with him to the ticket counter. He’d missed his Air France flight so had to settle for an Air Algérie–Turkish Airlines ticket that would stop in Istanbul on the way.
At security, Rahmani raised a hand in farewell. “Please, Mr. Weaver. Next time you come to Algiers, do give me a call. We can try that excellent coffee.”