The Hidden (19 page)

“It’s your turn to talk, lady,” Gamal said cloyingly.

Her breath stalled in her mouth, and a shiver of fear coursed through her. He took hold of her chin between his fingers, smiling down at her from where he squatted.

“We know your connection with the X, Sayyida. You are no doubt one of their agents, working in one of their sectors. But which one? We know there are two women who head up sector operations. Where do you live? You’d better tell us, because we’ll find out anyway. We’ll search your house. We’ll find out exactly who you are.”

She studied the man’s yellowy brown eyes. Seconds passed. Minutes.

“I don’t know what—?”

The man Gamal jumped up, leaned forward, and pushed his face up against hers. Aimee recoiled against her chair, her eyes wide with fear.

“I’m losing patience, Sayyida. Your companion, Mustafa Alim, is on our wanted list. I want the names of every person you and Alim have been in contact with in the last forty-eight hours, their addresses too.”

Aimee looked at Farouk.

“You’ve got the wrong man, Monsieur,” Aimee whispered. “This man is a friend of my husband. He is taking me to visit some relatives near Timsah. I know nothing of this group you are talking about.”

Gamal stood back on his heels, his eyes narrowing in thought. It was obvious to her from the way his eyes were darting from her
face to Farouk’s that maybe she had convinced him, however briefly, that she really did know nothing. But then, he seemed to change his mind. Suddenly his breath caressed her face again and his mouth was inches from hers.

“I’ll give you and Sayyid Alim some time to think about the lies you have just told me,” he sneered. “Maybe when you have been left locked in this oven without water for a few hours, you’ll come to your senses and provide us with the information we want.”

“If not, we’ll simply have to follow orders. And in case you don’t know what that means—arrested suspects who don’t comply will be tortured, in compliance with Issawi Pasha’s strict laws governing the treatment of terrorist networks in this country.”

The men disappeared. She heard them instruct a lone soldier to stand guard outside the door, heard the key in the door turn, and then twisted her body around to try to get a good look at Farouk.

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Cairo, August 25, 1919

Two days have passed since Kerdassa. I am back at the Sarai and wish I had never returned. Al-Shezira is here with his party. He will not leave without me this time. Five years ago I falsified a fit of depression and advancing insanity to be free of him. And my plan worked for a while—I was left alone for a long time.

Now there is to be no more reprieve for me. I will be stripped of all my body hair, scrubbed clean, perfumed, dressed, and made ready to escort my husband. I loathe the thought of having to smile in a certain way—a way that is alluring for my husband—when inside my blood boils with rage.

Rachid informs me of al-Shezira’s arrival as I lie on the roof garden, smoking cigarettes in the night air.

“Mistress, the pasha has installed himself in the salamlik. His wives and their servants are being conveyed to their harem apartments. The pasha has requested your company tonight. We have orders to prepare you.”

I get up and walk to the edge of the roof garden and look out over the city. I can see the Nile shimmering in the moonlight.

“Tell the pasha I am not well enough to receive him tonight. I will see him tomorrow.”

Rachid twitches nervously. Something has happened to him. He is changed. He stands there, holding a silver tray on which I can see a small golden box.

“What is that?” I ask him, nodding at the tray.

“Your husband has sent you a little gift, some jewels for you to wear for him.”

I go to Rachid and stroke his cheek tenderly. Still he does not move. He does not soften under my touch like he usually does. He does not smile at me.

“Rachid, what’s wrong?” I ask him.

“I am your servant, Hezba. I must obey orders.” I stare at him in amazement. Then I tell him to go and tell my husband what I have said. But still Rachid does not move.

“Hezba, the al-Shezira pasha is quite firm. He will see you tonight. He has given orders that you be brought to his apartment. It must be done.”

A sound wafts up from below, music. Flutes are being played. I can hear clapping. The men are being entertained. No doubt a girl, a young beautiful girl with eyes of fire but a heart of stone, is entertaining them.

“If Allah wills it,” I say, “I will receive my husband tomorrow but not tonight. I have heard that Saiza will deliver tonight. I must be ready to be with her if she needs me.”

