Shadows on the Nile (27 page)

‘The lion-god Aker guards the gateway to the netherworld,
Duat
,’ she elaborated for him. ‘The sun must pass through it each day. It’s all about death and rebirth.’

He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Let’s hope this evening is just about rebirth, shall we? Frightfully gruesome, those Ancient Egyptians.’

He watched her smile. Watched the way she held her head, her throat poised and almost as pale as the lace. He watched her hair, pinned up on one side by a mother-of-pearl clip. The way it moved, as though each strand possessed a life and an energy of its own. They were standing in a line of guests shuffling forward to be presented to their host, Prince Abdul al-Hakim, so Monty took time to gaze around. To drag his eyes from her.

There is not one single word in existence that can describe an Arabian palace, he realised. Sumptuous. Resplendent. Gilded. Luminous. Yet when mixed together these words might just suffice, but only if combined with ‘unrestrained’, ‘ostentatious’ and ‘downright idiosyncratic.’ Thirty-four massive columns encased in intricate gold filigree towered over the guests, while the marble walls around them were draped in luxurious cloth of gold. On the floor stretched swathes of Persian rugs, and covering the wide sofas were rich materials edged with blood-red jewels and brilliant peacock-blue beads. Brass cobras raised their heads in corners and the skins of cheetahs lay unheeded underfoot.

It was a world etched in vibrant colour. As if to beat back the relentless desolation of the arid desert that was only a breath away. Was that it? Did the people of Cairo, prowling the streets of their city at night like jackals, hear the hiss and the sigh of the sand as it shifted restlessly in the wind?

Around the edges of the grand room stood a hundred chairs of carved ebony, with sphinx armrests and heavy lion’s paw feet that made Monty think of Coriolanus at home in front of his estate manager’s fire. But it was the throng of guests in the room that drew his attention. He gave a wry grimace. So this was it, the cream of Cairo. The colonial grandees had turned up, all togged out in their Sunday best: elegant gowns, Savile Row dinner jackets and military dressuniforms of every hue and from every nation.
The scent of hair oil and cigars, of fine perfume and false smiles drifted aimlessly towards the archway, bringing with it the sound of lies and laughter.

‘I stand out,’ Jessie nudged him. ‘In my mufti.’

‘They’ll park you in a corner and throw rotten dates at you, I expect.’

She laughed, and they moved forward behind a man in Italian military uniform who smiled at Jessie in a way Monty didn’t like and said, ‘
Buona sera
.’ She did stand out, she was right about that, but not because she was in mufti. Suddenly he was drawn forward and found himself shaking hands with Prince Abdul, a western custom obviously adopted out of courtesy to the country’s masters.

‘Welcome, Sir Montague,’ the prince said warmly in an impeccable English accent. ‘It is an honour for the whole of Cairo to receive such a distinguished visitor.’

‘Thank you, Your Highness. This is my first visit to Cairo and I appreciate the invitation tonight.’

The prince was a well-fed man in his forties, magnificent in flowing white robes and
kufiya
that were intricately embroidered along the hem with the traditional patterns of Ancient Egypt. He waved a hand, his knuckles weighted with nuggets of gold, at the crowded room, sending his robe swirling through the air like a startled flock of egrets over the Nile.

‘Take your pleasure here,’ he boomed through the profusion of his beard. ‘May Allah bless your first evening in the beautiful heart of Egypt, Sir Montague.’

‘Thank you, you are generous. May I introduce my travelling companion, Miss Jessica Kenton?’

He was glad to see that Jessie knew better than to offer her hand to a Muslim male. Instead she touched her hand to her heart.

‘I am honoured to meet you, Your Highness.’

The prince bared his splendid teeth at her. ‘The pleasure is all mine, Miss Kenton.’

They were supposed to move on. The next guest was waiting, but Jessie stayed rooted to the spot. Monty touched her elbow.

‘Your Highness,’ she said, her wide blue eyes fixed
on her host, her lips curved in a respectful smile as she leaned just a fraction closer than was wise, ‘you have great knowledge of your country. You know its ways and its troubles. You are well informed.’ She paused.

Monty felt his heart scramble up to somewhere behind his teeth.
No, Jessie!
His grip tightened on her elbow.

The prince inclined his royal head.

‘You know its secrets,’ Jessie added softly.

The prince’s black eyes narrowed. ‘Your meaning?’

‘You knew Sir Montague was here almost before he arrived.’

