The Hidden (22 page)

She found the alleyway at the side of the café, located the door, and entered. The thick, heavy smell of hashish hit her, and Nemmat felt instantly light-headed. A woman was preparing a large table of shisha stoppers. Littoni, Hamid, Hossein, al-Dyn, and Tashi and his wife were seated on cushions, staring at the woman ritualistically preparing the stones, sprinkling each separate stopper with the black oily hashish resin. Then she turned to prepare the shisha pipe, lighting the charcoal so that the water pipe and the hashish could be inhaled through the long bamboo stem. Tashi’s wife, Meryiam, nodded quickly at Nemmat as she entered.

Nemmat squatted down beside Meryiam and pulled off her chador as al-Dyn began to inhale the shisha pipe. Littoni was next, followed by Hamid and Hossein. The pipe was not offered to the women. Nemmat waited for the slow satisfied curl of the men’s lips as the effects of the hashish started to flood through their bodies. Littoni cleared his throat and looked around him. His eyes were bright with purpose.

“Men,” he said, “this meeting has been called without Farouk’s knowledge. We are moving ahead in this way because Sayyid Farouk has expressed a certain dissatisfaction with our plans and we have decided to carry on without him now.” His lips pursed around the bamboo, Hossein was inhaling deeply.

“The Muski and Khalili sectors know about this meeting. Sayyid Tashi here will report back to them on the exact itinerary for the night of the twentieth.”

Littoni nodded at Tashi, who was anxiously awaiting the pipe.

“The report will be wired in X code to the Muski traders and the Khalili businessmen, and they will be ready.”

It was finally Tashi’s turn to suck hungrily on the pipe.

Littoni continued. “Tonight, you will receive your instructions. You must memorise them. Nothing is to be written down. You will not talk to anyone about what you have heard tonight, nor relay any of the information you have been given in any form. To do so will guarantee your death.”

Nemmat watched Tashi smoking. Littoni’s last comment did not cause so much as a raised eyebrow, or a pause to take in the face of the man who had delivered the death sentence. It was a punishment they each knew by heart.

Hamid said, “Farouk is intent on beating you to it. Sayyida Nemmat will report on the latest developments, but coded information sent down the chain has confirmed what we already believed,
that Farouk is determined to take matters into his own hands as you say. If he is allowed to succeed, the palace will call off all celebrations. Issawi’s death will be a top security priority. There will be no point in sending in a car, as the Abdin Palace will be empty.”

Littoni smiled, taking up the pipe again. “And we want Issawi, don’t we? But more important than this man is the destruction of the Abdin Palace, which will bring about the revolution. We want the government disbanded and the country in disarray, so we can restore Nationalist order to our beloved al-Qahire.”

Hamid said, “How do you know Farouk hasn’t rallied his own forces? We might have got the Muski and Khalili sectors on our side, but I know for a fact that the Zamalek, Giza, and Garden City sectors are not so malleable. They might claim to profess loyalty to you, Littoni, but there are many down there who don’t like you.”

Littoni held up his hand. Nemmat saw his eyes bulging in his head. They were bloodshot and droopy, but she could see he was in a rage.

“Silence,” he choked. “Those men won’t cause us any problems. We’re been planning this for too long. They may be in awe of Farouk’s expertise, but they don’t respect him as a leader. All the sectors need to be paid and soon. They’re all just poor fellahin who are out of work, and so they’re easily bought. Tomorrow I’ll pay them, and their loyalty to me will be assured. This is the moment they’ve been waiting for. This will be the biggest coup Egypt has ever seen. The government is weak, preoccupied with the war. There has never been a better time to do this. In twenty-four hours the Group of the X will have swollen to immense proportions. Issawi and his men have no idea how big we have become. They think we’re just a small band of thugs, but they’re wrong. We’ve got the people on our side. Forget about Farouk. Once they have some cash in hand and learn that the time has come for them to bring down a government that
has oppressed them for so long, any loyalty the sectors claim to feel for Farouk will disappear. You’ll see.”

Al-Dyn passed the pipe to the shisha woman, who stoked the charcoal in the basket she was using to carry the shisha between the men. Then she started sprinkling more hashish on the terracotta stoppers.

