City of the Sun (25 page)

“Fiji!” the woman called, coming to the door in response to the cat’s cry, and was startled as Kesner shoved her back inside and smashed the side of her head with the butt of his gun. She flew backward and fell to the floor, her hair curlers scattering everywhere. He slammed the door shut and locked it. When he turned around, the bitch was back on her feet, her claws out as she jumped on him, making him drop his gun. She scratched his neck and kicked him in the leg, trying to scream for help as he covered her mouth. He wrestled her to the floor and pinned her. But she fought back with everything she had—a tigress—kicking, punching, and scratching his face. Finally, he had to slam her head against the floor until she passed out.

He had to restrain the bitch before she regained consciousness. He dragged her to a chair, and using the window curtain ties as ropes, he bound her hands and feet to it. He used his own tie to gag her. Breathless, he paced, looking around. He saw his gun on the floor and picked it up. He wished he had brought a silencer. At the first shot, the whole neighborhood would be here. He turned up the volume of the radio and found his way to the kitchen, where he opened drawers. He took pliers and matches and returned to the living room. The bitch was now moaning and he heard the cat at the door meowing. He raised the volume of the radio some more, then went upstairs, to her bedroom. Clothes were neatly laid out on the bed. On a chair he found her purse and emptied it. Nothing of interest. But on top of the dresser was a small evening clutch. He opened it. There was an invitation in the name of Dorothy Calley to tonight’s ball on the king’s yacht, and neatly tucked in the corner he found the page of the scientific journal she’d torn out. In the middle of the page was a photograph of the Jew. The woman knew everything.

“I don’t know anything about a Fastball, or a Blumenthal,” she repeated over and over when he removed her gag.

She took him for an idiot. He showed her the picture. She shook her head. She did not know who he was. When he brought the photo very close to her face, she spat on him. That’s when it all became a blur—her tears, her explanations, her pleading, his ferocious yelling at her. It was a whirlwind as he brought the matches to her fingertips, then the pliers to her nails, pulling out her pinkie nail from the skin. But that was not enough. She still claimed to know nothing. She was just a secretary. That could well be true, but he no longer heard her, or the radio, or the traffic outside. Just the sound of waves crashing in his head as he clutched her head and deftly snapped her neck.

CHAPTER 24

El Emir Farouk
, Mickey read the green letters painted on the side of the king’s gleaming white yacht, which was moored two hundred feet away from the Khedive Ismail Bridge. The three-deck vessel was the largest private boat on the Nile, and with its upper platform fluttering with streamers, it stood ready to receive the hundreds of guests that were expected for one of the year’s biggest social affairs, the B’nai B’rith fund-raiser for the British war effort. This was his chance to meet Madame Yvette Cattaoui and dig up some information about the local Zionists. He’d been allowed to stay on the case until Donovan’s arrival.

“Get ready to meet the beating heart of the Peach Tin,” Dorothy had said when she informed him that she’d gotten him into the event.

Peach Tin—he wondered how the Brits came up with that name for Cairo’s smart set of royalty, aristocrats, businessmen, military officers, and artists. It couldn’t get any swankier than this, he thought as he reached the dock, admiring the women in ball gowns and men in uniforms and tuxedos as they stepped out of their chauffeured Bentleys, Daimlers, and Rolls Royces.

Mickey thought that for once he looked as spiffy as any of the dandies here, in his tailored tuxedo and with his hair
slicked back with a dollop of pomade. If only his new black patent leather shoes were not killing him.

“
Bienvenue
, monsieur. Welcome,” a young volunteer greeter chirped, as the last rays of the sun caught her gold chandelier earrings. “The reception is on the middle deck in the Lounge of the Pharaohs.”

Straightening his bow tie, Mickey made his way past a small group of loud partygoers, drinks in hand, and ascended the intricately carved wooden staircase. The evening was balmy and there was a soft breeze. He could hear the gentle slapping sounds of the waves against the ship. It was a perfect evening for a cruise.

