The Hidden (7 page)

“My husband was passionate about education, Monsieur. You talk about my husband becoming a soldier and joining the war like all the other young men, but he was arming young Egyptian men with a better weapon to fight injustice—knowledge. You talk about him fighting this war, of perhaps dying a noble death, but he has not been given the chance to serve his country. His life was taken from him by criminals. He will never be able to serve Egypt again, either by educating its young men, or by defeating the Germans.”

Seeing that he had offended her, Farouk bowed and smiled in a conciliatory manner.

“Please forgive me. I suppose I have become unnecessarily hard. Nothing shocks me anymore. My poor beloved Cairo has suffered so much over the years. And death comes to everyone eventually. If I seem brutal, I apologise. You are young after all. Your husband was a good man. He did not deserve what happened to him.”

He bit his lip and their eyes met again. She wondered why he was studying her so closely. She stared into his mesmerising eyes, wondering what secret thoughts lay beneath. If he was the editor of the
Liberation
—a newspaper of some repute in Cairo—he must have contacts in the underworld; he must know someone who might be able to help her find Azi’s killer.

Farouk dug in his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and extracted a card with his telephone number on it. “Here, if you ever need me,” he said with a pleasant smile. “I might be able to be of some use to you, you never know.”

A shudder slithered down Aimee’s spine. She studied the card and slipped it in her handbag.

“Thank you, I’m not sure—”

“You’re French,” Farouk broke in, trying to lighten the mood. “How do you find our city? Does it live up to your expectations, or do you long to return to your homeland?”

“I’m as Egyptian as you,” Aimee said defiantly.

Farouk shook his head in confusion and studied her features more closely. She didn’t look Egyptian exactly. There was something about her that perplexed him, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“I see. And do you plan to help with the war effort? You will work for the war?”

His inquisitive thin smile put her on edge.

“I’ll do whatever I can. I don’t want to be idle. I owe it to the memory of my husband to do as much as I can. Women should not sit by and let the work be done by men alone. I have no children, and my husband’s family is leaving for America soon. If the people of Cairo can work together to support the soldiers, we must do so. I’m good at languages. Translating, interpreting. I’ll find something to do.”

“Your husband would have been very proud of you. You sound very determined and resourceful—admirable qualities in a young lady.”

A hot, irritated shudder prickled her skin again.

“I must go now, Monsieur. I’ve just spotted my friend Sophie on the other side of the room, and I want to introduce myself to Monsieur Achmed’s wife.”

“Don’t forget to telephone me, Madame, if I can be of service.”

Aimee nodded, offered him a vague smile, and turned to Zaky Achmed. “Would you take me to your wife? I would very much like to meet her.”

Achmed edged away and went to find his wife. Aimee followed. But she could feel Farouk’s eyes on her. Their meeting had intrigued her. He was a strange character, abrupt and hard, lacking in social graces despite offering to help her, but that aside, he was almost certainly someone who would be useful to know. All the noise, the celebratory clapping of hands, the deafening laughter, the readings by the poets, the music and the animated chatter—none of it could stop her from thinking about the man on the other side of the room. She decided to make an effort to enjoy the party. From time to time, she looked over in Farouk’s direction and saw him deep in conversation with other men. Their brief exchange had disturbed her. He had spoken so coldly about her husband, as though his death had been as natural to him as the sun rising. It was almost as though death and murder were nothing to him. She shivered a little.

When she and Sophie eventually decided to leave, she looked around the large room one last time to see if she could spot him, but he had vanished.

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Cairo, August 18, 1919

I am at the Theatre Madeleine near the Tahrir Bridge. As a present for my birthday, Virginie gave me tickets to see
La Jolie Madame.
I am sitting in the sultan’s private box with two of my half sisters. I am
covered from head to foot. Over my face I am wearing my niqāb. We are accompanied by our aghas, Rachid and Tindoui. I had to ask Papa for permission to go, and, surprisingly, even though Maman is furious, he defied her and said I could.