Littoni continued. “We have managed to obtain an invitation to the king’s celebrations. All we have to do is get Papadopolous at the print-works to copy it and put the relevant names on it. Sayyid Tashi, dressed in formal black tie, will be masquerading as Suleyman Orhan, the secretary to the Turkish ambassador. The real Suleyman Orhan has been taken care of by the Heliopolis sector. His body won’t be discovered for a few days, possibly weeks.

“Fresh identification papers have been prepared by the print-works. Tashi will be driven by Hamid, who will be dressed in an official chauffeur’s uniform, to the Abdin Palace. The plan is to plant the bomb inside the palace’s grand entry. We have timed it so that the bomb will be detonated when Issawi is standing in front of the king. The destruction will be immense. Our spies have given us detailed maps of the inside of the palace. Tashi, posing as Suleyman Orhan, will be allowed entry to the palace. He will carry the timed device in a trophy. The security men are sector members, so he will have no trouble getting through security. The festivities are planned for the Grand Banquet Hall at the back.

“Tashi will present the trophy to Issawi, then feign illness, and leave quickly. He’ll have eight minutes from the handing over of the bomb to Issawi to the point of explosion. His driver will be waiting for him outside, so he should have just enough time to get off the premises.

“From the moment Issawi arrives at the palace, each second counts. Hossein will flash a torchlight signal when Issawi’s car is
in sight, from the third-floor window of the building opposite the king’s palace. This will be radioed through from the networks en route. Tashi and Hamid will time their arrival precisely to the second so that they enter the palace grounds minutes after Issawi has arrived.

“Tashi, as Suleyman Orhan, will follow Issawi up the palace steps. His manner will be that of a statesman. He will not rush. He will carry his gift. The bomb, Hamid informs me, is powerful enough to massacre Issawi, any other politicians and notables in the area, and a sizeable chunk of the palace. During the chaos that ensues, the sectors will storm the building and declare the coup.”

Al-Dyn said, “You’re sure that the security men at the palace gate who’ll be checking the cars are genuine sector members, Littoni? You’ve checked them out thoroughly?”

Littoni smiled and nodded. “I’ve known them for a long time. They’re with us. The coup will not fail.”

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Cairo, August 25, 1919

Halfway through my eleventh year, my life, as I know it, ends. The husband chosen for me is an extremely wealthy man of fifty, named Khalil al-Shezira. He is one of Papa’s closest business colleagues and a powerful pasha. On my wedding day, my husband wears a fine statesman’s uniform. I am dressed in a traditional headdress of jewels and my mother’s wedding gown. After I have been signed away by the official wakil, I sit with al-Shezira. The palace cheers and everyone celebrates. Jewels are thrown at me, as I am now considered a respected wife. After the celebrations, I am escorted to my husband’s rooms. I wait to receive my master. I am scared. My husband arrives and takes my hand. After kissing my neck, he leads me to his bed. Sensing my shyness, he asks his
slave to undress me. Then he claps his hands, dismissing his slave, and I am left alone with him. I lie down with him on his bed. The moon shines on us.

He begins to move his hands slowly along my thighs. My breath becomes shallower, and I close my eyes. I feel him climb on top of me. Then he thrusts himself inside me. A searing heat shoots through me, and I begin to cry. I want my maman. I don’t understand what is happening. My recollection fades, and I am grown-up Hezba once more.

We have arrived at the salamlik where my husband is staying.

“Wait here, al-Shezira Hanim,” Habrid says. Then he enters the apartment.

I stand with my eyes fixed on the marble floor. The night air is heavily scented. I can smell a fire burning somewhere. Someone is smoking nearby. Maybe a group of girls is lying on the roof with a pipe. Habrid returns shortly and nods to the two eunuchs, who escort me into the apartment. His rooms are exquisitely decorated, more beautiful than the harem apartments. The walls are made of gold leaf and the furniture of South African ivory. There are silver pots and marble statues. The room is lit by torches, which throw great shadows on the walls and floors. My husband is seated cross-legged on gold thread cushions in the far corner. One young girl is preparing tea. She holds a samovar and some little cups, while another young girl I do not recognise sits passively beside him. Though I have not seen him in four years, he has not changed. As I approach him, he smiles, but it is not with pleasure—it is with victory. A white robe stretches across his large body, and his tiny black eyes are half closed. The hair crowning his shiny dome is whiter than ever. He holds out his hand to me. I relent and let him guide me to a cushion beside him where I sit down.

