City of the Sun (5 page)

CHAPTER 5

The coffee seller had assured Mickey that making the same Turkish coffee that was served in all the Cairo cafés was very simple: boil water, add sugar and a spoonful of coffee, stir well, and turn the heat off when the first bubbles appear. But with his head throbbing from a hangover, Mickey failed to remove the copper pot from the fire in time and it boiled over in a messy spill.

He had barely slept the last four nights since returning from Cairo. The specter of having to leave the country was eating him alive. The British press office had refused to meet with him, and asking for help from the Egyptian authorities would surely be a waste of time. When he’d gone to the American Embassy, the ambassador was not available and had him meet with his secretary, who had confiscated his press badge. The English had caught him illegally crossing the border into a war zone, she’d explained, and they feared that he might have inadvertently given away the position of their tanks. She’d refused to listen to his account of how the Germans massacred the British with Panzer IVs and told him that America had to be supportive of their ally who was fighting a war on many fronts. The best she’d been able to do for him was to obtain a few days’ extension of his stay here, giving him a little breathing room to figure things out.

Mickey was raging inside. He didn’t like to lose. He’d come here to make his mark as a reporter and he’d barely gotten started. His friend Hugh had enticed him to come, assuring him that there was a big story opportunity here in Egypt. Indeed, newspapers in the States weren’t paying attention to the war in North Africa, and the competition from American reporters would be light.

He rinsed the pot and refilled it with water, switching this time to the simpler Nescafé. While waiting for it to boil, he started to plan a note to Hugh, thanking him for the posh apartment and the contacts he’d arranged. It was woefully bad timing that Hugh had been out of town on assignment since Mickey’s arrival in Cairo two months ago. Mickey couldn’t imagine his unruly friend in uniform. After graduation from the University of Michigan, Hugh had returned to his native England, but quickly growing bored with the mother country, he’d moved to Cairo, where he’d been happy as a clam teaching at the American University and living a life of debauchery. Then he’d been conscripted into the army.

The phone rang.

“Howdy, you little sneak,” a man’s voice said. It was Carl Nelson from UPI. “How come you missed the press conference yesterday? Damn thing pissed me off so bad I’m throwing in the towel.”

“What’d I miss?”

“New rules for the press. I quote. ‘All contentious stories that might be detrimental to morale are prohibited. No accounts of unfavorable occurrences involving Allied troops will be allowed. Reports of air raids may not be featured in headlines. The name of Rommel is to be avoided; words like “the Axis forces” or “German Command” are to be used instead. No references to the Muslim Brotherhood or the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem will be permitted,’” Nelson concluded. “How do you like that?”

“That’s ridiculous. Tell the folks in Alexandria that there are no
air raids! And why can’t we use the names of the Brotherhood or the Mufti?”

“’Cause they’re siding with Hitler, you dolt!” Nelson answered. “You haven’t heard the capper yet. Every article we write has to be approved by three separate censorship officers. I’m heading to Iraq tomorrow. I heard Syria has allowed Axis planes to fly over its territory and use it as a base. From there the Krauts are sending troops to help the insurgency in Baghdad. It’s all about those Iraqi oil fields, I tell you. Want to meet tonight for a last hurrah?”

“I have a touch of the flu,” Mickey lied. “I’ll join you if I feel better.”

“We’re starting the rounds at the Scarabee Club. Ain’t no fun without you.”

Mickey hung up. He wanted to have his spiel together before he met his colleagues. He moved to the gas burner, where his coffee water was now boiling. He would try the press office one more time, he decided. If that failed, he still wouldn’t go back to the States. That would be an admission of failure. Maybe he could string out of Lisbon. Portugal was neutral, and a lot of people were converging there. The phone rang again, catching him by surprise and making him jerk his hand, splashing boiling hot water on his wrist.

“Yes!” he howled as he picked up the receiver.

