The Hidden (34 page)

How I hate myself for doing this, but I have to get to my papa. I bend down and stroke his legs. As he groans with pleasure, I reach for a rock with one hand. He starts to unzip his trousers, and I swallow a nervous breath. I smile at him as I knock him over the head with the rock. He falls to the ground and lies in a heap at my feet.

With all my strength, I drag him farther into the alcove and undress him. I put on his uniform, cap, and boots, smoothing my short hair behind my ears. I feel momentarily sorry for him. I cover him with my discarded robes to keep him warm and give him a bit of dignity until he wakes up with a massive bump on his head.

Now for Papa. As I set off, I suddenly feel overwhelmed with fear. What will I say to him? How will I ever be able to explain what has happened to me? Will he ever forgive me? I know that he won’t, but I go in search of him anyway.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Aimee’s head ached when she woke up in the little room. She felt feverish and her body ached. She swung her legs off the bed and sat for a moment with her head in her hands. She had no idea whether it was night or day. She knew only that she had slept and eaten one meal. She curled back up on the bed, realising there was nothing she could do but wait. For what exactly, she did not know. For someone to come, for those pigs to realise it was all a big mistake and she was innocent, not caught up in some terrible terrorist plot. She felt sick, sick with waiting, sick with not knowing what was going to happen to her.

She heard a noise at the door. Then it opened. A man she did not recognise stood in the doorway with a tray on which a bowl, a towel, a samovar, and a tea glass were arranged. A long piece of crimson cloth was draped over his arm.

He put the tray down on the chair near the door and threw the cloth at her.

“Wash yourself and put that on,” he said.

Aimee fingered the cloth. It was an evening dress, its low-cut sleeveless bodice sparkling with jewels, the style of dress women had worn ten, twenty years earlier.

“What’s going on?” she asked with a lump in her throat.

“Don’t ask questions. There’s a bowl of water, a towel, and a comb,” he said, pointing at the tray. “Make yourself presentable. Be ready in ten minutes.”

And he was gone.

Aimee stood up and examined the dress. Her mind twisted and turned, trying to understand what these lunatics had planned for her next. The dress was far more glamorous than the one she had worn at the el-G, though a similar colour.

She peeled off her clothes, dipped the towel in the bowl of warm water, and gratefully washed her body and face. Then she dried herself with a second towel, slipped on the dress, zipped the back up as best she could, and combed her hair vigorously.

When she was finally ready, a violent jab of fear spasmed through her. She felt weak and faint. She sat down on the bed and waited. A few moments later, the door was flung open. Issawi stood before her, dressed in black tie, eyeing her lecherously. The other two—she could not remember their names—stood on either side of him. Behind them were three more men in formal attire.

“Stand up,” Issawi said.

Aimee stood up mechanically.

“You will accompany me tonight to the Abdin Palace to a ball organised in honour of the king.”

“Why?” she cried out.

“It’s simple,” Issawi went on stonily. “My men and I have reason to believe that your group, the X, are going to try to storm the palace tonight. It appears that my life has been targeted. Despite our intelligence being sure of the plot against myself and the king, the celebrations are going to go ahead anyway. We believe that your friend Alim is one of the key X sector heads. You will be my human shield. With you next to me, your lover will call off the coup.”

Aimee listened numbly, trying to take it all in. One of the men grabbed her by the arm and yanked her out the door and along the corridor. Surrounded by the five of them, she was marched downstairs and outside. It was dark outside and the moon was high in the sky. She was held firmly while three of the men did a security check on Issawi’s car, shining torches underneath, lifting the bonnet, flashing the light on anything that looked suspicious. Then one of them gave the all clear.

Aimee was nudged into the back. Issawi got in alongside her. His filthy eyes slid over her. As he grabbed her hand, his mouth curled into a salacious smile.

“You realise you are under arrest, Sayyida. You will not escape this time. The X will be watching me. When they see me arrive with you, they will be forced to change their tack. Your Sayyid Alim would not want to put you in danger, would he?” Aimee knew at that point she had to get out of this car.

