No More Lonely Nights (5 page)

“Provocative?” Hampton completed the phrase for her. He let it sit there for a moment. “Well, I can’t deny that you provoked Lieutenant Smythe, but, as for me”—his eyes were merry—“I enjoy a provocative exchange.”

For the first time since Hampton’s arrival, Dominique looked directly at him. As on Friday, he revealed a manner so uncharacteristically approachable that it perplexed her at the same time that it fascinated her. His mask of aloofness was slipping, and it was intriguing to peer behind it. It gave Dominique a small thrill, as though they were sharing a secret. Tentatively, she smiled.

In return, he flashed the same brilliant smile he wore in the photo on his desk.

Dominique caught her breath. Was he was flirting with her? Impossible. Their working relationship was too proper for that. She’d make a fool of herself if she got carried away by the mood of the moment. She gave him a questioning look.

Hampton let out a soft exhalation of laughter and, without another word, turned and went into his office.

A few minutes later, Dominique heard him whistling cheerfully. The tune was the rumba from Friday night.

It was three weeks later, a fine morning in September, that Dominique saw the headline that was to change her world.

Nothing about the morning presaged trouble. The sun was already high in the cloudless blue sky as Dominique waited at the bus stop for the shuttle to the base. Vendors with pushcarts passed by chanting their wares: ripe, juicy fruit, hashish, and fresh-baked bread, warm and aromatic from the oven. The street, by no means as crowded as Cairo, nevertheless stirred with a lively sprinkling of people, for many businesses opened from eight to two, then closed until five o’clock or, sometimes, until the following morning.

With a sense of contentment, Dominique inhaled deeply of the morning breeze. It was still fresh from the dramatic drop in temperature that was a nightly occurrence in the desert. Her buttercup-yellow dress fluttered around her legs and she had to keep her hand atop her matching hat lest it be carried away by a gust of wind.

Everything appeared peaceful and calm. Not until Dominique reached her desk and picked up the British military newspaper did she see the headline: “Nasser Snaps Fingers at West, Buys Arms from Soviet Bloc.” A chill snaked up Dominique’s spine as she stared at the red print bannered across the front page. Egypt’s president, whose request to purchase arms from the United States had been stalled for months, had instead turned to the Soviets for help. The article went on to say that the British had exerted tremendous pressure on the United States to refuse Nasser’s request, claiming that his threat to seek arms elsewhere was a bluff. A letter from Winston Churchill to U.S. president Eisenhower had been leaked to the press and reprinted worldwide. “You can’t give them arms with which to kill British soldiers who fought shoulder to shoulder with you in the war,” Churchill had written.

Dominique’s mouth went dry as she imagined the consequences of Nasser’s defiant reaction. But she didn’t have to imagine, for they were spelled out in the article. First was the unadulterated joy of the entire Arab world, which had come to hate the French and British powers that controlled it. Second was the immediate hostile reaction of the two European powers. Officials from Britain’s Cabinet universally condemned the move and issued thinly veiled threats. The French foreign minister portended “possibly disastrous consequences.”

As Dominique turned the page, she was greeted by a photograph that took her breath away. It showed a crowd of Arabs—tens of thousands of them—crammed into the streets surrounding the Council of Ministers building, in which Nasser had an office. They carried signs proclaiming him their savior. But what drew Dominique’s eye were the burning effigies as tall as ten men—three of them, dressed in the flags of France, Britain, and the United States. A close-up photo showed the gleam of ferocious, lusty pleasure in the eyes of those nearest to the burning symbols.

Dominique dropped the newspaper and cradled her forehead in her hands. Seconds later, she heard Stephen Hampton’s voice coming through the closed door of his office. She looked over her shoulder in surprise. He was never there before her. With a worried glance at his door, she removed her gloves and hat and deposited her purse in her desk drawer. Then she approached his office, ready to knock. But as she lifted her hand, the sound of other raised voices stopped her. She heard the phrase, “untenable situation.”

“The Communists won’t let this—” There was a loud report, as though someone had slammed his palm down on a table. Dominique jumped, then backed to her desk. Her stomach twisted with apprehension. What would happen now? She stood frozen as she considered the possibilities.

