City of the Sun (44 page)

CHAPTER 42

Were his eyes playing tricks on him? Kesner squeezed them tightly before reopening them, but the same blurry image reappeared—a Jewish Star of David dancing in front of him. It was dangling from the neck of a woman in white, her smiling face hovering above him. An angel?

“I’m Nurse Julia,” the woman spoke softly, aware of his confusion. “You were hurt last night during the air raid at the museum. I believe you suffered a concussion, but you will be fine.”

Kesner tried to raise his head, but his neck was stiff as hell, and his head hurt. Where was he?

“There were no more beds at the Anglo-American Hospital so they transferred you here to the Israelite Hospital,” the nurse explained, her face drifting in and out of focus. She took his hand and checked his pulse. “Good,” she declared. “Do you remember what happened?”

Kesner blinked. It was slowly coming back to him. He had been at the
Gone with the Wind
soirée. Then he recalled the girl. “Marianna Blumenthal,” he whispered.

“Marianna? Was she your date?” she asked, looking down at his hand and not finding a wedding band. “What is your name, officer?”

“Officer?” For a second Kesner was confused as to which costume he had worn, then remembered it was his Polish uniform. It was a good thing he’d kept his disguises at Café Riche,
because … his boat. He closed his eyes and an inexplicable wave of grief billowed inside him as he felt a tear glide down his cheek. “All gone up in smoke,” he said, thinking of his boat and his dream house on the Danube.

“Yes. The fire. A lot of people got caught in the fire outside the museum,” the nurse said. “Where were you when the bombing started?”

Kesner combed his memory. “There was an air raid?” he asked. All he remembered was that the marine at the museum gate would not let him inside and that he was waiting for Marianna Blumenthal to leave at the end of the evening.

“You don’t remember explosions? Or loud whistles from the falling bombs?”

“They bombed the museum?” Kesner sat upright, grimacing as he tried to turn his neck.

“One bomb fell in the museum courtyard. They were targeting the Kasr el-Nil British barracks.”

“Of course,” he said, buttoning his shirt, which they hadn’t bothered removing, while the rest of his uniform lay neatly folded at the foot of the bed. He had sent Rommel the barracks’ plans that Sadat had given him. It was too bad they attacked on the very night Kesner happened to be next door.

“I’m Dr. Franco,” a physician cheerfully introduced himself as he sauntered in and sat down on the bed next to him. “So, what do we have here? He lifted his stethoscope and listened to Kesner’s lungs. “Would you breathe deeply for me?”

“The patient seems confused, Doctor,” the nurse said. “I’m not sure he recalls the air raid.”

“I remember everything. Just some details escape me,” Kesner protested. He now recalled seeing Blumenthal’s sister shaking hands with Léon Guibli. How fortunate. The notorious lawyer could provide a link to the scientist now.

“How many fingers?” the doctor asked, planting his whole hand in front of him. “What’s your name, officer?”

“Five fingers, and my name is Captain Stefan Hanczakowski, third Carpathian Polish Second Corps,” Kesner stated confidently, eager to get going. “I need to leave, Doctor. I must report to my platoon. All I need is an aspirin for my headache and I’ll be fine.” Camouflaging his neck pain, he pushed the cover away and dangled one foot out, ready to go.

“Not so fast, Captain,” the doctor gently pushed him back. “We can contact your superior and I’m sure there won’t be a problem. And definitely no aspirin. We don’t want to risk internal bleeding, especially after a concussion. You may have some damage to the brain.”

Fat chance of that. Kesner made such a fuss that after his reflexes and balance were checked and his blood pressure taken, they let him go.

“You forgot your pistol.” The nurse came running after him and handed him the gun just as he reached the hospital’s revolving door entrance.

That was not like him, and he hoped that the concussion would not cause any more stupid forgetfulness. He placed the pistol in his belt holster and headed directly for the downtown tram to Guibli’s office, which he was familiar with from having personally followed the American spy there. Kesner expected to find him in his office at this time. He intended to extract the information he needed at gunpoint.

To his dismay, a police car was stationed in front of Guibli’s office building and two policemen were standing on the lawyer’s second-floor balcony. He backed away, trying to make sense of the situation, when he saw a man exit the building.

“What’s going on upstairs?” Kesner asked the well-dressed gentleman. “I had an appointment with the lawyer.”

“Good luck!” the man snorted. “His office has been ransacked
and someone saw him leave, escorted by two Arabs. His secretary says files were taken.”

Kesner hurried away. Hassan al-Banna had just last week abducted a Jewish lawyer in Alexandria. He was out to destroy a network of prominent lawyers in Egypt who had been facilitating illegal Jewish immigration to the Holy Land, in order to curry favor with the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, who encouraged the development of the Brotherhood’s cells in Palestine. Though Kesner dreaded facing the sheik after the fiasco of yesterday’s ambush and the arrest of so many of his close associates, he had to find him, for Léon Guibli could very likely be his prisoner. He flagged a taxi to take him to his new go-between with the Brotherhood, Dr. Massoud’s assistant. With some luck he might get to see the sheik within twenty-four hours.

“24 Sharia Emad ed Din,” Kesner told the cab driver as he got in.

“I’ll be happy to take you there,” the driver answered, “but we must take a detour. There’s some kind of problem. The whole area is blocked off by British tanks.” He made a wide circle with his finger to emphasize how wide the cordoned area was.

“Tanks?” Kesner repeated, bewildered. “In the heart of the city?”