“It’s Dorothy Calley, Ambassador Kirk’s secretary,” said the woman in a composed voice after a moment’s pause. “It’s a new day dawning, Mr. Connolly. The ambassador wants to see you. Pronto.”

Located at No. 3 Tolombat Street in Garden City, one of Cairo’s most elegant districts and home to most of the city’s expensive mansions and embassies, the American Embassy was nevertheless a very friendly place. The Americans had leased the building from
one of the Egyptian king’s cousins, who ironically was said to have German sympathies. The rear of the beautiful villa had been made available to the tiny American community living in Cairo. It offered a mail center and carried a number of American newspapers and magazines that were otherwise unavailable. Best of all, it housed a superb PX where American goods could be bought, and cigarettes and liquor were duty free.

Mickey entered through the embassy’s main reception area, where the administrative offices were located. The marine behind the reception desk confirmed that he was expected and asked him to wait. He sat down next to a well-dressed man engrossed in the sports section of the
Herald Tribune
. Though Mickey had put on his best dress shirt, he felt shabby as he looked down at his wrinkled linen trousers and jacket.

“Good to see you again, Mr. Connolly,” a female voice said, startling him.

It was Dorothy Calley, the ambassador’s attractive platinum-blond secretary who had phoned him. In her early forties, she was immaculately turned out in a simple black skirt and white blouse.

Mickey sprang to his feet and buttoned his jacket. “Hello, Mrs. Calley.”

She laughed a throaty Bette Davis chuckle. “It’s
Miss
, cowboy. There was no Mr. Calley last time I checked. Please follow me.”

She led him down a corridor, her heels clacking on the black-and-white checkered tile floor. Mickey trailed behind, his eyes on her shapely derrière.

When they reached a large, solid wood door padded with red leather, she stopped and turned to him, giving him the once-over. She picked a piece of lint from his jacket and rapped loudly at the door.

“Ambassador, this is Mickey Connolly,” she said formally as they entered. “Mr. Connolly, this is Ambassador Alexander Kirk.”

Dressed to the nines in a light gray, three-piece silk suit with
matching shirt and tie, his hair slapped down with Brylcreem, the ambassador was a dandy, and a well-perfumed one at that. The ambassador rose from a baby blue velvet armchair behind his desk, and as Mickey shook his hand, his attention veered to another middle-aged man standing in front of the window. He wore a blue suit and yellow tie, and Mickey was struck by his bold gray eyes as the man approached.

“Please, Mr. Connolly, meet Bill Donovan,” Kirk hastened to say. “‘Wild Bill’ as we call him—lawyer, foreign affairs expert, and citizen extraordinaire.”

“Stop it, Alexander, you’re going to make me blush!” Donovan said as he firmly shook Mickey’s hand. “Ace reporter for the
Detroit Free Press
, I’m told. Nice to meet you, Mr. Connolly.”

Mickey was taken aback by the compliment given that he’d just been expelled from the country, but before he could say anything, Kirk said, “Come.” He patted Donovan’s shoulder affectionately and guided the group toward the office’s plush sitting area, where they settled in. “If you don’t mind, Miss Calley is going to join us. She’s an essential member of our diplomatic team here and this was her idea in the first place.”

Mickey glanced at Dorothy inquisitively but she ignored him, a cryptic smile on her lips as she pushed a chair for herself close to the sofas. Now that they were all seated, there was an awkward moment of silence. It felt staged to Mickey, and he didn’t know what to expect. He quickly perused the office, which was decorated in mismatched eighteenth-century French furniture and garish modern pieces including a yellow chaise lounge with ivory feet, and shifted in his seat. He brought one leg over the other and felt even more uncomfortable when he caught Donovan studying him intensely from behind his bushy eyebrows.

“Drinks?” Kirk offered, shooting up from his seat. “I’m having a martini.” When the others demurred, he continued, “I’ll need a
drink to face today’s extravaganza—the monthly Crescent Cross luncheon affair.”

