The Hidden (30 page)

“We are safe here for the time being,” he says.

“Where are we?”

“A village not far from Beni Suef.”

“I killed him,” I say, shaking. My lips tremble and my mouth is parched.

Alexandre reaches for a jug of water, pours me a drink, and lifts it to my lips.

I drink gratefully.

“Where do we go to from here?” I say.

“In an hour, after we have rested and eaten, we will pick up the camel trail to Kerdassa. From there we will plan our journey across the Mediterranean.”

I am shivering uncontrollably. “Al-Shezira is dead,” I say. Alexandre puts his arms around me and comforts me.

“He tortured Rachid and sent him away,” I say.

He grips my shoulders.

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

“I have spies in the palace, servants who are on my side, people who have lived every day waiting for what has happened, to happen.”

“Is that why there were no night guardsmen on duty?”

“Yes,” Alexandre says. “I am proud of you, Hezba. You are the people’s hero.”

“But I have blood on my hands,” I say, pulling my hands out of my robes and staring at the blood that has dried on them.

“But there were no witnesses to the killing, Hezba. No one saw or would suspect anything.”

“But the gun?” I say.

“I have it here. I’m going to bury it deep in the ground. There will be nothing to incriminate you.”

“I waited for you,” I say tearfully. “I was told to wait for a signal…”

Alexandre holds me in his arms to calm me.

“It’s over now, Hezba,” he whispers. “Now we have to look to the future. We have to prepare ourselves for a long and dangerous journey, but first you must rest and change your robes. I must get you to safety in France. Then I will return to Egypt to carry on the fight.”

He puts the chador back over my hair, stroking and kissing the swollen flesh on my face, and leads me by the hand to another door, then to a little pathway that leads to the Nile.

“Wash yourself in the river. Take off your clothes and bathe. I will get you more robes and one of our women to bathe your head. Wait here. I won’t be long.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

After the evening prayers, Nemmat made her way to her dead brother’s apartment in Abbassiya to meet Farouk. Once she and Farouk had gone over the minute-by-minute schedule for the assassination plan one last time, Farouk’s men would drive her to the Oxford. Issawi was dining there tonight, and her services as an escort girl for the chief advisor had been arranged. Once Issawi had been drugged, she could bring him back to Abbassiya, where Farouk could get on with his plan. Of course, none of this was going to happen. Nemmat imagined the feeling of power that would come as she ended Farouk’s life. She owed it to her mother, for all the wrongs inflicted on her by men. It felt good to be double-crossing Farouk.

Though nervous, she was feeling fine. Her moment had come. Such power. A kind of euphoria had taken hold of her. She wanted to be a rich woman. She had said good-bye to her mother, kissed her soft, downy face, squeezed her frail body, and reassured her that she wouldn’t be back too late. She had taken great care with her appearance. She had donned her classiest outfit, a Western-style, ankle-length tightly fitted blue silk sheath that showed off all her curves, covered her arms with her trademark jewelled bracelets, and rimmed her eyes with the usual black kohl. Her hair she’d left loose,
brushing it so that it hung down her back, skimming the tops of her thighs.

She pulled on her blue satin gloves, under which she wore wafer-thin mitts to protect her from exposure to the cyanide. Issawi would think the outfit was a tantalising part of the game of seduction. Farouk would know nothing of her protective mitts.

She patted the sash that she’d tied around her waist and smiled. The tiny capsule of cyanide lay hidden in the folds of silk.

Before leaving, she had thrown on her usual black chador, swept any stray tresses behind her back, and covered her head and face with the cloth. Her chador gave her the anonymity she needed. Her heart beat excitedly as she walked out into the street. This job would be much more fun than the Lake Timsah affair. The danger of the operation excited her. Her life excited her. Her mother had wanted her to get married and become a mother herself, but Nemmat could not stop now. How could she ever change when her mother relied on her?

She stood on the corner and waited for the car to arrive. Farouk had ordered one of his men to drive her to Abbassiya. A car pulled up with two men inside. “Jewel?” one of them asked.

