The Hidden (38 page)

He shouted, “Which one of you is Omar bin Mohammod, also known as Fabio Littoni?”

Hilali pointed his gun at each of the men in turn, motioning his own soldiers into the room with a jerk of his head.

“Well?” The soldiers rammed their machine guns into the men’s stomachs, making each one double up in agony. Littoni slid his hand almost invisibly in his pocket, pulled out his revolver, and edged towards the door. He pumped several bullets into the ceiling, and plaster rained down on the men. He pumped more bullets into the air. The room became hazy with debris, and the soldiers choked and peered through the dust. In the confusion, Littoni slipped through a secret door at the back of the room. He smiled to himself. No bastard was going to stop him now.

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Cairo, October 1919

I wake up with a start. It is dark outside. I can hear a rustling sound outside my window. I sit up and listen. The sound is rhythmic and persistent, as though someone is trying to attract another person’s attention.

I go to the window and look out. I have no idea how late it is, but the moon is high in the sky. I peer into the darkness at the trees near my window. I see nothing at first, but then I look again.

High up in the tree, I see the face of a small child, a girl with huge black eyes in a pool of white, like saucers, staring at me through the branches. She grins, and her white teeth gleam in the moonlight.

She puts her finger to her lips secretively and motions for me to move back from the window by waving her hand. Then she lassoes a
piece of rope with a hook on it. The hook catches the ledge of the window. She attaches a small sacking pouch onto the rope and slides it along to the window ledge.

I watch her, my heart beating wildly. Who is this girl? What is she sending me? She can only be about ten years old. Yet she has climbed the palm tree fearlessly and is beaming at me in the moonlight.

When the pouch reaches me, I disengage it from the rope and then dislodge the hook while the girl reels it in and catches it. She turns away, her job done, and starts to climb back down the tree without so much as a backwards glance or a wave. She vanishes like a whisper into the night.

I open the pouch and discover a letter. I unfold it excitedly and read. It is from Alexandre.

Hezba, I have managed with extreme difficulty to get this to you. After reading it, you must destroy it immediately. My men and I will come for you. They are charging me with five counts of murder and for being an accessory to the murder of al-Shezira. My men are behind me. They are out on the streets, plotting to get me out of here. I cannot describe our escape plan in this letter, but rest assured that my men will not put up with seeing their leader in jail. If I can get out of Egypt to France, I will be safe and you will be too. My men have told me that there are only four guards outside of Virginie’s house. They change shifts halfway through the evening. You are to appear in court tomorrow. Do not say anything that will incriminate you. I can’t tell you what my men plan to do, but I will tell you that you must be prepared. It will be the night after next, if all goes according to plan.

Until I can hold you in my arms again, your devoted Alexandre.

Ecstatic at this news, I tear up the letter into tiny morsels. Then I shove each morsel in my mouth and swallow them one by one. The paper tastes horrible. Then I sit on the bed for a while looking up at the window, watching the moon move across the sky. I know I won’t be able to go back to sleep. I try to imagine what Alexandre’s men are going to do. Abduct the guards? Steal uniforms and take over one of the shifts, then set me free? Use more violence to avenge my arrest? I know that Alexandre will not stop until he has succeeded in finding a way out of this for both of us.

I also know that he will use whatever violence he thinks necessary to ensure our freedom, because freedom is what he lives for, whether it’s freedom from injustice, freedom for the humble farmers and poor traders of Egypt, or freedom from the tyranny of the idle rich.

I eventually lie down and shiver with fear. Alexandre does not like to be wronged in any way. As I start to pray to my God for a better solution, I begin to fall asleep. But I am abruptly woken by the pinkish light of a new day and the call to prayer from the muezzins in the mosques. I jump up and perform my own rakas with a solemn heart.

Later, I am drinking a glass of water when the door opens and a young man walks in, accompanied by the same two guards who point their guns at me.

I quickly cover my head and my face. The man bows and steps forward.

“My name is Mustafa Tora,” he says. “I will be representing you in court.”