In the passenger seat of an old Hudson, a blindfolded Kesner was being taken to Hassan al-Banna’s secret hideout. He was smiling though he hadn’t slept a wink the night before. It had been a busy eighteen hours since leaving the hospital. Yes, God was on his side. He was no longer alone, and he had the Brits to thank for this unexpected opportunity to get back into the game. He now had a card to play. Kesner swelled with optimism as he reviewed how best to introduce his companion in the backseat, who was also blindfolded.

The car came to a halt, and everyone got out. Taking his
blindfolded passengers by the arm, the driver led them to what must have been a wooden door from the sound of his knocking.

“Nars.”
Victory, the driver pronounced, before the door creaked open and Kesner and his companion were ushered inside.

His blindfold was removed and the sheik appeared in front of him, framed by two strong brethren carrying machine guns. Their skullcaps matched the peeling green paint of the walls. Outside the window the day was breaking.

“Who is this man you have brought with you?” Al-Banna asked in his stirring, resonant voice.

“Someone who wants to help,” Kesner answered and removed the man’s blindfold.

The sheik smiled. “Anwar Sadat! What a delightful surprise.”

“British tanks surrounded the palace last night,” Sadat said coldly. “Ambassador Lampson used military threat to force the king to comply with a list of demands.”

“He demanded that Farouk issue a prohibition against a transportation strike and wants the French Embassy—” Kesner started to explain.

The sheik raised his palm to stop him—he knew all too well what had happened.

“They have trampled on our sovereignty and I’m going to avenge the insult,” Sadat said. “We are ready to cooperate with you. We can lead your men to ammunition dumps and arms depots. We will make the revolution, together.”

Al-Banna opened his arms wide. “Come in, come in, s’aalam alekoum. We have a lot to talk about.” He turned to Kesner. “We are very grateful to you for having brought us such a righteous man. Is there something I can do for you in return?”

Kesner cleared his throat. “There is. I believe you have in your custody a Jew, Léon Guibli. I must talk to him.”

CHAPTER 43

Mickey lay in bed, his eyes fixed on the ceiling fan. He’d been up since five. Maya had bored right into his core. He sniffed the sheets in search of a lingering trace of her scent, which had so intoxicated him twenty-four hours ago. He wanted to bury his nose in her neck and inhale her again. His head swirled with emotions, and he savored the memory of even the most innocent of her gestures, the way she smiled, or the way she tossed her hair or held her chin in the palm of her hand.

He was jolted back into the present when he heard loudspeakers from a van roaming the street below, blaring away in Arabic. The only words he could make out were
Inglisi out
, which meant “out with the English,” and
idrub
, which meant “fight.” The proponents of the transportation strike were now taking their message to the street in a big way, he thought.

He was fed up with Cairo and everyone in it. Already feeling bad enough about his disastrous blunder with the Nazi spy, he had been chewed out again yesterday for it by the field police and MI5, who’d questioned him ad nauseam about his relationship with Samina. But thanks to his testimony that had led to incriminating documents they found in her home, they’d allowed him three days to leave the country instead of the original twenty-four hours. He didn’t give a damn. He was ready to go as soon as he heard from Maya.

Suddenly he heard the crackle of machine-gun fire. What the hell was going on?

He threw the covers aside and raced to the window, stubbing his toe against the trunk he’d bought to carry the clothes and junk he’d accumulated since his arrival. He howled in pain.

Except for smoke billowing far away on the horizon toward the pyramids, everything seemed normal, just a typical, lazy Sunday morning, until he looked down on Soliman Pasha square and saw a Whippet armored car with a machine gun poking out of its turret. Just then the phone rang.

“Have you heard?” Hugh asked breathlessly. “There was a coup at Abdeen Palace last night. Lampson showed up with tanks and guns and forced the king to comply with a number of demands or lose his crown. He presented him with an abdication statement.”

“Jesus Christ!” Mickey exclaimed as the implications dawned on him. “There will be riots.”

“I’m afraid they’ve already started. There’s a mob down in Giza. A gang of arsonists have destroyed the Auberge des pyramids and the Club Royal de Chasse et Pêche. The Mena House was spared, heaven knows why,” Hugh informed him. “My friend Ali is in jail, mate. Just hung up the phone with his parents. He was caught a little while ago stealing an ammunition truck. He could be executed for treason. I’ll tell you all about it. Can we still try to have lunch? Might be our last chance.”

“For sure,” Mickey said, wanting to see him before Hugh left for the front on Tuesday. It was time to reveal that he had been moonlighting as a spy, without providing the key details. He needed to warn him that MI5 might question him about the night they saw Samina at the Kit Kat Club. “Can we meet downtown or do you think the riots will spread to the center of the city?”

“I doubt it. I’m sure we already have it filled with armored vehicles, but it’s going to be ugly. What can I tell you, mate? Empires
rise and empires fall.” Hugh spoke with resignation in his voice. “It won’t be long before Gandhi kicks us out of India as well. Anyhow, I’ll meet you at twelve at the Turf Club. I’ve just become a member. It’s next door to that Jewish temple … You know …”

“Temple Ismalia. See you then.”

On his way out of the building, Hosni hurried to warn him about what was being said over the loudspeakers outside—exhortations aimed at Egyptians employed by foreigners to poison their food or to strike against them because of last night’s explosive events. Hosni was not proud of this.

“It’s going to be a mess,” Mickey told him ruefully.

When he arrived at the Turf Club, two buttoned down British officers were banging on the door. The doorman, a pompous sort, allowed them in, but turned Mickey away for not wearing a tie, even though there surely must have been one available for him to borrow. Club policy, the doorman proclaimed, and shut the door.