Nemmat stepped forward.

“Who asks?”

“Khufu and Amoun.”

The code names had been correctly relayed. Nemmat nodded and slid into the rear seat of the car. The traffic was heavy tonight, and the car crawled through the crowded streets. Nemmat glanced nervously at her wristwatch. She was expected at the apartment in ten minutes.

The minutes ticked by. Finally, Mitwali stopped around the corner from the apartment building, as Nemmat had asked him to. She got out, pulled her chador more tightly over her face, and hung
her head as she pushed through the crowds, then climbed the stairs to apartment 12. She knocked on the door. She heard a voice and uttered the code word. The door opened. She nodded in greeting as Farouk locked the door behind her. There on a shabby dresser were a bottle of whisky and a few glasses. Farouk motioned for her to sit down on the dirty old sofa.

“I’ll stand,” she said coolly.

“Let’s get down to business,” he said.

Nemmat did not remove her chador. She stood as confidently as she could and waited for Farouk to speak.

“The success of this part of the operation comes down to you, Sayyida,” he said as he walked to the dresser, unscrewed the whisky bottle, and poured himself a drink. “Do you want one?”

Nemmat nodded. “For courage.” She smiled.

“You have nothing to fear,” he said. “You have the easy part.”

Farouk handed her a tumbler of whisky.

“The heroin I’ll give you will dissolve easily into his drink,” he said, smiling, as Nemmat took a sip of her whisky.

Farouk took the packet out of his jacket pocket and sniffed it. The heroin he’d bought from Nasser’s Trinkets had been hijacked by the desert bandits, but Mitwali had supplied him with some more top-quality stuff. He handed her the packet. Nemmat watched him nervously. Any minute now, she would have to do it. Realising that she had to distract him, she decided to get him talking.

“What will happen when it is all over, Sayyid?”

Farouk gulped down the dregs of his whisky and served himself another.

“You ask too many questions,” he said. “Just concentrate on the job you have to do. My men will take care of Issawi’s security guards. Once the heroin starts to take effect, he won’t be concerned
about leaving his bodyguards behind. He’ll be looking forward to helping himself to you, Sayyida.”

How cold he seemed. It was as though he wasn’t the least bit interested in her—as though his heart belonged to another or nobody at all. She didn’t understand him. He was an unusual man.

Her heart slammed against her chest as she considered what she was about to do and tried to anticipate his next move.

“This death of Issawi means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” Nemmat ventured.

Farouk had just poured himself another double shot of whisky. He put the bottle down on the dresser and turned to face her.

“I have been planning this for a long time.”

She felt her face flush under his gaze. There was something suspicious about his eyes. She felt suddenly very afraid—as though the plan was about to go wrong. “And that’s all you are going to tell me?”

He jerked his head defiantly at her.

“Why do you need to know more?”

“Because if I know what all this is about, I might be able to do my job better.”

Farouk stepped closer to her. Nemmat couldn’t wrench her eyes from him. He was studying her face, reading every falsity in her heart and soul. He could see through her; she knew it, and something inside her snapped. A wave of panic washed over her. This was a trap, a setup. Perhaps Farouk had summoned her here because he knew she was in league with Littoni and he was going to kill her.

“Are you ready? You have to go now. My men are waiting. Just get Issawi here. Your money will be here when you return with him.”

He was acting strangely. He looked ill tonight, almost feeble and very old. Surely he could not be much older than forty-five?
She took in his features, the long nose, the high cheekbones, the full mouth, the jet-black eyes and olive skin—probably once distinctive, it now appeared slightly withered by approaching old age. She almost felt sorry for him.

“What are you staring at?” he asked.

“I was just wondering—”

His eyes, narrow slits of night-black suspicion, fixed bitterly on her as though he didn’t trust her.

“Don’t wonder,” he snapped. “You know what to do. It’s time.”

He turned and went to the dresser to get his drink. Perhaps she should do it now?

