The Hidden (39 page)

Issawi sized him up suspiciously. “Sir, this is neither the time nor the place,” he said. “The king is waiting.”

Tashi eyed him hatefully. He looked searchingly into his eyes, watching for a sign of recognition. Tashi’s heart pounded in his throat, but he felt euphoric.

“Issawi Pasha,” Tashi replied. “I have a gift for you. I had my assistant choose it specially for you. It’s made of gold, you see, and has both our names on it. It’s a gesture of thanks. We are going to be partners and are going to make a lot of money together.”

Tashi pushed the trophy against Issawi’s torso and the man clutched at it frowning. Tashi saw him look down at the trophy disdainfully, fingering it. He flashed a look at the girl next to him, then at Tashi, and then at the trophy. The sectors, Tashi thought desperately, they must have activated the detonator by now.

Issawi weighed the trophy in his fat hand and laughed. He held it and admired it and continued to laugh. “I do not accept gifts from secretaries of ambassadors,” Issawi said, slamming the trophy back against Tashi’s chest. He turned to walk away, grabbing the girl by the arm as he went.

Tashi was holding the trophy now. He froze, his eyes wide, knowing the seconds were counting down and the timer must have been activated. The bastard had humiliated him, had dared to walk away, dared to treat him as though he were nothing. He would show him. The Group of the X would destroy him. At that moment Tashi wanted to kill him with a single gunshot to the head, but he held the trophy with both hands and called out to him.

“You want the Group of the X, Issawi Pasha?”

Issawi swung round on his heels. “What did you say?”

“I can give you all the information you need. I’ve come here to warn you not to enter the palace tonight.”

“Just who are you, sir?” he asked. “What do you know?”

Tashi had only minutes. “I came here to give you this gift, Issawi Pasha,” he said. “You chose not to accept it. That was not wise.”

Tashi saw Issawi swallow nervously. The seconds ticked by.

“What do you know about this Group?” he said.

“I know everything there is to know. I know that you should not go into the palace tonight.”

Issawi stood rigid. Tashi could see black fear in his eyes. He felt victorious.

“Tell me what you know, Sayyid,” Issawi shouted, “or I’ll have you arrested on the spot.”

Tashi slipped his hand in his pocket and pulled out his gun.

“That would not be a good idea, Issawi Pasha. You and your bodyguards and this pretty Sayyida are perfect target practice for my men,” Tashi said. “Move one inch and my men will fire.”

“Who are your men? Damn you!” Issawi shouted, holding back his heavies.

“Sectors five through ten,” Tashi said.

“The X.” Issawi choked, reaching into his own pocket for his revolver.

Tashi dropped the trophy and backed down the steps, pointing his gun at Issawi’s face. He backed up towards the waiting Daimler and got in.

“Open fire,” Issawi screamed to the security guards.

A storm of bullets hailed down on Hamid and Tashi’s car as Hamid screeched up to the security gate, smashing into the white Ford blocking the way.

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Cairo, October 1919

Tonight Alexandre and his men will come for me, God willing, but right now I am dressing for court. I smooth my short hair behind my eyes and adjust my beloved journal under my robes. I make sure it is flush against my stomach in its secret little pouch.

I put on my overdress, then my floor-length chador, and I wait to be called. A moment later, the door opens and the guards enter, escorting me down the stairs to the carriage that is waiting outside to take me to the courthouse.

Please God, let me hear news of Virginie. I am sure my lawyer, Mustafa Tora, will be able to tell me something. When I arrive at the courthouse, I am confronted by a sea of faces standing on the steps. Soldiers are pushing people back, forming a corridor for me to walk through. I suddenly feel very afraid, but I decide that I must not let myself be crushed by fear. I must walk tall, for my papa, for Rachid, for Alexandre, for Virginie, for myself and my child.

A hush descends on the crowd as I get out of the carriage. The heat is unbearable, and I am perspiring in my chador. The men gape as I am escorted up the steps to the main entrance.

One by one they start hurling abuse at me until the noise rises to a cacophony, like a swarm of bees ready to sting. Take no notice, I repeat to myself, over and over, hardening myself to what is to come.