Monsieur Alexandre is sitting in a private box next to ours with his sister. He cannot see my face, but I can feel his eyes on me. I saw him bow discreetly in my direction. He is dressed in government uniform, a dark fitted jacket and a tarboush. He has adopted the dress and the standards of our country, because, my tutor tells me, he has taken al-Qahire into his heart and considers himself one of us.

As he looks out over the stage, I stare at him, pulling my niqāb closer to my face, gripping it, my heart beating wildly. Little beads of perspiration have gathered at the base of my spine, and my belly feels as though it is hollowing out with nervous anticipation and desire. This is the first time I have seen him in weeks. I don’t know what is going to happen to us after I go to Minya. I want to be his amour. Will we be able to continue? I try not to think about this for the moment though. He wrote me a letter last week, which was delivered in the usual way, through Virginie at our lessons. I read that he has become involved in an underground branch of the Egyptian Nationalists and that he wants me to help him. He has a job for me, and this knowledge fills me with joy. He asked me in his letter to tell no one, not even Virginie. He wants me to prove to him that I am sincere in my desire to help ordinary Egyptians and wants me to go with him to a meeting of his group, out in the desert. My heart was racing as I read his words. I had withdrawn to a corner of the room to read the letter in private, and it was hard to keep my features serene and unexpressive, but I succeeded. When I finished his letter, I ripped it into little pieces, then returned to my lessons.

Madame Virginie sits very erect in her startlingly turquoise silk dress, hiding behind a beautiful ivory-coloured fan. The play is long and tedious. I cannot concentrate.

Alexandre’s attention is not on the play either. Every now and again he looks over at me, and I notice a faint smile.

The play ends. We stand. The audience applauds the actors, and then they applaud us. We bow at them and leave our private box, marched by Tindoui and Rachid to our horse-and-trap waiting for us outside. As my sisters and I prepare to step in, Virginie approaches. She pulls me aside and invites me to have supper with her at her house in Zamalek. My heart expands with excitement at the prospect.

I nod and press her hand. She says she will expect me at my convenience. I tell her that as soon as our driver has escorted the ladies back to the palace harem, our driver will continue on to Virginie’s house. Rachid will accompany me. It is unusual that I should make such a trip on my own, but because Rachid is accompanying me and because the invitation has come from a dear friend of the sultan’s family, it will not be viewed as shameful.

I climb into our carriage and sit with my sisters. As we are driven through the streets, I break my news. Even in the dark, I can see my sisters’ eyes twinkling at my adventure. I say nothing to suggest that my visit to Virginie is anything more than an innocent supper party for her and her special lady guests.

“Rachid will escort me home,” I say, waving them good-bye at the palace gates as Tindoui escorts my veiled sisters through the palace to the harem. On we go to Zamalek. I pull my veil down over my face as I step out of the carriage and, accompanied by Rachid, I mount the steps to the front door. Virginie opens the door herself. She smiles. She says she has been waiting for me. She is excited, she says. Did I enjoy the play? Would I care for refreshments in her sitting room?

I dismiss Rachid. Virginie tells him he can go to the kitchen. Her boy-servants are preparing a supper feast, and he is welcome to have whatever he likes.

I follow Virginie. We walk up the stairs together with arms linked. She unfurls my veil and looks into my eyes.

“He’s here,” she whispers. I nod, hardly able to speak.

“I know,” I reply.

“I will leave you alone for a time. No one will disturb you. As you know, my husband is away in Malta. My servants are under my supervision. They will not go to the second-floor sitting room.”

“Why are you doing this, Virginie?” I ask her, holding her hands in mine.

“I want you to be happy, Hezba,” she says, hugging me.

I wish she were my mother, my sister. I cannot imagine a kinder or better person than she. She knows that al-Shezira is on his way from Minya to get me. She knows that I hate him. She knows too that I dream of being allowed to divorce him, but she knows this will never be allowed. Still, despite this knowledge, she does not judge me. She wants me to be happy. She leads me to the door of the sitting room, pushes it open, and nudges me in with a little laugh. Alexandre is standing by the divan. He is smiling. He says nothing. I stand with my back to the door and unravel my veil, then remove it entirely. For what seems like an eternity, we stand at opposite ends of the room, staring at each other. I step forward with my heart in my mouth and clear my throat.