“I am pleased to see you, Wife,” he says. I say nothing.

He strokes my face and asks the girl with the samovar to pour me some tea. I look at the girls. Their expressions give nothing away, but
as I take the little glass of tea from one of them—the prettier one—our eyes meet for a moment. I see a flash of nervousness in the girl’s eyes. We drink our tea in silence for a moment. Then al-Shezira claps his hands. The two girls jump up and bow before leaving quietly through a door on the far side of the room. He claps his hands again, and the two dour-faced eunuchs who have been standing guard by the main door bow and leave. We are alone. I do not dare look at him. The last time I saw him was before my son, Ibrahim, was born. He did not come to see me after my baby died, and he left for al-Minya soon after.

“Look at me, Wife,” he says, lifting my chin to his face.

“Why are you here, Husband?” I say. “Why have you returned to my palace?”

Al-Shezira drops his hand and laughs. “Your father told me you are ready to return to me. You are my wife, are you not? It is only proper that a wife lives with her husband.”

I shake my head. “Papa speaks for himself. He says what he wishes were true.”

Al-Shezira shakes his head and strokes my shoulder. I shudder and close my eyes. I do not want him to touch me. I think of Alexandre.

“You will come with me to Minya, Wife. This is expected.”

I look at him. I dare to say, “I hear you have taken another wife at your palace, to replace me. Is she not enough for you?”

He pulls me forward abruptly. Suddenly I feel his breath on me, his rough hand clamping down over my mouth.

“You have your place at the Minya palace,” he says. “Now don’t say another word. I did not come here to listen to you talk. I am not interested in anything you have to say.”

I scream, but my screams are muffled by his large, rough hand over my mouth. He slips his other hand inside my tunic and covers my right breast with his fat gnarled fingers. He forces me down on the cushions, but I bring my knee up to his groin. For a moment he withdraws in
agony. He is angry now, but I do not act quickly enough. He grabs my throat and holds me down on the cushions.

“You bear me a dead child, and then you further insult me by acting in this way,” he says. “People have always talked about you, Hezba. You have betrayed me often enough with your unnatural ways, your defiance. I should have divorced you long ago, but your father begged me not to. He paid me a handsome fee to avoid a scandal.”

I can’t breathe. I try to turn my face away, but he holds me fast. “Look at me, woman,” he says, not releasing me. “I have not finished with you yet.”

But I can’t look at him. I can’t look at his ugly face. He wrenches my clothes from me, fumbles at my skirt, and tears my skin, clawing at the intimate flesh between my thighs. He inserts himself inside me. And when he has finished with me—just when I think it is all over—he delivers a searing blow. I hear the crack of his hand before I feel the pain. He cracks my cheekbone and jaw. I raise my hand to my face and feel the trickle of warm blood.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Nemmat knew her time had come. She knew this from the way Littoni was staring at her. He leaned over and placed his hand possessively on her arm. Every bloodshot male eye turned towards her, and Meryiam flashed her a nervous glance. Even the woman with the shisha stopped what she was doing. “This is where you come in, Sayidda,” Littoni said familiarly.

Nemmat nodded coldly. She wanted to get tonight over with. She wanted to return to her mother, but there were many long hours ahead before that could happen. Fatima was waiting for her to get back to work at the el-G, and she doubted she would see her mother and the bed she shared with her before dawn.

“In order for the revolution to begin, we have to dispose of Farouk. He does not suspect your involvement with me?”

Nemmat shook her head.

“I have followed your instructions faithfully,” she said quietly.

“And you’ll continue to do so if you want your money and your life spared, Sayidda,” Littoni continued.

Nemmat nodded. How she hated this man. Hated the way his dead eyes demanded her attention, hated that she had agreed to work with these people, hated her own private master—money. But she did everything because she loved her mother and wanted to protect her from poverty and harm. Her mother had shielded her
from the furore of her father and kept her safe when he’d left them with nothing. Now it was her turn to protect her mother. “He trusts me,” she said, quivering. “Not tomorrow, but the following night, Sayyid Issawi intends to go to his club. That is when the Sayyid intends to move in on him. Sayyid Farouk suspects nothing of my involvement with this faction of the X. I swear on the Qur’an.”