The Hidden (43 page)

“I see.” A shadow passed over Mahmoud’s face. Aimee shivered.

“Sayyid Mahmoud, my aunt told me you might know where to find a Frenchman called Alexandre Anton. I believe he is in Cairo. I wanted to come straight away to find out if you have his address.”

His eyes flickered.

“Anton? Why yes, I used to know of his whereabouts, but as I said, I have been in the Sudan and have only just gotten home.”

Aimee clutched her scarf, closed her eyes, and bowed her head.

“What do you know of him, Sayyid Mahmoud?”

“As you say, he’s a French gentleman,” Mahmoud went on tentatively.

“He was a very old acquaintance, someone I knew quite well, long ago. He came to Egypt about twenty-five years ago because his sister was living here. She was married to an Egyptian and lived in one of those magnificent old houses built by the Europeans at the turn of the century.”

Mahmoud’s eyes rested kindly on Aimee’s face. Aimee stared at him. Her breath quickened.

“And now?”

“I believe the sister died many years ago and Anton left Cairo. He had a troubled past. I last saw him about ten years ago. We ran into each other in Alexandria. I hardly recognised him. His hair had faded almost to grey. His face was thin, and his cheekbones had become razor-sharp. He looked tired, ill. As I said, I had trouble recognising him because he had always been such a dashing young man with olive skin, a fine nose, and flashing black eyes. But when I saw him, he looked broken. I took him to a little café in Alexandria, and we chatted about the old days. He told me he was importing perfumes and household goods.”

“And you have not seen him since?”

“No, I have not seen him. We lost contact, you see. However, I heard he left Egypt again and worked for a while in Turkey. Apparently, he returned to Cairo recently.”

“Have you any idea where I can find him? It’s very urgent.”

Mahmoud studied her face inquisitively before he answered.

“I can make some enquiries for you, telephone a friend of mine who might know. Although it is very late, lucky for you, my friend is also an academic, a night owl who will probably still be awake.”

“Thank you.”

Mahmoud got up to leave the room. He tilted his head, his hand on the doorknob.

“Anton, I think I heard, had reconnected with some of his old friends from the Wafd days. You are young, obviously. Maybe you are not aware of who the Wafd were? They were the original Nationalists, the political party that stood behind Sa’ad Zaghlul when he demanded Egyptian independence twenty years ago.”

Aimee chewed her lip and nodded. “He did not marry then? He did not have a family?”

“I don’t believe so. There was a woman I believe, a long time ago, but I have never heard of a wife.”

“Could I ask if you would be able to make those enquiries, Sayyid Mahmoud? It is important that I find this man. Any information you have or can get would be most helpful.”

“I will ask my man to bring you tea while I telephone this friend. If you wouldn’t mind taking tea here, I will use the study to make my call. I won’t be long.”

He opened the door and shouted for his servant. He was about to leave when he leaned back around the sitting room door.

“Would it be impolite of me, Madame, to ask why you want to find this man?” he said.

Aimee stiffened, swallowed hard, and raised her eyes to his.

“He is my father, Sayyid. I’m sure you will now be able to appreciate why I have to find him.”

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Alexandria, October 1919

A determined look flashes over Alexandre’s face.

“We have no choice,” he says. “If we try and catch the next boat, we will have to wait another day, and that would be disastrous. The longer we wait, the tighter security will be. We have no choice, Hezba.” His voice is dark now, angry. I can feel by the grip of his hand on my arm that his decision is final. We must go on. We must carry out our charade. I pray quietly for deliverance, but my legs feel weak, unable to support me.

Alexandre and I start to walk towards the embarkation station. The fear of being discovered slices through me.

I whisper, “I will say nothing. My French is fluent, but my accent might give me away. You do all the talking.”

Alexandre nods but does not look at me. His eyes are fixed on the soldiers checking identity papers, examining faces and luggage, and ushering people up the ramp to
La Princesse.

I feel as though I am walking the plank, like prisoners in those pirate books I have read. I count the seconds as we march slowly towards the destiny God has willed for us.