‘My dear Miss Kenton,’ the teeth gleamed in a practised smile but the eyes didn’t change, ‘you overestimate my prescience, I assure you.’

‘I doubt that very much,’ she smiled at him, and swung back her thick blonde hair. Instantly his desert wolf eyes sank to her throat. ‘I am looking for someone.’

Don’t, Jessie. We don’t know this man
.

‘I’m looking for a dear friend of mine, Sir Reginald Musgrave. He came to Cairo recently.’

‘I hope you find your friend, Miss Kenton,
inshallah
. What makes you think I know anything about this Musgrave?’

‘I thought you might have invited him to one of your receptions. Such a distinguished young gentleman would be deeply honoured to meet the renowned and respected Prince Abdul al-Hakim.’

The teeth chuckled. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Miss Kenton, than to be of assistance to you. But almighty Allah in his everlasting wisdom has not granted me the eyes to witness all that occurs in this great city, so I am sorry but I cannot help you.’

She touched her hand to her heart again. ‘I am grateful for your time.’ She dipped her chin in respect to him and finally allowed Monty to steer her away.

‘What the hell was that about?’ he asked in a low voice as they entered the crowded room. ‘I thought the whole idea was to keep the search undetected.’

‘He knows who does or doesn’t enter this country.’

‘My sweet Jessie, we can’t be certain of that.’

‘A twelfth baronet? The famous Sir Reginald? Of
course he knows, just like he knew you were here.’

‘Even if that is true, it doesn’t mean he has any idea of Tim’s whereabouts now, does it?’

‘No.’

But he knew this was not the end of it. ‘He will make enquiries.’

She nodded.

Monty recalled the way Prince Abdul had looked at his enchanting young visitor from England. It set his teeth on edge and made him scrutinise her fine-boned face with cautious eyes. How far was Jessie prepared to go to find Brother Tim? With a muttered curse he snatched two champagne glasses from a passing tray.

‘So,’ he asked grim-faced, ‘what are you expecting?’

She accepted the drink, her eyes bright. ‘To learn under which rock the snakes are hiding.’

‘Snakes,’ he reminded her, ‘bite.’

Monty was careful to be gracious to all who came seeking out the newcomer with the title attached to his name, and the striking girl attached to his arm.

While Egyptian music played softly in the background, he smiled at army generals and captains, he nodded serenely at tedious British government diplomats and listened with attention to a passionate young man, Herr Zimmermann, from the German delegation who advocated the imminent seizure of power in Germany by Herr Adolf Hitler to replace the senile Field Marshal Hindenburg. But it was the Egyptians that Monty sought out. Most had adopted the western dress of suits and high collars, but some came decked out in traditional Egyptian robes that made the Europeans look like drab sparrows by comparison.

He moved smoothly between the different groups, casually inserting the name of Musgrave into the conversation at intervals but each time drew a blank. That struck Monty as odd. Informers should have picked him up, whether for the British or
the Egyptian authorities, yet somehow he seemed to have slid through their nets. It sent a shot of cold lead down his spine. On the excuse of tracking down a brandy, he broke free from the chatter around him. Enough was enough, damn it. He headed over to a bald man who was standing near one of the many arched windows, eyeing the gathering balefully over the rim of a whisky glass. To Monty’s annoyance, Jessie had already been spirited away from his side by a couple of the more glamorous evening gowns and now she was barely visible to him, firmly secured behind a phalanx of attentive white evening jackets. A flash of lace, a shimmer of pearl hair-clip, that was all he had of her for himself.

‘Good evening, ambassador,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘We met in London last spring.’

‘Remind me, young man.’ The American accent was smooth as honey, and he tapped his temple with his glass. ‘My mind is too full of names.’

Monty smiled easily. ‘I’m not surprised. Mine is Montague Chamford.’

‘Ah, yes, you’re that new guy causing the women to flutter their silly fans. A lord or knight of the realm, aren’t you? Some darn title.’

‘Something like that. Tell me, sir, how are things out here at the moment?’

Ambassador William Jardine was a rare breed of man: one who was immensely practical, as well as immensely academic. A farm boy from Idaho made good. His passions were agriculture and education, and he had served both well as Secretary of Agriculture under President Calvin Coolidge. But politics is always a dirty game and two years ago in the Herbert Hoover administration he had been elbowed out to the post of American ambassador to Egypt, where his expertise in agriculture could be put to good use.

Monty had respect for his judgement.