At last the car drew up to the palace gates. Every chauffeur’s papers were scrutinised, every vehicle thoroughly checked before it could enter.

“We’re in,” Issawi said finally, and the driver turned and smiled at him.

“Come and get me,” he said. “I’m ready for you now.”

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Cairo, September 17, 1919—past midnight

With my soldier’s cap pulled down, I walk purposefully towards the palace. There is no moon tonight. The atmosphere on the streets is strange. I hear more shouting and see more smoke coming from the old quarter. I walk faster and faster, my heart beating wildly, my mind blurred with the agonising mission ahead of me. Papa, I keep saying
over and over, Papa, my papa, the man I have always loved, the one who stood by me when I was a girl, the man who abandoned me when I became a woman. I am split in two, torn between my love of my papa and my desire to change things in this country, for women, for ordinary people. I was born of royalty, but I am not royal. I despise riches and wealth. I am so desperate to see his face again, to curl up in his arms and feel the warmth of his aging body against mine, to feel the old security of his presence beside me. I pray he is all right. I know I am a wretched being who no longer deserves the forgiveness of my God, but I ask simply that my papa be spared.

I see tanks and an army of marching soldiers up ahead. I hide, knowing that if I am picked up and questioned, the game will be up. After the tanks and soldiers have passed, I slip quietly through the narrow backstreets to my palace. I plan to climb the wall to the gardens. I have measured the height of the wall in my own mind many times from the other side, as a frustrated harem girl not allowed beyond it, and now I know why.

If I can find some slabs of stone to pile on top of one another, I will be able to scale the wall and slide down the other side and enter the palace from a secret passageway near the little fountain on the east side.

I hear an explosion and screaming and see people running. Nobody takes any notice of me, and this is good, very good. I find the wall and some rocks and hoist them on top of one another. I don’t know where I find the strength to move them, but something inside me is making me strong.

I scale the wall easily thanks to my soldier’s uniform. My boots provide a strong grip, and my trousers protect my legs as I drop down on the other side. I have some crazy idea in the back of my mind that I can save my papa and take him with me back to Kerdassa where we can go to France with Alexandre and live as exiles. I find the servants’ door and push it open, hurrying inside. The palace corridors echo. All is eerily
quiet. I have never heard my palace this quiet before. I am petrified, scared I will pass out with fear. I don’t know whether to stay where I am or move into the Great Hall or the salamlik where Papa’s quarters are.

Something inside me pulls me to his library. I can’t imagine Papa is sitting there writing a letter or reading a newspaper, but I hope he is there all the same. I try to conjure this image in an effort to blot out all the horror I see around me.

Broken marble tiles and mashrabiyya are scattered across the floor, and doors have been violently kicked down. My body pulsates with nausea and fear that mingle together in such a fearsome cocktail that it is almost impossible to go on. The silence is so awful that I fear the worst.

I walk farther into the palace, tentatively, my boots crunching jagged stones and my eyes wide as I examine the bloodstains on the walls.

And then I stand deathly still and listen. I hear the sound of a loudspeaker coming from the front of the palace and the deep, staccato voice of a man talking in English. I try to understand what is being said, but the words fall on uninitiated ears.

The haunting sound of the loudspeaker confirms that something is terribly, terribly wrong. I tiptoe towards Papa’s library and see the door ajar. I hear no sound. I move on to the salamlik and find the door to the west wing wide open and the corridors deserted. I do not know what has happened to my people, but Papa, my papa?

I stop dead in front of the door to my papa’s quarters. I hear voices that sound low and hard. I hold my breath, straining to see where the voices are coming from. I see his face, my papa’s face that comes into focus. I see him up against the wall with his hands in the air. His face is drained of all life. In his eyes I see fear, revulsion, rage. He does not see me. I stand back against the corridor wall again, hardly daring to breathe. I peer back into the room to try to grasp the horrific scene in front of me. Three hard-looking men are pointing machine guns at Papa’s belly, thrusting the ends into his waistcoat, making him flinch.

“No?” one of the men says. “You won’t tell us?” The men take a step back and raise their machine guns to his chest.

