The Amateur Spy by Dan Fesperman

four faces lined up like accusers waiting to testify, each with a heartbreaking smile. All that was missing was the daughter’s bottle of pills.
    Mila took a deep breath and leaned low to whisper in the woman’s ear. She never told me what she said, and it wasn’t the sort of question you would ask. When Mila stood she had tears on both cheeks. I’m not sure the woman heard a word, and she never opened her eyes. Which was a shame, really, because I think what Mila needed most was a tearful denunciation, any act of anger to allow atonement to begin.
    We stood there for ten minutes longer, not saying a thing, and when it became apparent that Mila might remain all evening I gently led her away. We crossed back through the city hand in hand. I steered her into a café and bought her a coffee and a pastry—true luxuries in those days. I was gratified to see some color return to her cheeks, and her breathing seemed to steady.
    In the weeks that followed we seldom went more than a day without seeing each other. And, as tends to happen between a man and woman of mutual attraction, one thing led to another. We would joke about it later, but there was almost a reverent overtone to our first lovemaking. It felt like a consummation in several senses of the word, a bond that we both sensed went well beyond the usual desperate coupling of people trapped between danger and tedium.
    In her work, Mila henceforth became more of a questioner and an advocate. Although she never turned into what you would call a “soft touch,” which would have rendered her essentially useless, she was a tigress when it came to righting bureaucratic wrongs or neglect. And, so, when we later began working side by side on our sojourns into Africa, we were seemingly the perfect pairing: She was the outside agitator, always questioning the status quo, while I was the tinkerer within the system, making adjustments here and there. The dynamic served us well and, more important, served those who needed us even better. As we grew closer in love, we grew also in our respect for each other’s powers.
    Until, of course, our one huge failure in Tanzania, when our dynamic proved to be perfectly engineered for disaster—unbeknownst to Mila, thank God, even to this day. And now here I was in Jordan, tempting fate once more, wondering if our combination of skills might again prove volatile instead of magical. Except this time we and our friends would pay the price.
    The muezzin went silent, his prayers complete, and a stillness fell over the hotel room. It was still dark, but my stomach was empty, so I rose to shower, shave, and dress for the day ahead. Time to start searching for answers to all these troublesome questions. Time to do my part, come what may.

7
    R amadan had indeed cast a pall on the buffet efforts of the kitchen staff. I made do with limp toast, watery yogurt, and grainy instant coffee. Previous experience in the Islamic world told me that things weren’t likely to get better. By the end of the month nerves would be frayed and tempers short. There were always a few murders attributable to the strain of fasting—a deprivation that didn’t even allow for water. As the days wore on, local judges would begin dismissing many a petty charge as the price of doing business during a time of sacrifice. At least this year the holiday was in October. Summer Ramadans were positively brutal.
    No such worries for me, of course, although finding lunch might be tricky. I walked to a small market near the hotel for fruit and bread, so I could snack later in the privacy of my room. Then, having put off the moment of truth long enough, I hailed a taxi to Omar’s office.
    “You are here for long?” the driver asked.
    “A few months.” Then I considered my cover. “Or maybe for good. I’m taking a new job. We’ll see how it goes.”
    “You are welcome in Jordan.” He nodded emphatically.
    The closer we came to our destination, the more I worried. Omar and I had