“Monsieur Alexandre,” I say.

He puts his finger to his mouth and comes to me, enfolding me in his arms.

“We don’t have long, Hezba,” he whispers.

I bury my face in his neck, wrap my arms around his neck, and inhale his scent. I feel warm and protected. Then I look up at him and say, “Is it all arranged?”

He nods and looks into my eyes. “We’re meeting next week at Kerdassa. You must come. Do anything you can to come. I am going to
discuss the whole operation with my men, the Rebel Corps. But we need the money you promised us. Can you bring it with you?”

I assure him that I will have it. I have been amassing my allowance for a long time, and it has turned into a small fortune, which I keep locked in a jewelled box in my rooms. Alexandre needs it more than I do. He asks me to sit with him on the divan. Then he gently folds me in his arms once more and reaches for my mouth with his own. I tremble inside. I stare into his dark eyes, and I see the love he feels for me shining there. He holds my chin as he kisses me. Then he pulls me closer. Lying back, I let him press his body onto mine. He is gentle and loving. He does not force himself on me like al-Shezira used to. I feel his hands on my flesh and I shudder inside. I desire only to be with him, to feel the pressure of him inside me, to extinguish the entire world so that no one exists except for us.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Littoni closed up the Café Malta early and pushed through the crowds towards Sharia Suleyman Pasha. No time like the present, he thought sinisterly. He would risk it. If he could force his way into the girl’s house, he might find something. One of the sector members had flagged up the girl as a key player in Issawi’s band of spies. Issawi’s men were planning a massive counteroffensive; that much was obvious from the information the Khan el-Khalili sector members had gleaned. He’d tried to play things down with Farouk—who was a dead man anyway. Farouk was old, a shadow of his former self, and he wasn’t thinking clearly anymore. Littoni just wanted him out of the way. Littoni had been told Abdullah Ibrahim, the murdered man, had had a coded document in his possession with key information, maps of underworld Cairo, terrorist lairs, and entry points to strategic sites. With this document decoded, Littoni would have the last piece of the puzzle. Though he already knew a good deal, he wanted this document. So it figured that it was now at the girl’s house. Farouk was useless. The only thing to do now was to search her house for information himself.

With the girl out at Achmed’s launch and Farouk on her tail, the chances were good that her housekeeper, if she had one, would have gone home—and if she hadn’t, well, Littoni had never been afraid to use his fists. He wasn’t afraid of a woman.

Though the sun had set, the heat was still stifling. He tugged at his shirt collar and pulled out another cigarette from a tin in his jacket pocket, lighting it as he walked. He lowered his hat to partially shield his eyes, thinking some more about Farouk. He had a reputation for stalling, buying himself time. Littoni had seen him do it before. The time to act was now.

If he were honest with himself, he wondered why he hadn’t done away with Farouk long ago. He wouldn’t be missed. What would become of Farouk after the revolution? Littoni had not really given it much thought until now. Perhaps it would be better to eliminate Farouk.

For the moment, however, Farouk was in al-Qadima at Achmed’s house with the girl, and Littoni could proceed quietly with his plan. His heart pounded as he raced along the street, bumping into people as he passed. As he rushed towards the girl’s house, he went through the manoeuvre in his mind. Too wired to take a tram or a car, he found that walking fast gave him time to plan. He’d give himself fifteen minutes to do the job, not one minute more, in case she came home. He slipped down a narrow haret, found the archway into the courtyard, pushed open the iron gate, and was on the stone steps in a second. No lights were on. That was good. No one was home. He peered around him, his eyes darting in the gloom, searching the shadows for a human presence. He was alone. He gave the door a swift kick, felt it give a little, and decided that the door had been badly fitted. He pushed against it with his entire body and felt the frame give some more. His hands methodically and mechanically felt every part of the door frame for the weak points. Another shove. Still not quite there. Littoni raised his leg and kicked the lock panel. The door gave way. He was in.