Papa holds his head high and looks away from them. In his eyes I see both anger and resignation that his time has come. His eyes move along the wall and then widen in horror and surprise. Our eyes meet and I choke back a sob. In a flash I see a lifetime of forgiveness on his face, and in that instant I know that one day we will be together again.

Papa, I sob silently, my heart breaking. Writing what happened hurts me like no other pain I have experienced. May my God help me live through this.

Then I hear the bullets pumping through the air into his rounded belly. I see his body spasm and fall back against the wall. My fist in my mouth, I turn and run, biting my knuckles to muffle the searing pain cutting through me. Hot tears burst forth from my eyes. I cannot stop myself from screaming. But the scream that racks my body is a silent scream, the silent agonising scream of too much horror witnessed.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Farouk went home to Zamalek to get his revolver, a 1914 Smith & Wesson Model 3, a sure-shot and a beautiful thing of tapered steel. He had bought it from a friend in 1925, but had never used it, knowing the bullets were reserved for one man only.

He slammed the front door as he entered his house, not caring who heard him now. Gigis stood in the shadows as he passed. Farouk waved him away. He marched into one of the rooms, flung himself on the floor, and yanked out an old packing trunk from under the bed. There it was, gleaming in its leather case. He took it out, jacked open the barrel, counted the bullets, snapped it back shut, and rubbed it with his hands. It felt hard and cold. His heart thumped against his breastbone as he thought of the sound it would make when the bullets entered Issawi’s chest.

He went to the garden. It was hot and he needed air. For the first time in his life he didn’t know what to do. He lit a cigarette to try and calm himself. As he smoked, he looked up and studied the sky, watching the gold streaks turn a dark shade of indigo.

He thought about the futility of his life. This war, another pointless exercise in territorial domination by a crazed maniac, would be the last war he would witness. In his mind he saw Gladiator fighter planes crossing the Mediterranean, wisps of jet fuel trailing in their wake. Boys, men much younger than he, fighting the Germans in
Europe, waiting for the imminent and inevitable Italian invasion from the coastline of Libya. He was old, had lived his life, but these young boys were fighting desperately for the future. Aimee was their age. He thought of her and the world she would inherit. Littoni was another crazed maniac who was using revolution as an excuse to seize power for himself. And tonight, because Jewel had failed him, the celebrations at the Abdin Palace would go ahead and the revolution would start. He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he did not hear Gigis approach him. He heard only his voice, sad, urgent.

“The area around the Abdin Palace is on high alert tonight, Sayyid, because of the king’s celebrations. You were going to attend a dinner not far from there, weren’t you? How will you get there?” Gigis asked.

Farouk swung round, blowing smoke rings into the air.

“I’ll telephone my friend and tell him I might be delayed. I’ll take a car to al-Qalah and walk from there. You take the night off, Gigis.”

“There’s news on the wireless,” Gigis went on. “If you want to know more.”

Farouk went to the drawing room. Gigis adjusted the radio set, and they both stood and listened to the velvety drone relayed in English.

“Security is tight,” Gigis said. “Egyptian Intelligence has uncovered a suspected plot to assassinate the king and his chief advisor.”

Farouk listened to the report in disbelief. The announcer described the mobilisation of troops and auxiliaries into central Cairo, the talk of massive manpower, truncheons and machine guns and army tanks at the ready in the event of an attack on the king. But the announcer did not mention the sectors or the X. The possible attack was reported in only the most general of terms. It could
be political propaganda, a warning, a bluff, a message to the X that they were being watched.

Still, Farouk suspected that Littoni had not anticipated this. He had tried to warn him, but no, the fool had not listened. “Live for the X. Die for the X,” had been Littoni’s motto and the motto he had drummed into every new recruit.

“I must go, Gigis,” Farouk said, and he flew out the door to his car, following the Nile as it snaked its way through the city. He was tired of living, tired of the pain, tired of the rage that wracked his body and poisoned his mind. A voice from beyond the grave compelled him. It was a voice he knew, a voice that told him failure was not an option.