“Where is my family?” I say to him. “Is there no one I can see?”

Mustafa Tora smiles sadly, then says, “Let us talk for a while first, Sayyida.”

Once the guards have retreated, I take a good look at him. He is a pleasant-looking man with a kind face. He is carrying a briefcase and he is wearing a waistcoat with his suit jacket. His black hair is
wavy and neat. His eyes sparkle confidently, not in a salacious way, but enquiringly, sympathetically.

I feel I can talk to him. I ask him to sit down at the table. I move the water jug and sit on the bed near him. He puts his briefcase on the table and extracts a folder.

He searches for something in the folder, smiling at me occasionally as he shuffles through his papers.

“I want you to tell me exactly what happened,” he says.

I flinch when he says this. How can I tell him what happened? I can hardly even bear to think of it myself.

He watches me for a moment, as though he wants to see through my veil to the face behind it, the real me, then he sits back and says kindly, “You had been married a long time?”

“Six years,” I tell him.

“You have no children?”

“I had a son, but he died at birth. A little boy I called Ibrahim.”

Mustafa Tora nods and writes this down.

“Did your husband ever threaten you?” he asks.

I nod. A cold ache washes over me. It is the ache of misery and regret—regret that I was ever born a girl.

“Did he beat you?”

“Yes, often when we were first married. Then after my son died, he abandoned me for four years. After that time, he demanded that I go back to live with him, but I was allowed to stay in my home because I was considered mentally unwell. Eventually he threatened me with Bait al-Taa.”

“And you were sent to live with him recently, is that correct?”

“Yes, I went to live with him at his palace in Minya.”

“Did he ever force you to have sexual intercourse with him?”

I feel tears burning my eyes. “Of course, but the courts don’t care about that. That is not illegal. It is a man’s right to do as he pleases.”

Mustafa Tora shakes his head. “I know, but I want to make a case that your husband, al-Shezira, was a violent man and had a history of violence and that he did not treat his other wives in the same way. I am an expert in Qur’anic law, in the Sharias. I believe there are a few suras on which we can draw. You were provoked. Your actions were the consequence of years of emotional and physical abuse.”

“I have not admitted to anything.”

The lawyer sits back in his chair and strokes his moustache.

“I think you should know that it would be in your best interest to admit to the murder, Sayyida. The qadi has informed me that there is a witness, a young Minya eunuch who saw you that night with a revolver in your hand, standing over al-Shezira. The boy—who will be questioned—saw you pull the trigger and saw the bullets enter your husband’s body.”

I shake my head in horror. “No, no.”

“Where is the revolver?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

My head swims, and I begin swaying on the bed. I try to stand up, but my legs buckle underneath me. I can’t breathe. I try to walk towards the window, but I fall back against the wall. Mustafa Tora jumps up to help me. He lifts me up and helps me to the bed.

“Are you all right, Sayyida? Can I help you with anything?”

He hands me a drink of water and I press it gratefully to my lips.

“What sort of sentence do you think will be passed?” I ask him feebly.

Mustafa Tora looks at me as he takes the glass from my hand.

“Because of your condition and your status in Egyptian society, your father, and your distressed state of mind, I will try my utmost to get you a shortened sentence at a psychiatric institution.”

“You say you will try. What is the worst that could happen to me, Sayyid Tora?”

Mustafa Tora stares at the ground for a moment.

“The Sharia states that a death must be repaid by a death. But there are other factors to take into consideration. And there is always money—a large sum could grant you a reprieve. But—”

“But, Sayyid?”

Mustafa Tora looks at me directly.

“But you are a woman,” he says, “and your husband was well-known in public life. I believe that it is possible that Cairo will want to see you made an example of. Al-Shezira’s brothers-in-law are demanding the highest penalty in the land.”