Then the door swung open. Voices floated out. She saw two officers emerge, one in the uniform of an army major, one bearing the same rank as Hampton. She hastily sat down at her desk and busied herself with the morning mail. One of the officers turned to address a parting remark to those still inside. Dominique gave him a sidelong glance, longing to know more about what she had read.

“Then it’s agreed. We won’t react until we’ve consulted—” The second officer cleared his throat and shifted his eyes in Dominique’s direction. She quickly returned to shuffling the envelopes on her desk.

The two officers stepped back inside Hampton’s office and closed the door, then re-exited seconds later, this time accompanied by two more men. Dominique didn’t look up to bid them good-bye. As soon as their footsteps faded down the hall, she stood and went into Stephen’s office. He looked up in surprise as she closed the door behind her.

Her brow was crinkled with worry. “I know there are things you aren’t supposed to tell me,” she blurted out, “but I have to know. Are the British going to act against Nasser? Is there going to be another Black Saturday?”

Neither she nor any other European would ever forget the last nightmarish battle between the British military and the Egyptians. Black Saturday had occurred just before the revolution of 1952, but for the British and other foreigners living in Egypt, Black Saturday had been far more of an upheaval than the revolution that had followed. The ouster of King Farouk had, after all, been a peaceful coup led by Nasser and other young military officers. But Black Saturday had been a brutal scene of pillaging and murder, a crazed mob engaging in a bacchanalian feast of blood, revenge, and abandon.

Dominique felt a wave of nausea grip her as she thought of that day on January 26, 1952. It had started with a clash between the British and the Egyptians over access to the Canal Zone. Many Egyptians had been killed, which had driven activists in Cairo into a frenzy of rage. Foreign businesses had been looted and wrecked. Nightclubs, hotels, and bars frequented by foreigners had been burned to the ground. Most horrible of all had been the savage massacre of nine British civilians at Cairo’s Turf Club. Four of them were disemboweled, one trampled to death.

Dominique shuddered as she thought, for the hundredth time, how easily she could have been one of the murdered. She had frequented so many of the places that had been torched, as had all her European friends. It was the good luck of the Avallons that the wedding of a relative in Paris had caused the family to be out of the country.

Now she wondered if another such horror was imminent. Ismailia, despite the presence of the British base, seemed so much more peaceful than Cairo that Dominique had managed to forget about the anti-European demonstrations that frequently disrupted the Egyptian capital. She took a step toward Hampton. “My mother,” she whispered. “You know she lives in Cairo. Near the European embassies. If the demonstrations turn into riots again…” Her lips were stiff; she couldn’t make herself go on.

Stephen stared at Dominique. His expression was sympathetic, but he remained silent, as though trying to formulate a response. Finally the answer came. Simple and, Dominique believed, truthful. “I don’t know what will happen.”

Dominique paled. She had wanted reassurance. With Hampton’s air of quiet authority, she would have believed him had he told her that everything would be fine. Instead, his answer frightened her.

Stephen got up and came around his desk to stand in front of Dominique. He leaned close and said softly, “If Nasser does nothing further, we won’t provoke him. But there are other factors in the equation. The Israelis are just across the Canal and that’s eating away at him.” Hampton paused and straightened. He looked Dominique in the eye. “The situation is dicey.”

Dominique regarded him with an expression of profound concern. A hundred questions plagued her, but Hampton’s veil of reserve warned that he had divulged as much as he could. She stared into his eyes, trying to read the subtext behind them.

His voice, more reassuring now, soothed her. “It’s not time for alarm yet,” he said. “I’ll let you know when it is.”

Dominique regarded him gravely. There was no question in her mind that he would keep his word. She gave him a decisive nod. “All right.” For a moment, they stared at each other, then Dominique turned to go.

Stephen’s voice stopped her. “You could leave now, you know.”

Dominique turned back and gave him a questioning look.

He took a step toward her and continued. “You’re under no obligation to stay, and I would certainly understand.”