Finally Rachid bows. He does not argue this time as I expect him to. He backs through the archway leading to the stairs and is gone, leaving me feeling desolate.

Of course, it is unthinkable for me to defy the word of my husband. I go to my rooms, and through the mashrabiyya I see the men of al-Shezira’s party leaving the palace, dressed in the ceremonial robes and tarboushes of their administration. Al-Shezira is not with them. I fear he has stayed behind and is probably now lying on some cushions, eating and smoking, perhaps with one of his wives, perhaps with the young beautiful dancer the men have just enjoyed watching.

I believe that the men of al-Shezira’s party are attending a function at one of the European hotels, and I wonder why my husband does not go with them. Perhaps he is too old now for such frolicking. But then a black feeling comes over me and I know that despite my refusal to go to him, he will have his way.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Hamid had been sitting in his car outside Issawi’s political headquarters in Cairo for what seemed like ages. He pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and lit one. This meeting had been going on for hours. He had seen Issawi enter the building. Now he had to see him leave it. Then he would follow him, as discreetly as possible. It was important to get an idea of his movements. If he were driven to an unusual address, Littoni would want to know.

Hamid and al-Dyn were already well aware of his normal routine—the meetings, the dull dinner parties, his frequent travels to the backwaters of Egypt for business purposes, war meetings, the Oxford for a little R & R. Wherever he went, he always rode in his bulletproof vehicle, his entourage on high alert.

At last there was movement. Hamid sat up abruptly, stubbed his cigarette out on the dashboard, and clutched the steering wheel of his car. Several men in formal government attire, neat suits and tarboushes, were leaving the building en masse.

A car drew up. Issawi got in. How easy it would be to shoot at him long range, but Littoni would never forgive him. Hamid followed the car eagerly with his eyes. He let it get a little way ahead, and then he turned the key in the ignition.

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Cairo, August 25, 1919

I go and find Nawal. She is in her rooms, combing little Suleman’s hair, scolding him. Her servant is with her. She looks up in fright as I burst through the door.

“Hezba, what is it?”

“Nawal, he is here.”

She hands Suleman over to her servant and pulls the bell rope. Two lower eunuchs arrive.

“Come with us to the hammam. Follow us, and bring our things,” Nawal says to them. Suleman clutches his maman’s skirts. Nawal kisses him, then pushes him away, and we run quickly to the hammam. The two eunuchs run after us, carrying little silk bags of ointments, perfumes, oils of bergamot, frangipani, rose and neroli, all in tiny bottles.

The hammam is located just a short walk through the acacia trees at the back of our private garden, past the kiosk, the little French fountain, and the marble nymph. It is a large Turkish bath with a grand main antechamber, tiled in delicate blue-black mosaic where the girls and women leave their slippers.

I understand what Nawal is doing. If it is reported to al-Shezira that his wife has gone to the hammam, he will believe that she is in the middle of her womanly blood and she will be left alone—at least temporarily.

We undress in the antechamber. Nawal strokes my cheek, wrapping me in a loose cotton gown and freeing my hair so that it falls down my back. She attends to herself. Here, for the time being, we are safe. We can’t be summoned. We have bought precious time. We walk through a huge archway and through several rooms to the largest bath. It is hot and steamy, always sending one into a dreamlike trance of relaxation.

Dour-faced palace eunuchs walk up and down the side of the huge pool with towels, following some of the girls with mesmerised eyes. Usually I love the slow languid pace and the chance to be pampered, but tonight I feel like the living dead.

I wonder how many hours we can waste here, bathing, getting massaged, drinking coffee and eating pastries, smoking and talking. In my heart I want to leave the palace and go to Alexandre. I don’t want to be here, in such close proximity to the man I am forced to call my husband.

I discard my robe, wrap a thin piece of cotton around my hips, and slip on my hammam clogs. I feel desperately unhappy, numb inside, and tired. I can’t see a future. I long to lie down and let the strong arms of a slave caress my weary body, because Alexandre is not here. I still feel haunted by the awful scene at Kerdassa.

