The Hidden (2 page)

“So you hadn’t been here long when you met Ibrahim?”

She smiled and shook her head. “No. My aunt is a very social person. She’s very active with the women’s movement here. It was thanks to her that I met my husband. As you may know, he gave talks at the Society for the Status of Women on women’s role in society and the future of families in Egypt.”

“Yes,” Langham said. “I was behind the research grant that sparked the talks.”

She went on. “My aunt was very pleased with the way things progressed between us. She strongly approved of our engagement and our marriage. She thought it was proper that I marry, and to have me finally returned to Cairo to be with her was a blessing.” Aimee stopped herself before she said too much and turned to look out the window at the dazzling cloudless sky.

“Of course,” said the professor, though she wasn’t really paying attention. Then out of the corner of her eye, she noticed him get up and go to his desk, unlock the drawer, and pull something out.

“Before I forget, I do need to give you that parcel. I’ll order some tea for us, shall I?”

He passed a large parcel to her and picked up the telephone. Aimee shivered and stared at it. Wrapped in thick brown paper and tied with string, it looked innocent enough.

After speaking with someone in the university kitchen, Langham put down the telephone and looked at her hopefully. “Tea won’t be long. Have you any idea what it is?”

Aimee shook her head and fingered the string curiously. “No. I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Do you want to open it here?”

She looked up at him reluctantly. “I think I will take it home. If it contains letters or documents that might help the police with their enquiries, then naturally I’ll let them have it.”

“Of course, you must do what you think is best.”

“Is there anything you know, Professor? You must have known Azi better than most. You worked with him for a long time. Can you tell me anything? Anything at all?”

Langham paused for a moment. He seemed to be searching the room for inspiration.

“Your husband had many friends,” he said. “But that’s because he was well liked. Naturally he was opinionated, but it was important for him to be that way. He was a professor after all. But he also respected others who were prepared to voice their views. His students would say—”

As he fell silent, Aimee noticed his expression change. He was biting his lip, thinking.

“Can you think of anything unusual that occurred recently, anything he did that was out of character or that made you wonder?” she asked.

Langham looked at her and put his thumb to his mouth for a moment, stroking his nose, his eyes narrowing, as he cast his mind back. “He seemed rather more ill-tempered than usual. That is the only thing I can think of. I put that down to his having a lot of work. And perhaps he resented that it was keeping him from his new bride.”

He smiled knowingly at Aimee. The tea arrived. Cups were poured and handed out. Aimee put the parcel to one side and sipped her tea gratefully. When he had finished, Langham put down his cup and glanced at Aimee, quickly taking in the soft curve of her shoulders, the long black eyelashes framing those haunting eyes of hers. He felt sorry for her. He had a daughter her age. She could be his daughter. He watched her stand up to leave. The meeting had obviously been difficult for her, and he didn’t blame her for wanting to go.

“Promise me you’ll telephone if you need any help at all, Madame Ibrahim,” he said as a last gesture.

Aimee wondered what help he could be to her now.

“I need work, Professor. I need to support myself and my aunt. If you hear of anything.”

He smiled and extended his hand to her. “Of course. I will make some enquiries. You must find time to enjoy yourself too, Madame, to take your mind off things. I’ve heard the great Noel Coward will be giving a series of war concerts. He’s planning a tour of the Middle East, which should be good for the soldiers’ morale and all of us really, something to look forward to.”

He paused for a moment, studying her face. “As a matter of interest,” he asked, “do you think you will attend the launch of
Monument
?”

She looked at him quizzically. “I—sorry?”

“The book of poems by some of the university’s rising literary stars.” Langham smiled.

“Oh—I don’t know.”

“Your husband was looking forward to going. I’m sure you were sent an invitation. It’s been organised by Zaky Achmed, one of the professors here. I’m sure if you were to go, you would be welcomed with open arms. Many of the wives will undoubtedly be going.”

Now that she thought about it, Aimee did remember the invitation. She’d seen it in Azi’s study but had forgotten all about it. She smiled and said, “I’ll give it some thought.”

