City of the Sun (38 page)

The Gezira Sporting Club, the quintessential symbol of British imperialism, was the most exclusive sports club in Cairo, and it required its members to sign in any guests who would be joining them at the Lido, the club’s dining room. Mickey was therefore surprised that a golf caddy was waiting for him at the entrance instead of Hugh. Wearing a blue galabeya, a white hat, and a red belt, the young, slender Egyptian explained in perfect English that Hugh had gotten drafted into a polo match and asked that Mickey be brought up to the field. They traversed the club, which with its many gardens, polo fields, golf course, racetrack, cricket pitches, croquet lawns, and tennis and squash courts, must have been among the most lavish sporting grounds anywhere in the world.

When they reached the polo field, a game was on, and they stood on the sidelines behind a white wooden fence surrounded by an enthusiastic crowd. “There’s Mr. Charlesworth,” the boy said, pointing to Hugh, the number three player on the red team.

Mickey proudly watched Hugh’s horse roughly bump a member of the opposing team. “That’s my guy!” But his attention quickly turned to another member of the red team, number seven, who came racing down the pitch in full gallop, the ground shaking under the thunderous hooves of his magnificent thoroughbred. In one swift move, he stole the ball from the blue team and started pushing it toward the goal.

“Cover him!” yelled a spectator next to them, tensely holding his binoculars.

Too late. The player had smashed the ball into the goal. The crowd in the stands went wild. The red team whooped in triumph, but not their victorious teammate, who trotted away alone.

“Who is number seven?” Mickey asked.

The caddie shrugged. He didn’t know.

“It’s Ali Rashad. Who else?” the man with binoculars barked.

“Ali! I should have known,” the boy exclaimed and clapped his hands above his head. “He is the best player in the club. He has eyes in the back of his head.”

“I thought only players from British regiments were allowed to play here,” Mickey said.

“Except when their fathers own half the horses in the stables,” the caddie responded. “Ali is a captain in the Egyptian cavalry. I have to get back, sir. The game is almost over.”

Mickey reached into his pocket to tip the boy.

“That’s quite all right, sir,” the caddie stopped him. “Mr. Charlesworth takes very good care of me.” He pulled a round red box from the pocket of his robe. It was British shoe polish, which was very difficult to find.

Mickey watched him go and leaned against the fence as the arbiter yelled the score: 9–8 Blue. When play resumed, number seven immediately charged, galloping with ferocious determination. In a whirlwind of energy, he beat every trick thrown at him by the Blues, scoring two more points and leading his team to victory. The crowd stood on its feet and cheered. Polo was a rich man’s sport, so Mickey didn’t know much about it, but he could tell a good player when he saw one, and Ali was superb. But he was also reserved, shaking hands formally with the other players when the grooms took his horse away. Hugh was the only one he embraced warmly. The two were clearly good friends.

Mickey whistled to catch Hugh’s attention.

“Hey!” Hugh brightened when he spotted him, and with his arm around Ali’s shoulder, he strolled toward Mickey.

“That was one hell of a game. Well done.” Mickey patted Hugh’s back in congratulations. “And you, sir, were terrific,” he told Ali, who was removing his helmet. The dark-skinned Egyptian was tall and well proportioned, and like most cavalry officers he boasted a thick mustache. Mickey thought he cut a dashing figure.

“This is my Yankee friend, Mickey Connolly,” Hugh said by way of introduction, wiping his sweaty, dust-caked forehead. “I’ve told you about Ali Rashad. We trained together at Sandhurst. He’s the reason I’m in Egypt in the first place.”

“Yes, of course. Hugh told me how wonderful you and your family have been to him.” Mickey recalled Hugh’s stories about Ali’s father, one of the wealthiest cotton magnates in the country, who was such an Anglophile that he demanded that his children speak English at home and hung a picture of Queen Victoria in his study.

“Hugh has told me about you as well,” Ali replied, shaking Mickey’s hand firmly. “You’re the journalist from America.”

“I told him what a bore you were,” Hugh interjected. “Always babbling about politics, censorship, and the unfairness of the world.”

“Better a bore than a drunk!” Mickey joked.

“How about we all have lunch together?” Hugh suggested.

“I don’t have much time,” Ali apologized.

“Rubbish!” Hugh said. “We’ll join you at the Lido after we shower. Get us a table with a good view of the girls at the pool.” He winked at Mickey and grabbed Ali’s elbow, steering him away.

The Lido terrace was flanked by two wings jutting out of the white and red clubhouse, the hub of the sporting facilities. Mickey was lucky to be seated at a prime table with a bird’s-eye view of the
swimsuit-clad women who lazily flicked through magazines while lounging on deckchairs below. Hugh would be happy. Nearby children frolicked while their governesses watched and gossiped. On the terrace, except for a few well-to-do Westernized Egyptian families, the clientele was mostly British, military as well as well-dressed expats. Alone at a table sat a Scottish officer wearing a kilt, with a bagpipe by his side. What on earth did the locals make of these men?

Mickey ordered lemonade and picked up the menu.

“Don’t despair, I’m here!” Hugh sidled up next to him, a martini already in his hand. “You know, you don’t look good—at all. Lost weight or what?”

