Men streamed in, filling the hall. Wells estimated at least a thousand had already arrived. And this was just one mid-sized mosque. Some, like the Mosque of Ibn Tulun south of here, were open squares as big as a city block, capable of holding tens of thousands of men.
The room was notably warmer now, and the odor of a thousand sweating bodies filled the air. Men were supposed to bathe before the midday prayer, but many came straight from work. The men were mostly Arab, though a handful were black, probably Nubian Egyptians or Sudanese from the Upper Nile. Many had faint bruises on their foreheads, a sign of piety. The bruising came from touching their foreheads to the ground as they prayed.
Suddenly the imam mounted the wooden pulpit and began the Surah Fatiha, the first verse of the Quran: “Bismallahi rahmani rahmi al-hamdulillah. ” In the name of Allah, the most gracious, the most merciful; All praises to Allah.
The imam spoke beautifully, Wells thought. Even without amplification, his voice filled the mosque. He finished the surah and began his sermon. “Brothers. Allah tells us that we are not to call ourselves pure. Only he knows who is truly righteous. ” Good deeds would not please God if they were done for selfish reasons, he explained. “Actions are judged by motives.”
As he listened, Wells remembered what he loved most about Islam, the strength and simplicity of its doctrines. The religion had five basic tenets: accept God and Muhammad as His prophet; pray five times a day; give to charity; fast during the month of Ramadan; and travel to Mecca for the sacred pilgrimage of the hajj. Anyone who followed those rules, or sincerely tried to, was a good Muslim.
The men paid rapt attention to the sermon. No watches were checked, no cell phones pulled out. Wells didn’t know how long the imam spoke; his words flowed together as smoothly as the Nile. When he finished, the muezzin gave the iqama, a second call to prayer performed only at the Friday midday service.
The men in the mosque clustered together shoulder to shoulder for the rakaat, the core Muslim prayer. Side by side they dropped to their knees and touched their foreheads and hands and toes to the floor, a thousand men affirming God as Muslims had for a thousand years.
AFTER THE SERVICE, the imam stood beside the pulpit, clasping hands with men who’d come forward for advice or a benediction. Finally, the last of the worshippers left and the imam was alone. Wells intercepted him.
“Salaam alekeim.”
“Alekeim salaam.”
“Your sermon today was filled with wisdom.”
“Thank you.” The imam gave Wells a puzzled smile. “I haven’t seen you before.”
“I’m from Kuwait.”
“You came this far to hear me preach?”
“I hoped you might help me find someone.”
The imam glanced at the front of the mosque, as if he wanted to ask Wells to leave. But he said only, “Please, come with me.”
He led Wells through a nook in the wall behind the pulpit and down a concrete corridor. His office was simple, square, and furnished only with a wooden desk and a bookshelf filled with Quranic commentaries. A barred window looked into a narrow alley. A heavy man with the full, bushy beard of a believer sat beside the desk, sipping tea. He hugged the imam, then looked suspiciously at Wells.
“Salaam alekeim,” Wells said.
The man let the greeting hang like an unwanted hand extended for a shake. Finally, he murmured, “Alekeim salaam.”
The imam nodded for Wells to sit. “Leave us, Hani,” the imam said. “And close the door.”
The man hesitated, then walked out. The imam regarded Wells across the desk.
“Your name?”
“Nadeem Taleeb.”
“From Kuwait?”
“Kuwait City, yes.”
“Where are you staying in Cairo?”
“The Lotus Hotel.” Wells paused. “I understand why you wonder about me. When I arrived, I saw a man watching this place. He wore no uniform. But I’m certain he was mukhabarat.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. He wore a black shirt and pants. He was drinking tea at the shop on the corner. The one that sells ice cream. He pretended to read, but he was watching your front entrance. Have your men check.”
“Hani—” the imam said. The door opened, and the fat man scuttled in. The imam whispered to him.
“Aiwa,” Hani said. Yes. He glared at Wells before he left.
“So, Kuwaiti,” the imam said. “Who are you looking for? ”
“Ihab Zumari.” Alaa’s father. “A friend told me he worships here.”
“You should leave,” the imam said. “Finish your tea and leave. I don’t know what game this is, but I know it’s dangerous. For both of us. I’m a peaceful man.”
Wells pulled a pen and pad from his robe and scribbled on it in English and Arab.
“You use computers, sheikh? The Internet?”
The imam looked almost offended. “Of course.”
“My apologies. Please. Look at this site. You’ll understand. I’ll come back tomorrow for another cup of tea. Inshallah”—God willing—“you’ll see me. If not, I won’t bother you again.”
Wells slid the paper across the desk, stood, and walked out, leaving the imam looking at a single note. A Web address: PrisonersofAmerica.com.
THE DIRECTORATE OF SCIENCE and Technology had done a good job, Wells had to admit. Two videos were up. They looked professional but not too professional, the interviewees giving long speeches about how they’d suffered as captives of the United States. One was supposedly an Algerian captured in Iraq in 2006 and released two years later, the second a Pakistani caught in Afghanistan in 2005 and let go in 2009. Both men wore bandannas to hide their mouths and had exceptionally common names: Mohammed Hassan and Ahmed Mustafa. They gave detailed descriptions of the deprivations they suffered. They spoke angrily but not so passionately that they seemed unhinged.
They were fakes, CIA employees, analysts in the Directorate of Intelligence. They’d agreed enthusiastically to the assignment, knowing that the interviews might be as close as they would ever get to the front lines.
The technical details were right, too. A commercial Russian Internet service provider hosted the site. Its content was uploaded through a Finnish server that guaranteed anonymity to its users. Even the IP address registration was backdated, so that the site seemed to have been up for months.
The site itself had a straightforward front page in English and Arabic: “Here you will find the stories of Muslims held captive. Here you will find the truth about the ‘peace-loving’ Americans.” No over-the-top rhetoric. And, of course, no pictures of Wells as Nadeem anywhere. He wouldn’t have been foolish enough to give up his anonymity.
WELLS LEFT THE MOSQUE and a few minutes later found himself on Sharia al-Muizz, a narrow street in the heart of Islamic Cairo. He took his time. If the imam had ordered him tailed, he wanted to show that he had nothing to hide. But no one seemed to be on him. After an hour of browsing the storefronts, he grabbed a cab to the Lotus. He would leave his room at the Intercontinental unoccupied tonight, the bed unmussed. The hotel wouldn’t care unless his credit card bounced.
At the Lotus, he couldn’t fall asleep for hours. During his time off, he’d forgotten the intensity, the perpetual vigilance, required for these missions. Finally he faded out. He found himself in a windowless room with Exley, interviewing her for the site. She wore a blue hijab and sunglasses and held a duck in her lap.