The room seems to darken. The face of the man in front of me fades away. I do not say anything for a long time. God, then, has answered my prayers. I have nothing left to lose. Alexandre’s way is the only way.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Tashi felt paralysed with fear. Where were the sector men who were supposed to be masquerading as palace security personnel? Something was wrong. He waited for the new security guard to finish his telephone conversation. The security guard glanced at Tashi, then nodded. He replaced the receiver and walked back to the car. His face gave nothing away. He opened the door of the car and leaned in. The trophy with the bomb inside it lay innocently on the seat next to Tashi.

“Please proceed, Orhan Sayyid,” he said solemnly. “Sorry for the delay, but you do understand we must take every precaution. You are free to go in. Have a good evening, sir.”

Tashi nodded and discreetly swallowed back a gulp of relief, a flush of heat pulsing through him. Hamid started the engine and drove through the palace gates to the main entry. He saw Issawi’s car stopping before a platform at the foot of the stone steps leading into the palace. Men in tuxedos and women in evening gowns were walking up a red carpet towards the huge palace entrance. Guards with rifles slung over their shoulders were parading up and down near the parking area. Another stab of panic jabbed at him. There was no margin of error in this operation. The absence of the sector members at the security gates meant trouble. Issawi’s chauffeur was letting him out at the red carpet. He needed to attract Issawi’s
attention, engage him in conversation, give him the trophy inside the palace’s grand entry hall, as planned, and then rejoin Hamid in the car and leave.

“Hamid,” Tashi said, “make sure the car is positioned for a quick getaway. Let me out here, and I’ll follow Issawi in.”

Hamid nodded. “I’ll pull the car around and have it facing the exit,” he said. “Here’s to the revolution, my friend. Long live Egypt!”

Tashi pulled at the lapels of his tuxedo and grabbed the trophy. His heart was hammering in his chest. He thought of his wife and his child. He said a quick prayer and opened the car door. Issawi was walking up the palace steps to the main entry, laughing, with two men and a girl in a red dress. Issawi was holding the girl’s arm. He saw that her face was etched with fear. For a split second he bitterly regretted the position of responsibility and glory Littoni had placed on him. He suddenly feared that he would never see his wife, Meryiam, and his baby girl again. What if he wasn’t able to leave the palace grounds in time? What if Littoni’s plan failed and the bomb was not detonated correctly? But he was prepared to die for his God if he had to. That was the correct voice inside him talking. He would not die a coward. He was not a child. He was a grown man, working to bring about a better future for his country. And he was prepared to pay the price.

He saw Issawi pulling at his bow tie in exasperation, talking to one of his men, one hand possessively on the beautiful, slender, dark-haired girl. Two heavy-looking youths, obviously bodyguards, stood on either side of Issawi and the girl. Tashi slid his hand in his pocket and fingered the tiny handgun hidden there. He looked back and saw that Hamid had positioned their Daimler strategically for a smooth exit. Tashi moved forward up the steps, trophy in hand. The trophy felt heavy. The bomb had been skillfully made
by a group of sector members. He had been part of this group and knew everything there was to know about these time bombs. They were small but deadly, and destruction was guaranteed. But, a seed of doubt suddenly played with Tashi’s mind, and he wondered whether Issawi would suspect anything from the weight of the trophy. But he squashed his fears. Issawi was a narcissist. This was his big night. He was to be honoured by the king of Egypt for his work, and his thoughts would be entirely focused on the great leader that he considered himself to be.

Tashi examined the scene in front of him. He followed Issawi up the palace steps and then called out to him. “Issawi Pasha.”

Issawi turned around. He looked surprised, and Tashi read contempt and irritation on his face.

“Who are you?” Issawi asked angrily.

“Forgive me, sir,” Tashi said, approaching him slyly. “My name is Suleyman Orhan. I’m the newly appointed secretary to the Turkish ambassador. I’m a great admirer of yours, sir. We met a few weeks ago at a dinner in Alexandria. I knew I was going to see you tonight, and I wanted to give you this small token of my estimation. I am a partner in the Alexandria trans-Mediterranean packing consortium, the joint venture you have invested in.”