Jardine scratched one of his large ears. ‘We’re looking at a very fragile stability of the triangle of power, I can
tell you, Montague.’ He held up three fingers. ‘The British Residency, King Fuad and the Wafd Nationalist Party.’ He clashed his fingers together. ‘You Brits had better keep your wits about you. I keep saying the same to old Pompous Percy over there, but does he listen … bah!’

‘Pompous Percy?’

Jardine tossed back the last of his bourbon and growled, ‘Hell, boy, that’s what we call your High Commissioner, lord of all he surveys. Sir Percy Loraine himself.’

He nodded in the direction of a distinguished gentleman standing centre stage in the room, with his hair oiled straight back and a cleft in his jutting chin. To Monty’s surprise, a slender figure in a white frock and a mother-of-pearl hair-clip was at the man’s side, talking earnestly.

‘But I heard he was working closely with King Fuad, handing him more control over the government. Giving Egypt to the Egyptians,’ Monty pointed out.

‘To the
rich
Egyptians, you mean. The man’s a jackass. And don’t think I’m telling tales out of school because I tell him the same to his face. He’s asking for trouble back home and, more vitally for all of us, asking for trouble with the Nationalists.’

‘The Wafd Party?’

‘Yep.’

A silent servant in brilliant red robes with a white sash and cap glided to Jardine’s elbow with a tray of whisky. Clearly the ambassador’s tastes were well known.

‘Bourbon?’ Jardine checked.

‘Of course,
effendi
.’

‘Take one, young man,’ Jardine said to Monty. ‘You’ll need it out here, I warn you. It lubricates the throat in this sand-blasted country.’

Monty accepted the drink. As he took a swig, he wondered how close to the ground the Americans had their ears. ‘Have you crossed paths, by any chance, with a young English chum of mine? Sir Reginald Musgrave is his name.’

‘Another English toff! God knows, Cairo fills up with
them at this time of year when you all flock over for a break from your miserable weather.’ He inspected Monty more closely. ‘What does this fellow of yours look like?’

‘Fair-haired, blue-eyed, an archaeologist.’

‘Ah, one of those guys. Nope, can’t help you there. Well, he has probably shifted up-river to Luxor. That’s where most of the digs take place. Not a man for mucking around in the past myself.’ He took a generous swig of his drink. ‘The future, that’s what counts.’

Monty raised his glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

‘Excuse me now, if you don’t mind. Time for me to go and bend the wealthy ear of our illustrious host. I’m trying to get him to fund an irrigation scheme for local farmers.’

‘Of course. It was a pleasure to meet you again.’

As Jardine was about to walk away, he clapped a hand on Monty’s shoulder, his eyes suddenly serious and whisky-free. ‘You strike me as an intelligent young man, so I’m giving you a word of advice if you stay in Egypt. The Wafd are not the ones to worry about. Unrest is growing on the streets. Not yet at the riot stage like it was in 1919 when an anti-colonial frenzy got eight hundred of the poor bastards killed. But it’s getting there.’

Monty listened attentively. ‘If not the Wafd, who is to blame?’

‘The
Ikwhan
. That’s the Muslim Brotherhood. New on the scene, but deadly. Hassan al-Banna, he’s inciting them. He’s the one to watch. A darn schoolteacher, of all things. That’s the guy who is the real threat to you Brits and to your inflated imperial egos.’

‘Thank you for the warning, sir.’

‘You’re welcome. Just a friendly word.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘I hear whispers that they’re even in league with the Nazis. They’re distributing Arabic translations of
Mein Kampf
, Adolf Hitler’s cheerful little treatise.’

‘To stir up trouble with the Jews?’

‘You got it in one.’

‘Another nail in the colonial coffin.’

‘May the good Lord preserve us. Here, have a cigar. We need to make the most of the good things in life while we can
still enjoy them.’

He thrust a fat cigar into Monty’s breast pocket and rumbled away into the crowd.

Monty took his cigar out into the night on the terrace. Flanked by gigantic black and gold sphinxes and by awesome statues of blank-eyed pharaohs – all with their distinctive high forehead and almond eyes – he felt Egypt reaching out to him. It set his pulse racing. He’d only been here a few hours, for Christ’s sake, but already he found himself slipping into the grip of its overpowering sense of timelessness. As though nothing had changed for thousands of years. Its ancient dynasties had fought and killed to possess this country, just as fiercely as this Hassan al-Banna and his followers were planning to do now.