Mickey shrugged it off. “Just not sleeping so well these days. Where’s Ali?”

“Still in the changing room,” Hugh replied as he grabbed the menu away from Mickey. “He’s listening to some new announcement on the radio.” He waved to a lovely girl in a strapless bathing suit, who blew back a kiss.

“Who’s that?”

“Ali’s sister. If it weren’t for my friendship with Ali, I’d go full steam for her.” Hugh elbowed Mickey conspiratorially. “Come to think of it, I could use a little hanky-panky, as you say in America. But business first. Regarding your inquiry, I didn’t forget about you, mate, but they sent me to Suez for a week to clean up mines that had been dropped all over the canal. Anyhow, my Greek fence can get you anything you want: perfect invoices, checks, receipts, tax returns, you name it. He can get you papers for anywhere on earth—but not Palestine.”

“Why not?”

“Apparently visas to Palestine are printed on special paper. Forgeries have to be made from valid, existing passports purchased
from immigrants who have entered the country legally, and these have become impossible to come by. Why are you so interested?”

“It’s important for my article.”

“Hmmm … still working on that story.” Hugh took a generous sip of his martini, but from his look he didn’t seem too convinced.

The waiter arrived with his note pad, ready to take their order.

“Give us a minute,” Hugh asked. “We’re expecting one more.” He turned to Mickey and said, “If he ever shows up.”

“Why, what’s wrong?”

“He’s been brooding for weeks over his army’s humiliation at having their weapons taken away from them at Mersa Matruh. He’s ashamed of himself for having handed over his pistol. You have to understand, this lad lives and breathes his love of Egypt. It’s not for prestige that he went into the military.”

“He had no choice. The order came from General Neguib.”

“I’m surprised that for a newspaper man you’re that naïve,” Ali said as he arrived and sat down. “The order came from London.”

“I’m sorry about what happened,” Mickey said. “I know it’s a terrible insult.”

Ali shook his head and put his white cloth napkin on his lap. “They treated us like dogs. After months of breaking our backs, cutting trenches into what turned out to be solid rock under two feet of sand, we’re told to pack up and hand over our weapons within the hour. And now we’ve been reduced to filling sandbags in the desert. You should write about this!”

“Good Lord, Ali, you should be relieved to be away from the front. I don’t know why you’re in such a damn hurry to get your legs blown off,” Hugh interjected.

“Don’t tell me how I should feel,” Ali lashed out. “This is my career, and every day I have to look my men in the face and pretend that it’s all right to be pissed on.”

“Don’t be angry with me. I’m with you, mate,” Hugh said, patting Ali on the back to assuage him. “You’ve always defended the English, and now they’ve betrayed you. But hey, don’t turn your head,” he whispered in the same breath, throwing sidelong glances at a nearby table. “I think that blonde bombshell is looking at you!”

“Bloody women! Is that all you think about?” Ali grumbled.

“Be patient,” Mickey said. “When the war is over, Egypt will have its day. Sooner or later you will get your independence.”

“But when?” Ali shot back. “Just like in America, it will take a revolution. Thousands of men will die.”

“Maybe not,” Mickey said.

Ali locked eyes with Mickey, evaluating him for an instant. “Have you heard about your president’s Atlantic Charter with Churchill?” he asked.

“Sure did,” Mickey responded.

“What do you think about it? Is it just words?” Ali asked.

“Just words?” Mickey said. “Remember, you’re talking to a newspaper man.”

Ali laughed. “I like your friend,” he announced. “What should we order for lunch?” He reached for the menu as a young man in tennis attire appeared at the table. He looked familiar to Mickey.

“I’m Fernando Lagnado.” He extended his hand to Mickey. “We met on the king’s yacht. I’m a friend of Maya’s cousin Lili.”

Mickey’s throat tightened at the mention of Maya’s name. “Sure, I remember.”

“Are you coming to the premiere of
Gone with the Wind
tomorrow night? Maya will be chaperoning us.”

CHAPTER 36

Kesner radioed Tripoli.

All plans have been made for the capture of Erik Blumenthal. Will hold him in safe house until further advised. Schwarze Hund.

He signed off feeling satisfied with himself. In spite of losing his convenient meeting place at Dr. Massoud’s, he was doing very well. The Americans were about to deliver the scientist right into his hands.

As he splashed cold water on his face in preparation for his day, he heard the five o’clock call of the muezzin and checked his wristwatch. Right on time. He saluted himself in the mirror. The telephone rang upstairs, jolting him.

“Abdoul, my friend, calm down,” Kesner sighed into the receiver.

“They arrested Samina last night.” The poor man was beside himself. “They grabbed her backstage after her performance. They’re going to make her talk. She knows I’m working with you. I’m finished.”

“This is not good news, I agree, but get ahold of yourself. She can say anything she wants, but she doesn’t have any evidence against you.”

“I’m finished,” Abdoul wailed again. “With the Italians arrested and Samina under interrogation, I am in grave danger.”

“What do you plan to do? Disappear?” Kesner sneered. “You must stand your ground. The king will not allow—”