“It’s up to you, of course, Madame, but sometimes it’s better to be out among people, to know you’re not alone.”

She watched him as he talked, his idle chitchat meant to make her feel better, as though he were an ally. The rays of sunshine through the window highlighted the yellowing of his teeth, the lacklustre rings around his irises. He was an old man and he meant well. She understood why Azi had been so fond of him. But all the same, she sensed he was relieved the meeting was over.

“Don’t be a stranger to us, Madame Ibrahim,” he said warmly, his hand pressing hers once more. “You’re always welcome here.”

“Good-bye, Professor Langham,” she said awkwardly, “and thank-you.”

CHAPTER TWO

Haran Issawi was not in a good mood. His secretary had just informed him that his train from Luxor to Cairo had been delayed by another two hours. However agreeable the Winter Palace Hotel was, being stranded there was highly inconvenient. His temples pulsed angrily and he swore under his breath. He had engagements and reports to read over, and it was critical that the signing of the legal documents entitling him to an eighty-percent share in the trans-Mediterranean packing consortium went without a hitch. There was huge money at stake with this latest of his many business ventures. Although all of these endeavours yielded vast sums of money, this one would be particularly lucrative. It was typical of the inefficiency he encountered in every avenue of Egyptian public life that his chartered Luxor-Cairo train now had mechanical problems. And on top of that, he felt unwell. Beads of perspiration had formed on his forehead. His starched collar felt tighter than usual around his neck, and the buttons on his waistcoat strained. His eyes felt heavy and tired. Dinner the night before had gone on too long, and he had consumed too much whisky. Was it possible he was no longer young enough to enjoy the sensual pleasures of dancing girls, good food, and copious amounts of wine and spirits?

It was true that his body was not young anymore. His once-lithe frame was padded with rolls of fat. His moustache was no
longer slick and dark, and his white hair fell out daily on his comb. His once-rich dark eyes had paled to a milky, nondescript colour.

Still, as chief advisor to the king, he commanded respect and fear. Yes, fear. The king and the government of Egypt were like putty in his hands.

He considered his brilliant powers of persuasion, his calculated finesse in convincing the chief councillor for the fellahin, Youssef Attwara, against allowing tax concessions for farmers. High taxes made the fellahin work harder, and the harder the farmers worked on their cotton plantations, the more money rolled into the coffers of the wealthy landowners—of which he, of course, was one. The fellahin must become more businesslike in their approach to farming, and concessions—tax or otherwise—would only make them lazy. At least Attwara had been intelligent enough to grasp the underlying message he wished to convey. Issawi would hear no more on the subject of rent concessions—or any concessions for that matter—and he had it in his power to ruin the business Attwara had painstakingly built up over many years. Attwara had stopped short of accusing Issawi of blackmailing him. Wise man, Issawi thought, to stop the discussion there and accept the inevitable. He did not like to be crossed. He had achieved all he wanted in his political life, and he wouldn’t let some junior bureaucrat derail his plans. Now he could return to Cairo and report to the king that he had succeeded in stamping out any possible dissent among the fellahin and reassure him that aristocratic wealth would continue to flow in the right direction.

While he and his entourage waited for their private train to be repaired, he would discuss the continuing problem of the X. His top security men had just arrived. As they walked towards him, he examined their faces and saw concern there. Hilali and Gamal both saluted and stood to attention.

“What news do you have for me, Hilali?” he asked.

He listened as Hilali cleared his throat, and he saw dread etched on his face.

“We need to move fast, sir,” he said. “We don’t have much time.”

“Yes, yes,” Issawi snapped impatiently. “We must not lose any more men to them. What’s your strategy? How much ground force do you need?”

“Gamal and I have nearly finished fine-tuning our strategy, sir. We’re almost ready.”

“Well, get on with it,” Issawi said sharply. “You want to move? Then move!”

Issawi saw Hilali’s eyes flinch, but his posture remained rigid, soldierly.

“Sir, you must prepare yourself,” Gamal said. “Intelligence has uncovered another plot in which you are the target.”