I walk into the courtroom. There are almost as many men seated there. I go over to a stand and look at the qadi. He introduces himself to me. I do not hear his name because I have started to shake with apprehension. After taking my oath, I am told to sit in the chair provided for me, which is permitted since I have a child in my belly. I sit down on it.

The qadi runs through a seemingly endless list of questions that warrant a simple “yes” answer. Then he says, “You are the only daughter of the marriage of Ali Sultan Pasha to Zehra, his concubine, are you not?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“But you have a brother. Tell us his name and where he is at the moment.”

“His name is Omar Sultan, and he is studying at Oxford University in England.”

“You were married when you were eleven years old,” he says, knowing perfectly well that I was.

“Yes.”

“How did you feel about your parents’ choice of husband?”

“I am a loyal daughter. I had no feeling whatsoever.”

“Is it true that you started to hate your husband, from the moment you were married to him?”

I fall silent. There is no way to answer that question, except honestly. “My husband hated me. I was the thorn in his side.”

“You did not answer my question,” he says. “Did you hate your husband?”

I hesitate, then eventually I say, “Yes, yes I did.”

The hush in the courtroom is broken. The crowd murmurs its disgust.

“Enough to murder him?”

The crowd holds its breath. I hesitate, then say, “My husband was an evil man. I was beaten and raped by him.”

The qadi smiles mockingly. “So, I repeat, you felt strongly enough about your husband to take his life,” he says.

I hesitate, perspiring hot and cold beneath my chador. The courtroom is deathly still.

“It is a simple yes or no answer,” the qadi says.

“Yes,” I say.

The crowd roars with victory. The qadi silences them. Mustafa Tora gets up and walks towards him. The qadi gives him a stern look. Mustafa Tora plucks a Qur’an from his briefcase and opens it. As he reads the suras, I stare at the qadi, my heart beating so hard I feel I am being trampled to death by wild horses. I have neither the strength nor the courage to face this. The qadi will find me guilty. I have no doubt that Mustafa Tora will not be able to convince him otherwise.

I must preserve my strength for tonight. Alexandre and his men will come for me. I have to believe this, and then I will be free. But I am too choked up to stop myself from passing out, to stop the room from fading away to black.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Hidden in a haret off Sharia Abdin, Farouk had seen Issawi’s Daimler pull up. Watching in horror, he’d seen Aimee, dressed in her floor-sweeping crimson, being manhandled by Issawi and his cronies as she got out of the car, her face ashen with fear.

He wanted to blow Issawi’s brains out, but he was too far away. He would have to get closer. His body trembled so violently that he could hardly hold his binoculars still. The pain in his chest rode him like a demon. He spat out short breaths, trying to regain control of himself. The bomb would be on the shortest possible detonation time, and, with so many VIPs milling in front of the palace and the king on his way from the grand hall to meet them, the scene would, at any moment, become one of mass human destruction. Aimee had so little time left.

Breathlessly studying the scene unfolding in front of him, he knew Tashi’s game. Keep Issawi preoccupied while the seconds ticked away. He had to act quickly, get Aimee away from there. He didn’t care what happened to him anymore. He was finished—deep down he knew that—but he had to save the girl.

He ran through the crowds, got in his car, and floored it up Sharia Abdin, screeching to a stop just as Tashi and Hamid tried to exit the gates.

He jumped out of the car, clutching his gun in both hands, and pointed it at Hamid and Tashi, then at Issawi and his bodyguards.

“There’s a bomb,” he yelled at the top of his voice.

The crowds started screaming. Farouk fired some shots in the air.

“Stop!” he yelled. “I know where the bomb is.”

The crowds halted and listened. A woman began sobbing nearby, and the men’s faces were contorted as the government elite was rendered powerless. Issawi’s enormous body spasmed and his face caved in, in horror. The security guards at the gate stood stonily still, waiting for what was going to happen next. The armed guards who’d been patrolling the area raised their rifles, ready to shoot. His eyes strained to take it all in, and perspiration ran down his face, soaking his clothes.

“No!” he screamed at the guards. “Don’t shoot. I’m the only one who knows where the bomb is. If you shoot me, you’re all lost. It’s powerful. It will kill us all.”