It would be nice to take Maya on the water for their next date. He’d proposed horseback riding at sunset at the pyramids, but she’d said that would be too long an excursion for her. Yes, he would rent a felucca right here on the Nile and surprise her next Wednesday.

It had not been easy nailing her down for a date. As the oldest sibling, it was difficult for her to get away, but they had talked several times since their last encounter. She was always the one initiating the calls, as she wouldn’t let him phone her at her cousin’s and refused to give him any information about her whereabouts. He never knew when these calls would come, making them all the more exciting. For God’s sake, he hadn’t dated a girl who had to hide him from her parents since junior high. Her family must really be old-fashioned. Had they promised her as a bride to another man? Mickey quickly dismissed that idea—she would not have allowed that. He would just have to accept the fact that Maya was elusive and that he’d have to jump through a hoop or two to see her. She was worth it. She was beautiful and delicate, and there was depth to her. She had an inner life that she kept very private, and whenever she let her guard down, he felt privileged.

Welcomed by the warm sound of a jazz piano wafting out of the lounge on the deck, Mickey squeezed past a large crowd milling
around the entrance and found himself inside a room that felt like a royal tomb. The ceiling and walls were covered with frescoes depicting scenes of pharaonic life, while torches on long brass poles created dancing shadows with their flames. The air was filled with a luscious scent emanating from enormous arrangements of orange blossoms and roses on tall pedestals positioned throughout the room. It was fantastic.

“
Entrez, monsieur. Ne soyez pas timide
(Come on in, don’t be shy),” said a pretty volunteer in a flowing pink gown, offering mezzes from a silver platter. He counted a dozen or so such lovely young women floating from group to group, while flutes of champagne were served by suffragis clad in white with large gold headdresses in the traditional Egyptian style. As he made his way through the packed room, he was struck by the jewelry adorning the women. He was ready to bet that every jewelry store and safety deposit box in the city had been emptied.

He noticed Robert Stahl, the American naval military attaché, approaching him, a drink in each hand.

“Connolly, right? I’m Robert Stahl. We met at a cocktail reception at the French Embassy last month,” he said.

“Yes, of course, I remember. How are you, sir?”

“I liked your piece on General Catroux,” Stahl said, referring to the story Mickey had filed about the five-star French general who’d come to Cairo to help De Gaulle raise an army of Free French, only to run up against a wall of obstacles created by the pro-Vichy French Embassy here. “It kills me that the Brits are permitting an enemy embassy to remain here,” Stahl continued.

“They have no choice,” Mickey said. “Egypt is a sovereign state and King Farouk won’t close it down. There are a thousand Egyptian citizens living in Paris, and he fears reprisals by the Vichy government.”

“I think there’s more to it,” Stahl said. “Maybe he just wants to ruffle the British ambassador’s feathers. Well, if you’d excuse me, I
have to deliver a lady’s drink. Nice cummerbund,” he added, gesturing to Mickey’s purple waistband before moving away.

Mickey grinned. Dorothy’s doing. When he’d spoken to her this morning, she had told him the color purple brought good luck and he must wear it. Where was she, anyway? She had gone to Fuad University and picked up a picture of Erik Blumenthal to replace the one he’d lost. She was going to bring it tonight. He scanned the room for her, but not seeing her, he decided to get a drink.

He made his way to the bar, behind which five pretty volunteers were magically lit by the warm glow of hundreds of small candles. He asked one of them, a brunette who reminded him of Ava Gardner, for a scotch, straight up.

“Have you got a lottery ticket, sir?” the girl asked as she poured the drink. “Winners get a dance with Madame Samina,” she said flirtatiously, handing him his scotch. “It’s for a good cause.”

“Count me in,” he said. “I’m always good for a good cause.” The exotic dancer from the Kit Kat Club was apparently more of a star than he’d thought. Mickey obliged the girl by filling out a card before he walked away.

