The Cairo Affair by Olen Steinhauer Read Free Book Online

answers—and if not answers, then at least the feeling that people she trusted knew what was going on. She’d lived in the diplomatic corps long enough to know that just because people act as if they understand the world, it doesn’t mean they know it any better than you do.
    After she hung up, Glenda appeared at the front door, her dark, wiry hair out of sorts, claiming to have been accosted by a journalist, though when they looked out the window there was no sign of paparazzi. “But it has made the news,” she told them as she crouched in her short skirt, long-legged on insecure heels, and turned on CNN, where they saw a picture of Emmett from when he first arrived in Budapest. A newscaster mentioned “sketchy details” and a “Hungarian restaurant” and an “unknown assailant.” A talking head gave some noncommittal words on what this could mean for American-Hungarian relations (“Nothing,” he finally admitted). There was no mention of Sophie, just the banner headline MURDER IN BUDAPEST. The embassy, Fiona Vale guessed aloud, was working overtime to keep her out of the news cycle.
    Glenda held her hand and whispered lovingly that she was going to take care of her. Fiona disappeared to make calls—babysitting, Sophie suspected, wasn’t her actual job, and her work was probably piling up. Then Gerry Davis, pink and clean in a perfectly pressed greatcoat, arrived to take her through more of his vision of the future. She couldn’t help but admire the way he was able to act as tragedy’s soothsayer.
    There were funeral arrangements to be made, but she wasn’t to worry—the embassy was taking care of the details. After an inquest (“Sorry, this is required, but we’ll deal with it”), Emmett’s body would be sent back to Massachusetts and the family plot near Amherst. Would she like to fly back with him? “Of course,” she answered without even considering the question. Twenty minutes later, Gerry Davis told her that there was a first-class reservation for tomorrow, Air France to Boston via Paris, with her name on it.
    The Hungarian police were scheduled to visit at four, but beforehand, Gerry Davis said, some folks from the embassy wanted to have a word with her. It turned out they were already in the apartment, drinking coffee in the kitchen with Fiona. Two tall men wandered in, smiling stiffly, and asked Glenda if she would please step out for a little while. (Glenda’s Hell no caught in her throat once she realized they were spies.) They introduced themselves, but their given names passed Sophie by. She referred to them by their surnames: Reardon and Strauss.
    Reardon took the lead. He was bald on top, cropped short on the sides, and blushed whenever the subject made a turn toward the personal. Strauss was younger, early thirties, and more dark than his name would have suggested. He used both thumbs to type notes into his BlackBerry.
    Reardon said, “Did your husband share information about his work?”
    “Not usually, no.”
    “But you know what he did?”
    “He was a deputy consul,” she said. “He worked under Ray—Raymond Bennett, the consul—sometimes taking over his schedule, meeting with Hungarian officials and businessmen. That sort of thing.”
    Reardon nodded—he knew this already. Of course he knew this. “We’re looking into it now—whether some part of his job led to this incident. If, however, the cause is rooted in something else, something more personal, then perhaps you would know about it.” He was already blushing.
    Yugoslavia, 1991.
    Zora Balašević.
    A disloyal wife.
    But all she said was “I have no idea.”
    There were more questions—Emmett’s friends, his extracurricular activities, his business interests—but they were softball compared to the lie she’d begun the conversation with: She had plenty of ideas, too many ideas.
    Reardon and Strauss were attentive, but not suspicious, and as they talked Sophie began to relax, describing her and Emmett’s