They lowered their rifles, and he took his chance.

“Release the girl,” he shouted at Issawi. “Let her go. She’s got nothing to do with all this.”

Issawi grabbed Aimee by the wrist and yanked her back into place. Aimee closed her eyes and waited.

“Well, well. The X shows its face,” Issawi said. “And we have his favourite plaything.” Farouk walked through the gates towards Issawi, his gun pointed at Issawi’s face. He held out his other arm to warn the security patrolmen not to try anything.

“Release the girl, Issawi,” Farouk snarled. He was close enough now to aim between Issawi’s eyes.

“I should blow your brains out, but the bomb will do that anyway if you try and stop me. Let the girl go.”

Issawi stared at him, a flash of recognition shuddering through him. “I know you, don’t I?”

Farouk didn’t answer.

“Let the girl go,” he said, stretching his arm out to reach for Aimee. He pulled her fear-rigid body to him and whispered something in her ear, keeping the revolver positioned squarely between Issawi’s eyes the entire time.

“Go, Aimee, run as fast as you can, as far as you can.”

Aimee gripped his body, eyes wide. Farouk pushed her away. “Forgive me,” he pleaded. “Now, run.”

She stepped away from him, took off her shoes, and ran for her life, a bolt of crimson gone like a flash in the night. Now Farouk turned to Issawi.

“As for you, Issawi,” he sneered, “I’m going to—”

“Farouk,” a voice shouted. “Farouk. You will never win.”

Littoni was beside him in a flash, pointing his gun at Farouk’s temple and smiling.

“The bomb,” he said. “It’s going to go off…” Farouk gritted his teeth and did not move.

“Don’t do this, Littoni,” he said. “I’ve got our man. Now I’m going to find the bomb and dismantle it.”

“No, you’re not,” Littoni screamed, his voice echoing off the walls, mingling with the sound of the whimpering women, the ripples of terror emanating from the crowds.

“I’m going to kill you, Farouk. I’m going to—”

A gunshot pierced the air. Farouk stepped back, temporarily startled. A thin trickle of blood ran down the side of Littoni’s head. His expression vacant and eyes wide-open, his narrow mouth sagging towards his chin. Another gunshot. This time to Issawi’s head. Issawi’s body slumped to the ground, dead, not from his gun, but someone else’s.

He turned to try to see who had fired, but he could find no one. He swayed in shock. Issawi’s bodyguards flinched and raised their handguns, pointing them at him. What looked like a thousand revolvers were suddenly aimed at his face.

And then he heard the crack of the explosion. It rose out of the earth, splitting the sky open and the noise echoed for seconds afterwards as the ground shook. People screamed and the palace walls melted away in a dense fog of dust and debris.

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Cairo, October 1919

I wake up at Virginie’s house. A nurse is sitting next to me. She is peering at me with a concerned expression, her face framed by her starched hair shield. I try to raise myself on my elbows, but she pushes me back gently.

“My baby,” I say, “my baby.”

She pats me on the shoulder and tells me my baby is fine, that I must rest.

“What happened at the courthouse?” I ask her feebly.

“You are weak and need to lie still. The airlessness of the courtroom made you faint.”

“And what are they going to do about my case?”

“The court will reassess your case in a day or so. The qadi has allowed you two days of bed rest. Then you will appear before him once more. In the meantime you will stay here, and I will stay with you for the time being.”

I slump back onto my pillow and look at the ceiling. I think of Alexandre and our plan to escape to France. But I ask the nurse, “What about Saiza and Virginie al-Fatuh? Have you heard anything?”

The nurse shakes her head and stands up. “Don’t ask so many questions,” she orders me. “Now sleep. You are troubled and tired, and it is not good for your baby.”

She goes to the door, opens it, and speaks softly to the guard outside.

“Yes, it will probably do her good, but only for a short time,” she says. She steps back from the door and Saiza walks in. I sit up and pull Saiza into my arms.

The nurse says, “You’re only allowed one visitor before your trial resumes. This Sayyida may only stay for five minutes, and then she must go.”

The nurse leaves the room. Saiza puts her finger on my lips to stop the stream of words that threatens to overwhelm me.