Hampton stood so close that Dominique could feel his breath on her hair. And standing so close to him, she felt safe. She had the idea, irrational she knew, that she would always be safe in his presence. She met his gaze steadily and said, “No. You said the situation was dicey. You didn’t say I ought to go. Besides, I’ll learn more if I stay here than if I quit and return to Cairo.”

Stephen’s face registered admiration, then relief, at her decision. “I’ll have to count on you more than ever now.”

Even in her alarm, Dominique found it hard to suppress a thrill of pride. That a man like Stephen Hampton should trust her and rely on her was immensely gratifying. And there was more—a feeling of alliance and shared confidence. “I’ll do my best,” she promised.

Hampton lightly touched her arm as he might have a junior officer whom he was trying to reassure. Despite the innocence of the gesture, a hot jolt went through Dominique. Her stress at the morning’s events had turned her into a jumble of nerves. She had a sudden, crazy urge to bury her face against his chest and receive the warm comfort of his arms around her.

“Try not to worry too much.” His voice was soft, almost tender.

Dominique squared her shoulders. Somehow, Hampton’s faith in her made her feel brave—almost as brave as he thought her. “I won’t worry,” she assured him in a calm, clear voice.

But that night, Dominique could barely sleep. She jumped at every sound from the street below. Earlier in the day, she had worried about a military clash between Egypt and Britain. But now she began to consider what could happen to individuals who displeased the Egyptian government. The police could swoop down in the night with trumped-up charges and drag a person to jail. There would be a trial, but everyone would know the outcome in advance. Guilty. Always guilty. It had happened to the father of one of her school friends. And to one of the professors at the American College. The professor had finally been released after two years. Dominique had been aghast at his appearance when she had encountered him in the park one day. His black hair had turned white and his posture had become stooped and crooked. Torture and privation had transformed him from a vital intellectual into a feeble old man.

Dominique wondered if such a thing could ever happen to her or Solange. She tried to push the thought from her brain. Of course it couldn’t! They weren’t involved in politics. And her mother socialized with many in high office. The deputy minister of Egypt visited Solange almost every day. Nothing could possibly happen to them!

Stephen stood up from his desk and yawned. “You must be exhausted,” he said to Dominique, who sat at the small typing table on the other side of the room.

She looked up from her proofreading and gave him a philosophical smile. Since the crisis had erupted five days before, they’d worked progressively later, and at an unforgiving pace. But until tonight they’d adjourned by eight—plenty of time for Dominique to go home and change for dinner. Most evenings, she dined in restaurants, as there were always men anxious for her company. But tonight Dominique had broken her date, uncertain of when she’d finish work.

She shifted in her seat. How many hours had she been in the same position? She longed to freshen up, but didn’t want to take the time. Her hair, which had started the day in a decorous chignon, now tumbled on her shoulders. Her lipstick was gone, revealing the natural rosiness underneath. And her skin, unpowdered since morning, wore a faint glow. Her sophisticated veneer had given way to her own natural beauty. But if someone had told Dominique how lovely she looked, she would not have believed it. She felt weary and tense. A long, hot shower would have been bliss.

Stephen looked at his watch. “It’s past eight-thirty. If we don’t get something from the mess now, we’ll miss dinner entirely.”

Dominique stood up and discreetly rotated her ankles. “Tell me what you’d like. I’ll bring up a tray.”

Hampton grimaced. “Anything except one of their beastly stews.”

Dominique laughed. “English cooking…” She shook her head.

Stephen’s gaze lingered for a moment on her dimples, then on her tumble of auburn waves. He averted his eyes and, in a deliberately casual voice, said, “Horrid stuff, English cooking. I’m afraid Egypt has spoiled me.” He shrugged in a good-natured way and strolled over to the map on the wall, keeping his eyes focused on it.

“And what about the weather?” Dominique teased. “Won’t you miss the sun when you go back to England?”

“Don’t remind me!” Hampton groaned. He put his hands on the small of his back and stretched.

Dominique followed the movement with her eyes—the pull of fine linen across his broad chest, the glimmer of bleached down on his muscled forearms. With his tie loose and his sleeves rolled up, his maleness suddenly seemed overwhelming.