“The arduous life of a civil servant!” Donovan joked, but then leaned forward, his eyes fixing on Mickey. “Mr. Connolly, Ambassador Kirk has told me about the jam you’re in. That’s too bad. But we might be able to calm our British friends down if you can help us with a problem.”

“I’m listening,” Mickey said, uncrossing his legs.

“We need your assurance that this discussion will be kept strictly confidential. Can we trust you?” Kirk asked solemnly as he walked back with his drink.

“That’s your call,” Mickey answered. “Your British friends think I’m reckless and untrustworthy.”

“But your old professor, Gunther Hoff, has vouched for you,” Donovan interjected. “He says you’re a man of integrity and a true patriot, and I trust his judgment.”

Mickey was jolted by the name of his old mentor. “You spoke to Gunther?”

“The editor of the
Detroit Free Press
suggested that Mr. Hoff would be in the best position to give us a reference,” Kirk explained.

“By a fortunate coincidence,” Donovan added, “I know Gunther very well. We fought together in the last war and I have the utmost respect for him. He told me you wrote an excellent paper for him on the rise of fascism in Spain.” He formed a steeple with his hands and placed them under his chin. His voice was quiet but deliberate. “This is about our country, Mr. Connolly, and we need your word as a patriot that you will not reveal any part of this conversation. Can we have it?”

“Of course.” This was getting stranger by the second.

“Bill is a close friend and longtime advisor to President Roosevelt,” Kirk stated. “At Bill’s urging, the president has created a new organization to gather intelligence on the war, and Bill is its director.
It’s called the Office of the Coordinator of Information, or COI. He’s made it independent of the other branches of government and Bill reports directly to him,” Kirk explained. “Roosevelt regards Hitler as a serious threat to the world, including America, and is committed to helping the Allies. But publicly this is as far as he can go at this time.”

Donovan took charge again. “Our mandate is to collect and analyze information about foreign activity that is potentially threatening to the security of the United States. So we are, in fact, an espionage organization, like the English SOE, but without its bureaucracy. I emphasize again—this is
not
public information.”

“I understand,” Mickey said, waiting to hear what this had to do with him.

“The president has initiated several important research programs on arms development,” Kirk began. “Some of the brightest minds in these programs are German scientists, many of whom are Jewish. They wound up in the States after Hitler closed the doors of the universities to Jews in ‘33. We’ve got Albert Einstein working for us.”

“Thank God for Roosevelt,” Mickey said.

“There is someone else we need on our team,” Donovan declared, “a Jewish scientist who landed in Alexandria recently but is probably here in Cairo now. Roosevelt wants him found and brought to the States. We want you to help us find him without anyone knowing. We think your investigative skills will serve us well, and writing for a newspaper would provide an effective cover for your activities.”

Mickey was stunned. Was it a joke? “I don’t know anything about espionage work,” he protested.

“The truth is that none of our agents have had any experience in the spy business,” Donovan responded. “Our recruits are ordinary men with guts, who are willing to give it a try. We had a man working on this case, a Jewish businessman here in Cairo, but he never made it to Alexandria. He died of a heart attack the
night before the scientist arrived. We found out too late to have him replaced.”

“Frankly, Connolly, you’re at the top of a very short list of candidates,” Kirk said.

“Then you must be pretty desperate,” Mickey said with a nervous laugh.

“We know your French is pretty good, which will help you cozy up to the Jews here,” Kirk added.

“I don’t know anything about Jews. I didn’t meet a lot of them in Detroit,” Mickey remarked.

“We think you are a resourceful guy, Mr. Connolly,” Dorothy cut in pointedly, crossing her arms. “This is your chance to make history, instead of writing about it. You should grab it.”

The room fell silent. Mickey passed a hand through his hair. She had hit a nerve. “Miss Calley certainly gets right to the point,” Kirk piped in. “And she’s right. You could really make a difference here.”

“We’ll pay you two hundred dollars a week,” Donovan added.