“Halt,” a soldier says, stopping us with his rifle.

Alexandre stops and puts his arm around my shoulders.

“Papers,” the soldier orders.

Alexandre asks me sweetly in French to get my papers out of my handbag as he fishes his out of his pocket.

The soldier studies the papers, examines the photographs, compares our faces to those staring up at him from the cardboard.

“How long have you been in Egypt?” he asks.

“One month.”

“And where were you staying?”

“With a friend at Giza.”

“What has been the purpose of your visit?”

“A holiday, my friend,” Alexandre says cloyingly, and the soldier flinches, his eyes narrowing.

I can hardly breathe. I have eaten so little and rested even less. Whatever source of strength has kept my child and me alive this long is leaving me now.

“Do you plan to keep us long?” Alexandre asks the soldier. “My wife is not well. It is not good for her to be standing around.”

The soldier examines our papers again. There is a suspicious look in his eyes. Fear pulses through me like a vicious heat.

“Stand aside,” he says, waving his rifle away to the left.

I lean against Alexandre and try to remain calm. I try to think of other things to distract myself. I can almost hear Alexandre’s heart pounding in his chest. The sun is climbing slowly in the sky now. Though the air is fresh and pleasant, I look solemnly upon the city and the Mediterranean, our gateway to freedom.

The soldier calls over a more senior officer and points at us. The senior officer marches to a shabbily constructed hut and goes inside. A few minutes later, he comes out again, this time accompanied by three other officers, all armed, all stern-faced.

Alexandre holds his head high as they approach. Then he demands angrily in French, “What’s going on? My wife needs to rest. We have our tickets for
La Princesse.
Our papers are in order. Why are we being kept waiting?”

“You are under arrest, sir,” the army officer says.

Alexandre smiles mockingly and reaches in his pocket for his revolver.

I lunge forward to stop him, screaming, “No!”

Soldiers storm in on all sides. Alexandre is thrown to the ground and handcuffed. His head is pushed against the ground, and he is kicked in the stomach. His head is bleeding. I am screaming. I hear my
screams, husky, dust-coated, violent, desperate. Two soldiers grab me by the arms and lift me off the ground. They take me to a waiting carriage, and I am driven through the city, then marched into a women’s prison and pushed inside a cell. The steel door clangs loudly as it is slammed shut and locked. I listen to the echo of the warden’s hobnailed shoes on the flagstones. And I hear the screams that continue to rent unabated from my throat.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Nemmat danced for her lover that night, but her body was prostrate with anxiety. Though the Abdin Quarter was burning, the head of Secret Police, Mehmed Abbass, was adept at commanding operations while attending to the more pressing need for personal gratification. His radio operator delivered news on the progression of events from the adjoining room channelled in from Intelligence HQ at regular intervals. Whenever Abbass decided he wanted a break, he summoned Nemmat for further entertainment.

But Nemmat was not her usual self. According to Operations, a man fitting Farouk’s description, seen holding a gun to Issawi’s face, was now missing. His body had not been found, which meant only one thing. If Farouk was still alive, he would soon come looking for her to exact his revenge. She swallowed painfully, forcing a thin smile for her lover. Littoni’s assassination gave her little reason to rest easy.

Intelligence and Military Operations had managed to round up ninety of the suspected terrorists and now had them in custody at the el-Kubba detention centre. The night was still young, but the round-the-clock news reports were talking of torture and life imprisonment for anyone associated, even vaguely, with the terrorist group, the X.

Nemmat had made her to way to Abbass in Shubra and decided to hide out there for the next twenty-four hours. At least in Shubra, she felt safe—for the time being. She had one last card to play, but for the moment, pleasuring Abbass would secure her a few more nights’ protection for her and her mother, who was asleep in the room next door.