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Beni Suef, September 15, 1919

Alexandre leaves. I stand trembling in the night air, in the moonlight, hidden by reeds. There is nobody around. I can smell the dank odour of the river. Crouching behind a dune, I fumble with my clothes and take them off. Then I slip into the Nile and scrub myself with my hands. My hair becomes wet at the ends. I submerge myself briefly, letting the cool water caress my body and my sore head. With my head underwater, I imagine for a moment that I am being purified by the waters and forgiven. Then a surge of fear pulses through me. I am a murderer. I will live with this reality for the rest of my life.

I break through the murky water and focus my eyes in the moonlight. Alexandre is waiting for me on the bank. He stretches out his arm to help me, covers me with a soft woven blanket, and guides me back to the mud-brick house.

A woman comes into the house after us with some ground herbal ointment. She dabs it onto my bruises, cleans the remaining blood from
my sores, combs and plaits my hair for me while Alexandre dries me slowly.

When the woman has left, Alexandre takes me in his arms and I fold myself against him, overwhelmed by this all-consuming desire inside me. I am a murderer, running away to start a new life with my lover. Yet, as I stand here in this little village house, all I can think of is Alexandre in front of me, continuing to pat me dry.

I savour the pressure of his hands on my shoulders, the earth-scented taste of his lips on mine. When I am dry, he lets the blanket drop to the ground and lifts me up to lay me on the cushions. He strokes my rounded stomach and my thighs and my feet and my breasts and my face, and then he unravels his robes and his blue turban and lies over me tenderly, moaning my name. I reach out and pull his face to mine, entranced by his full mouth and glittering dark eyes, the slant of his nose and his cheekbones.

He bites my neck and looks lovingly into my eyes, and for a moment I feel as though no harm will ever come to us.

He splays my legs and slips inside me, and I feel the exquisite pressure of his body on top of mine. I’m home, I say to myself. I belong with this man, not to him, but with him as equals.

Alexandre rocks me to a gentle rhythm. I am tired but happy. I forget where I am. All I know is that deep down, I am alive and that death has not overcome me yet. When we are both sated, Alexandre holds me in his arms. He covers me with his robes to keep me warm. I am happy. Thanks to him, I know what happiness and peace are even if it is only for moments. The woman reappears with some clean robes for me to wear.

Alexandre gets up and hands my blood-soiled clothes to her, and she disappears.

“She will wash them,” he says.

“But—” I start to say.

“She is one of us,” he says firmly.

He returns to me and kneels down in front of me. Holding my hands in his, he kisses my fingers.

“It is written all over your face, Hezba.” He smiles. “You don’t trust me.”

His eyes narrow jokingly, and then he goes on. “No one saw you.”

“But the palace? When they discover that I’ve gone, they will start looking for me.”

“Sssh, Hezba,” he says. “Cairo in on fire. The Nationalists are rioting. There are looting and killings in the streets. The city is in chaos. It doesn’t matter how many troops are sent in to round up the masses—what the masses want is for the rich pashas to pay for lapping up the favours of the British.”

I clutch him like a child. He goes on. His voice is no longer playful but mocking and hateful.

“Five men have been murdered at the Minya palace. And then they will find another, the esteemed pasha al-Shezira. The authorities will conclude the same group was responsible for his murder, a group so big and strong that to track down a single culprit will take all their resources and detective work.”

“But the sultan’s daughter is no longer there,” I say. “These authorities will conclude that she escaped because she was guilty of something.”

He whispers against my cheek, “There were no witnesses. To arrest the daughter of the sultan of Egypt would be inconceivable. The authorities will do nothing. Trust me.”

I want to believe him. I close my eyes. I’m very scared.

“But one of the guardsmen must have seen me go into al-Shezira’s apartment?” I tell him.

“Are you sure?” Alexandre asks me.

I tell him I am.

“The guardsmen were called out to the gardens to confront suspected intruders. The man you mentioned was killed in the chaos.”

“Intruders?” I say. “Your men had already stormed the palace?”