Always the reporter, he made it a point to catch snatches of conversations as he meandered around the room on his way to the library. According to one British officer, the tide of the war would change, especially now that reinforcements were on their way. A man with a goatee was describing Hassan al-Banna’s escape from prison in broad daylight. His matronly wife seemed more worried about the shortage of rubber and its impact on ladies’ undergarments. He heard snippets about the looming railway strike and how this would not have happened had the government not nationalized the trains, as well as speculation about how big a crowd would attend Nahas’s rally. The speeches of the leader of the widely popular Wafd nationalist party were invariably anti-British. But the
biggest concern seemed to be the news that the Eighth Army had retreated all the way to El Alamein.

He strolled out onto the deck and into the library, where the atmosphere seemed more relaxed, with people gathering around oversized armchairs. The air here, too, was perfumed by extravagant floral arrangements.

Mickey spotted Kirk easily in his bright yellow bow tie and matching cummerbund. He was holding court with no less than King George of Greece and King Peter of Yugoslavia. But kings or not, they both looked miserable. King George was drawn and sallow, and the wild-eyed, mustachioed King Peter looked more like a guerrilla leader than a monarch, despite his tuxedo.

When Kirk saw Mickey, he turned and nodded, giving Mickey a discreet thumbs-up, meaning all was in place and that Mickey would be sitting next to Madame Cattaoui at dinner.

Good old Dorothy. She did it again, Mickey thought and smiled. But where the hell was she?

“Hello, stranger!” Someone grabbed his arm.

It was Sally, looking resplendent and every inch a woman in her low-cut, long black dress, a far cry from her ambulance driver’s uniform. He hadn’t seen her since their sexy tumble after the Kit Kat Club, and he felt awkward about not having called her.

“Didn’t I tell you Cairo was a small world?” She winked.

From the way she smiled at him, it was clear that she wasn’t holding any grudges.

He kissed her on both cheeks, happy to see her, like bumping into an old friend. “It’s nice to see you again. You look lovely.”

She linked her arm through his and introduced him to her friends as an intrepid American reporter. “You know Linda, of course, and this tall, gawky lad is Randolph Churchill,” she said of a husky man in uniform next to her. “He’s one of the devils in the Special Air Service.”

“A commando? Risky job, I hear,” Mickey said. “Any relation to—”

“Winston’s his uncle,” Linda interjected, “and mine, too. Randolph, I’m sorry to say, is my cousin.”

“You’re lucky to have me in the family! I bring us personality,” Randolph teased, impishly tousling Linda’s hair and dislodging some of her impeccably rolled curls.

She slapped him on the wrist and patted her hair back into place.

Mickey shook hands, pleased to be in such company. “What does your uncle think about your work here?” he asked Randolph.

“Not much,” Randolph replied, a line of irritation on his forehead. “I suspect our relationship has precluded my being selected for the most exciting missions. Top brass is always fearful that I might be captured and spill some top secret,” he said, making everyone laugh.

“So finish your story about the Japanese ambassador,” Linda demanded of Randolph.

“Yes,” Sally said. She turned to Mickey. “He was telling us about the run-in our own Ambassador Lampson had with him two days ago.”

Mickey nodded. Yesterday’s headlines said that the Japanese ambassador, had been passing secrets about the Suez Canal to Berlin.

“Well,” Randolph started, “today, even after his betrayal was revealed, the Nip ambassador had the gall to ask Lampson if he could travel overland to the Suez and connect with his ship in the Persian Gulf. The route would have taken him and his entourage through some of our most sensitive installations and military defenses.”

There were murmurs of outrage from the group.

“Naturally, Lampson refused,” Sally said.

“Speak of the devil,” Linda said as she grabbed the hand of an
impossibly tall and imposing man who was passing nearby with his very pregnant wife, who was a good twenty years his junior.

Mickey did a double take as he recognized the British ambassador, Sir Miles Lampson, himself. With his impressive build, full mane of hair, and red-spotted bow tie, the man had quite a bit of flair for an old fart.