City of the Sun (11 page)

CHAPTER 9

The only decoration in Dr. Massoud’s austere sitting room was the calligraphic mantra, written in gold above the entry door,
There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet
, but Kesner barely noticed it, even though his gaze was intently focused on the wooden door. It was early in the morning, before patients would arrive, and Abdoul Nukrashi was late again. How could the Arabs expect to govern themselves if they couldn’t even once be on time? He was steaming. He had a pressing agenda to discuss with the king’s public relations minister today, then more meetings all over the city as he sought to pick up Blumenthal’s trail after missing him in Alexandria. He couldn’t forgive himself for having arrived there late, after the passengers on the
El Aziz
had disembarked. Those damned roadblocks that the British had put up overnight. What would the SS think of him now? He was desperate to redeem himself. He had to calm himself down. Sooner or later he would catch the Jew.

He pressed the pleats along his gray flannel slacks tightly and adjusted his tweed jacket and the collar of his starched white shirt. With a smart-looking tarbush on his head, he was confident he conjured the perfect image of a Westernized Egyptian man of means.

It was nearly seven o’clock and Abdoul was still not here. Soon patients would be flocking in, and Kesner knew that this
would make Dr. Massoud nervous. At the request of Sheik Hassan al-Banna, the leader of the Muslim Brotherhood who was currently in prison, the doctor, a devout supporter of the organization, had made his
mafraj
, the sitting room behind his office, available to Kesner for clandestine meetings and message drop-offs. “He is a foreigner, but his people will liberate us from the English infidels,” the sheik had said when he’d introduced the doctor to Kesner. “I am a peaceful man,” the doctor had explained as he shook Kesner’s hand. “But it is time for us to return to Islam. They are making whores out of our daughters, and change will only come through the barrel of a gun.”

Finally Kesner heard the clunk and thud of heavy feet climbing the stairs to the waiting room. Abdoul puffed and panted as he opened the door, conspicuous in his gaudy, silk-tasseled tarbush, pearl stickpin, and patent leather spats. With his belly protruding in front and his hunchback jutting out behind, the corpulent man was grotesque. Kesner felt a surge of disgust, which metamorphosed into pity as he watched the man traverse the waiting room. He gave Kesner a foolishly obvious nod before disappearing behind the curtain.

The Arab was pathetic. He was a nobody who’d gained his position in the palace through his friendship with King Farouk’s Italian barber. But it was under Kesner’s tutelage, urging him to have the king make radio addresses and otherwise reach out to his people, that Abdoul had been able to transform his insignificant post into one of the most powerful in the king’s cabinet. As Farouk became hailed as a man of the people and his popularity soared, so did Abdoul’s arrogance. Kesner had to suffer the vanity of this pathetic Quasimodo, but he reminded himself that Abdoul was a loyal dog for the Reich and, as Kesner’s eyes and ears in the palace, one of his most crucial informants.

He picked up his black crocodile attaché case and followed
Abdoul behind the curtain and down the dark narrow corridor to the mafraj.

“S’aalam alekoum,” Abdoul rasped upon seeing Kesner walk in, his words echoing off the high ceiling of the room. “
Ezayak ya akhooya
? (How are you, my brother?) Are you well?” The fat man embraced and kissed Kesner several times.

Not one for physical contact, Kesner nevertheless hugged the man back, albeit stiffly. “How is your family?” he inquired in flawless Arabic.

“Very good, very good, thanks be to God,” Abdoul answered, collapsing onto one of the colorful floor cushions that lined the mafraj.

“Thanks be to God,” Kesner replied, settling down across from him, a large copper tray supported by bamboo sticks separating them. “You have done good work.” He pulled out yesterday’s
El Misr
and
Daily Telegraph
, Egypt’s most widely circulated newspapers, from his attaché case and waved them at Abdoul.

“Very good work,” he reiterated. “Was it twenty thousand shoes the king distributed?” he inquired, amused at how Abdoul had followed almost to the letter his suggestion that Farouk make this kind of grand gesture to the poor.

“Twenty thousand
pairs
of new shoes,” Abdoul corrected, as he pulled an ebony cigarette holder from his jacket and extracted a thin, tan cigarette. “God knows prices have doubled in the last year alone. Such a dreadful situation. Ah, but there is only so much one can do.”

“Thanks be to God, the king is a kind man, but he is only as good as his most trusted advisor,” Kesner flattered him. “The king is still a boy.”

“Why, Herr Kesner, that is most kind of you,” Abdoul bowed his head in a show of modesty. “Do you notice anything different about the king?” He pointed to the photographs of the king in the
backseat of his open-topped Mercedes, a birthday gift from Hitler that graced the front pages of the two newspapers.

“He looks dashing in his white military uniform, most royal,” Kesner replied, scrutinizing the photo, but not knowing where this was leading.

“Look more closely,” Abdoul gushed, his face glistening with pride like a child showing a good report card to his parents. “The king is growing a beard. I thought there was no harm in having him looking more pious. The Muslim Brotherhood is growing more popular. The country is growing more religious. A ruler who wants to stay in power …”

“… is a ruler who knows how to manipulate the masses,” Kesner finished the sentence. “I must say, that is quite an inspired move, something reminiscent of Goebbels himself.” He had dropped the magic name.