Nawal leads the way through the misty vapours to a row of chaises longues in the far corner of the bathhouse. There we stretch out and are pummelled and massaged by strong, warm hands. Then we wade deep into the hot aromatic bath. Nawal says nothing at first. Then after a while, she looks at me and says, “Are the rumours true, Hezba?”

“What rumours?”

“About Madame Virginie’s brother.”

‘Yes,” I say.

She looks at me wide-eyed, her black eyes darting across my face, trying to understand me. I lean back in the bath. I am getting used to the soft, sweet waters, and some feeling is starting to come back to my body.

“Why?” Nawal asks.

“Love,” I say.

Nawal looks at me tiredly and says, “I’ve heard that Sayyid Alexandre Anton is not just a businessman. There are rumours that he is a political man. That’s dangerous, Hezba. Because of your papa and our sultan.”

I smile. Nawal doesn’t understand.

“Alexandre is a loyal supporter of Sa’ad Zaghlul Pasha, our minister for education and leader of the Egyptian Nationalist Party, but that does not mean he is a political man. He is too busy with his work in trade.”

I do not tell her about the Rebel Corps.

“That’s not what I’ve heard, darling. I’ve been told he’s a political Sayyid, a Bey.”

“So what of it?” I say. Nawal falls silent and lies back in the water, staring at the ceiling. Her full breasts bob on the soft water, and her unblemished ochre-coloured skin glows.

“Don’t listen to rumours, Nawal,” I say. “Everything will be fine.”

She smiles secretly.

“I trust you, Hezba, and you know my secrets too, so I won’t say any more about it. I just want you to be careful. There is talk about you. The girls are laughing at you because you cause the sultan so many problems.” I smile again, but I don’t respond. I know there is talk about me. If I were a man, I would be celebrated, I would be an army general, but instead I am mocked because I speak my mind. I look at Nawal and think about what she said. I know about her love affair with Sigan, her slave.

She stretches out her hands and claps them together, and one of the eunuchs moves towards us. I recognise him to be Ibrahim. He smiles vaguely and bows. We step out of the hot bath into great cotton shrouds. They cling to our bodies, revealing every curve. We walk to a cool pool of freezing water, discard our gowns, and plunge in, crying out at the sensation of ice against our skin. With chattering teeth and clenched fists, Nawal tries to talk once more, but I can’t stay in the cold pool for long.

I climb out and am greeted by another eunuch who holds out an elaborate hooded cloak for me, his head bowed. We are then covered
from head to toe in coconut oil. Our skin is perfumed and massaged again. We are brought more coffee and sweet pastries and told to relax, but relaxation is impossible for me. My desire to leave the palace is growing stronger by the day.

As the tension in my body finally starts to dissolve, the most terrifying screams explode through the palace mashrabiyya.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Aimee felt paralysed, unable to move. She’d been sitting rigid in one position for what seemed like a very long time. The heat in the hut was unbearable, and her mouth was as parched as the desert sands outside. She knew she had to try and cut the rope slicing great grooves into her wrists, but what with? No indication had been given of how long it would be before the men returned. When they did, she knew all too well what would happen.

There was no time to waste. She decided to do something. She had to or she’d die. She squirmed on the chair, trying to jerk it across the floor by forcing it off the ground slightly. She managed to move enough to get a full view of Farouk.

She needed direction from him, but how? Could she interpret his eyes correctly? Based on his jerks and nods towards the door, Aimee knew she had to be still and listen for sounds outside. For the moment, there was only the occasional clanking of a tin thermos, the gulping of a thirsty mouth.

She silently communicated her own message to Farouk, with a nod. Then she bent her body to one side and wriggled her wrists around to one side to read the time on her wristwatch: 4:00
P.M
. They had been tied up now for more than four hours. The sun was still beating down on the mud hut.

Aimee scanned the room for something she could use to cut herself and Farouk out of their bindings. Then she spotted the small table behind her. If she worked the rope hard against that edge of it, she might fray the rope enough to weaken it. It was worth a try.