Issawi’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

“We believe it’s only a matter of days before the Group of the X makes an attempt on your life.”

Issawi’s face was motionless. This news was nothing new to him. He was as hated as he was feared. His life had been targeted before. Now he travelled everywhere in armoured vehicles with a security entourage to protect him. But the way Gamal spoke alarmed him. He was usually practical and unemotional, but for the first time, Issawi saw fear in Gamal’s eyes.

“Use your networks, Gamal,” Issawi said. “Find out who the masterminds are and exactly what they are up to.”

“Sir,” Hilali said, “we already have dossiers on five possibles, but there are many branches of this organisation and it’s likely the men at the top are just foils. The real enemy is the X’s huge network of
spies on the ground, a massive web of agents, subagents, and counteragents. We’re deep in muddy waters with this one.”

Issawi stood up and started pacing. The veins on his temple throbbed. “Contact the head of Secret Police at HQ,” he said. “However big this group is, whoever the newcomers are, wherever they hide out, we have the resources available to find them.”

Gamal leaned forward, his voice lowered. “Sir, we can plan raids, but we do not have the resources to raid the hundreds of addresses this group uses. A lot of their men, we know for certain, are also undercover agents gathering intelligence for the Germans. As I said, we have identified five leaders so far, but this group is clever. They move quickly. They change tack. They slip about invisibly. We have very few photographs of any of them. We think they are using a tagging system, acting on directions, then passing the information on. As soon as one of them passes intelligence down the line, he disappears, changes his identity and his physical appearance. We believe they are running an identification-paper racket, which serves them well, but their primary goal is to take over the government and rule by terror. As you well know, the X is an old network. They’re artful and skilled. We don’t know yet when they are going to act, or how they plan to pull off the assassination. We just know that you are in very grave danger.”

Issawi ground his teeth and took a sip of water. Even with the ceiling fans whirring overhead, it was still unbearably hot. Trust nobody, he thought to himself. It was a mantra he had lived by his whole life.

“Where are these dossiers?” he asked.

“With Operations and our key men.”

“The men on the ground, who are they?” Issawi asked.

Gamal paused before he replied, studying Issawi’s face. “Military men, academics, businessmen, traders from all walks of life, as well
as thugs and criminals, who’ve all come together with the common purpose of a fundamentalist Nationalist takeover.”

“How many belong to the X these days, did you say?”

Hilali studied a notebook in front of him. “We estimate that the Group is now at least five hundred men strong, but in reality, the network is without a doubt much larger than that.”

Issawi wiped his mouth with the back on his hand. “Damn them all,” he said.

Hilali went on. “We must use some of our men to go undercover and find out what they are planning. We don’t know how much time we have. Although it could be months, we think it is a matter of days. The most important thing is to break up the networks from the ground up. It’s the networks we need to target. We’ve been watching a few key people.”

It was Gamal’s turn to speak. He said, “Your engagements, sir? You should cancel your engagements for a while, until we can report back.”

Issawi snorted. “Impossible. I will not change one thing. I have my security men. I have my armed vehicles, my private train. My family is well looked after. You must order Operations to move in on them immediately.”

Hilali studied Issawi incredulously. It wasn’t as simple as that. His boss was an arrogant, stupid man who had no right to hold the position he held. Hilali hated him, but he had to earn a living.

Issawi went on. “Don’t just stand there gaping. How do you propose to organise yourselves?”

Gamal said, “We’ll step up the undercover operation that we already have in place. We can scour the clubs, the brothels, the cafés, the streets, the addresses we have; tap phones; send in our men and women; but to really be effective, sir, we need more money from Operations.”

Issawi smiled mockingly. This was one of Gamal’s usual ruses to extract money from Operations, but he wouldn’t allow it. “Impossible,” he said. “That’s exactly what the X wants. They’re not important, Gamal. Thugs like the men in the X have been trying to take over Cairo for decades. Use your men to find out the nature of the plot and report back to me in forty-eight hours.”

Gamal bowed his head respectfully, but he was seething inside. “Yes, sir.”