She twisted and turned in the moonlight, carving the air with her body. Mehmet Abbas sat round-bellied on a velveteen sofa, moist about the lips, entranced by her mocha-coloured skin. She removed her clothes and stood over him. Abbass reached for her, cupping her breasts, pulling her towards him with one hand while he fumbled with his own clothes with the other. He adored her exotically scented dancer’s body as though it were a heavenly thing. And with her thighs clamped tight around his portly waist, he became hers and she became his. But it was hard for her to purr like a Siamese cat, stretching her naked body before his when all she wanted was to know that Farouk had been captured.

“Ninety, Jewel,” Abbass said exultantly. “We’ve got ninety and counting. The rats have being forced out of their holes.”

“You are the master of this operation, Sayyid,” she cooed, “despite what Intelligence might say. You’ll be promoted for sure.”

Abbass laughed. “And you’ll be paid well, Sayyida for your involvement in their capture.”

“How much?” Nemmat asked. “What we agreed?”

“You’ll have enough money to keep yourself and your mother going for a few years.”

“I need complete anonymity, police protection, and an escorted passage to Sicily to stay with a friend of my mother’s for a while.”

Abbass raised his eyebrows. Nemmat went on.

“I have more information for you,” she said. “But you must promise to give me more money for it.” Nemmat rubbed herself against him and bit his neck sensuously.

Abbass squirmed with pleasure.

“What’s it worth to me?” he asked.

“You want the Centurion, the Carpet Seller, don’t you? With the other ringleaders dead, he might very well be the last remaining X mastermind.”

“He’s missing, presumed dead. That’s good enough for me,” Abbass said.

“Are you sure? Think of the prestige, the glory of seeing the most prolific terrorist Egypt has ever seen behind bars for the rest of his life.”

“Yes.” Abbass smiled. “Yes—”

“The Carpet Seller is missing, but I’m convinced he will have crawled home somehow. If you’re quick, you’ll find him there. If he survived the bomb, he’ll try and leave Egypt. I did a little extra undercover work. Though this man has many addresses, I’ve discovered this rat’s favourite sewer—the place he’ll go before he disappears forever. But you’ll have to be quick.”

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Cairo, October 1919

I have been transported back to a Cairo jail. I am waiting to be seen by the Mamur Zapt, the head of Secret Police. I have been told what to expect. The Mamur Zapt will want to know about my involvement with Alexandre’s Rebel Corps and will want a signed confession that I murdered Khalil al-Shezira.

I know that Mustafa Tora, my lawyer, can do nothing for me now. I should have listened to Saiza, but it’s too late. The jail I am in is far
worse than the one I was put in before. It is crawling with rats, the walls are filthy, and there are fleas in my mattress. I am allowed to bathe daily to avoid infection. That is my only luxury. A thin English nurse comes to escort me to the prison office of the Mamur Zapt. I am allowed to sit down. The questions begin.

“Who are you working with?”

“No one.”

“Your escape was organised by the Rebel Corps, was it not?”

I look up at his ugly, evil face and wonder whether he ever loved anyone, whether a woman could ever have loved him. “What is going to happen to me?”

“You are going to answer my questions and then you will see,” he snarls.

“I know nothing of the group who rescued me from Zamalek,” I say.

“Liar,” the Mamur Zapt shouts. I flinch when he raises his voice to such a pitch.

“But you are Alexandre Anton’s lover. You murdered al-Shezira Pasha while Anton and his men murdered the other politicians on the same night at Minya. Tell me where I can find the men involved with the group and you will be spared.”

I look up at him in surprise.

“I can’t help you. I don’t know where these men live or what their names are.”

“You are a stubborn, disrespectful woman,” he says. “I’ll see you’re tortured, make no mistake.”

“But—”

“Tomorrow you will appear before the qadi and your sentence will be heard.”

He turns to one of his men and says, “Take the woman away.”

I am delivered to the English nurse who takes me back to my cell. The door slams shut. I look out through the bars up at the sky, holding my belly. The sky is streaked with the remains of the day. I close my eyes for a moment. Then I go to the little jug of water in the corner and wash my arms, my face, and my feet. I kneel on the hard floor to pray. When I have finished, I lie on my mattress and fall asleep, dreaming of Papa and the heaven he has gone to, hoping, praying that I will go there soon.