Abdoul blushed. “Thank you, but you are too generous. Did you notice the faces of the fellahin?” He pointed at the newspaper photos again, eager for more praise. “Don’t they gaze adoringly at their king?”

“Yes, they do. Perhaps the king should increase the number of his radio addresses and press conferences.” Kesner paused and drew a breath before continuing. “I wish you could have known how it felt to hear our führer’s voice coming from the radio, strong but calming, lifting our spirits, reminding us of our heritage and our right to reclaim it. Your people need that same hope. They need their king to take back their country and restore their pride. And you, my friend, are the man to make it happen. Because of you the king will take his rightful place in history.”

Abdoul leaned against the wall, a coy smile on his lips.

“Riri Charbit,” Kesner started, turning to his real agenda, now that he had Abdoul where he wanted him. “She is a very pro-English
girl. I see that the king is accompanying her to a lot of tea parties for British officers. This is not good.” He frowned.

Abdoul sighed deeply and shook his head as if this were a great sorrow to him. “The woman has put a spell on him. What an embarrassment to his poor wife. The king is making a fool of himself. They frolic naked in the palace pool in front of his staff!”

Kesner clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Yes, we have to get him away from this girl. Maybe a nice curvy redhead will do the trick. Our friend Madame Samina can help find one.” He winked at Abdoul, who smiled an oily grin. The Lebanese-born dancer had introduced the two men to each other.

“I saw her last night … after hours,” Abdoul whispered, his eyes sparkling with mischief. He chuckled like a randy schoolboy.

“Are you insinuating …” Kesner began, playing along, although he was sure the man was lying. Samina swore she never slept with her clients, but one never knew with women, especially one who liked money so much.

“Come now, I am a man of discretion,” Abdoul winked. “I will do what I can to undercut the influence of this Riri.”

“I am confident you will.” Kesner smiled benevolently and quietly dropped the bombshell. “We must get Sheik Hassan al-Banna out of jail. Without him the Brotherhood is useless.”

As expected, Abdoul’s instinctive fear of sticking his neck out drained the color from his face as he shot up straight on his cushion. “That is not possible. The compound in Qena is meticulously guarded by the British army.”

“We must be bold. I haven’t fully thought it through yet, but we will need the cooperation of the Egyptian military police,” Kesner asserted. “Any news on your side?”

Abdoul shifted in his seat, pouting, while he lit another cigarette. He took a deep drag and bravely regained his composure. “The British have taken over our radio stations in Siwa and Gazala,
calling them strategic assets. Sadly, Parliament is too cowardly to do anything about it. But,” he continued, “you’ll be interested to know that the British ambassador is talking about evacuation plans for the wives and children of senior officers. The English finally seem to realize they are in trouble.” He drew in another puff and daintily exhaled.

“The English will be thrashed, no doubt,” Kesner asserted. “We have Egypt surrounded and victory is inevitable. If they are smart, the British will get out of our way, or we will chop them up like we did the Belgians.” He rubbed his hands together. “Please tell the king that Rommel looks forward to meeting him when he arrives in Cairo.”

“And Rommel will receive a hero’s welcome when he gets here,” Abdoul promised. “It will be the king’s pleasure to give him a personal tour of the city.”

“Excellent! Your efforts on behalf of the Reich will not go unrewarded.” Kesner rose to his feet and grabbed Abdoul tightly by the elbow, effortlessly helping the fat man to his feet. He knew he was strong in a way that men respected in one another. “One last thing, though—a Jew by the name of Erik Blumenthal arrived in Alexandria on a Turkish ship about ten days ago. He has polio and walks with a limp. The Reich would be most grateful if you could uncover his whereabouts.”

“Blumenthal,” Abdoul repeated, memorizing the name. “Blumenthal.”

Kesner rushed back to his houseboat and stepped on his foredeck. There was still time for him to catch the American morning communiqué, which he’d already missed twice this week. He entered the living room and quickly descended the spiral staircase to his
bedroom, locking the door behind him. He needed to get to his radio transmitter as soon as possible; his watch read 9:12.

Ten minutes later, Kesner emerged with a transcript of the US communiqué that he’d intercepted just in time. He lit up a Corona, the most expensive Egyptian cigarette, and grabbed Daphne Du Maurier’s
Rebecca
, the codebook used by the Americans. He propped himself up on his bed, ready to decipher the message.

At first, nothing dramatic was revealed—only some details about the tonnage of ships passing through the Suez Canal and descriptions of recent damage inflicted by the Luftwaffe’s bombing raids on Alexandria. But then he sat up, his eyes growing wider as he made out the message.

Crossing our fingers regarding our new recruit on the Blumenthal matter.

Kesner let his hand drop to his side as he digested this news. The Americans were looking for the Jew, too! A few seconds later he bolted from his bed and hurried back to his transmitter. The SS needed to be notified immediately of this. Black Dog was going to be back in their good graces.