Covert in Cairo, page 2
“Now, now.” I patted Clifford’s arm. “The ladies can defend themselves, thank you.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off the stranger. There was something oddly compelling about him. Perhaps it was the faint scent of rosewood or the resounding strength of his convictions.
“Do you read Arabic?” I pointed at the stranger’s book, assuming it was the poetry of which he spoke.
“It’s the only way to appreciate the character of the poetry and the people.” He shook his head. “Of course, the English think everyone in the world should speak their language.”
“I speak French and German,” Kitty piped up. “And Spanish, and—”
“I suppose you learned a bushel of languages at that boarding school in Lyon,” I cut her off. “Along with who knows what else,” I said under my breath. I too was fluent in French, thanks to Mrs. Boucher’s French class at North London Collegiate School for Girls. But I wasn’t one to brag. My German, on the other hand, was appalling. I had to admit, Kitty could come in handy when spying on Fredrick Fredricks and his German comrades. Clifford’s German was pretty good too.
“Mere European languages.” The stranger held up his book. “Here, you must learn Arabic if you want to do anything but see yourselves reflected in a mirror of your own hubris.” He stood up. “At least you have French, young lady.” The stranger bowed slightly to Kitty. “Since Egypt was occupied by the French before the English, you’ll get by passably well.” He opened the door to the compartment. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I, too, have work in Cairo.”
As he crossed the threshold, a folded paper fell out of his book.
I reached down and picked it up. The paper was heavy and thick.
“You dropped something,” I said to the closed door.
The stranger had vanished.
“What is it?” Kitty said.
“I say.” Clifford snatched it from my hands and snapped it open. “Why, it’s a map!”
“Heavens.” I gazed down at it. “Not just any map.” I grabbed it back.
A map of the Suez Canal. Marked with a big black X.
I touched the spot on the map.
Lake Timsah.
Smack-bang at the mid-point of the canal.
Could it be just a coincidence that back in New York, Fredrick Fredricks had hinted at a plot involving the Suez Canal? Or that the War Office had sent us to stop it? And now a strange man accidently drops a map of the canal?
“We have to go after him!” I held the map in the air and sprang up from my seat.
Always obliging, Clifford jumped up.
When Kitty took to her feet, Poppy barked and wagged her tail, as if cheering us on.
Three trains converging on the same track, we collided trying to get out of the door.
What a wreck.
No doubt the stranger was long gone by now.
2
SHEPHEARD’S HOTEL
Cairo was not just an oasis in the desert. It was a magnificent metropolis to rival London or Paris and yet like nothing I’d ever seen before. Palm trees, stone fountains, and stunning colors, both sundrenched bolds and bleached pastels.
Of course, the major cities of Europe lacked palm trees and pyramids. But it was something more. Something about the light. Sitting in the middle of the desert, the light was more vibrant and alive. The light of painters and poets. A far cry from dreary old London.
While the taxi transported us through the streets of the city, Kitty gawked around, oohing and aahing. Poppy stuck her little nose out of the window. And Clifford pointed out places he’d been on his previous visits to Cairo. “You’ll love Shepheard’s.” He launched into some longwinded story about the last time he’d been there.
Of course, I’d heard of Shepheard’s Hotel. Who hadn’t? It was one of the most famous hotels in the world. Back in Room 40 at the War Office in London, our premier codebreaker, Mr. Dilly Knox, liked to show off a pilfered ashtray sporting the red and black logo while telling tales about sultry nights on the terrace at Shepheard’s. He made it sound like the most romantic place on earth. I was eager to find out for myself.
The taxi driver pulled up in front of the hotel. I touched up my lipstick and reminded myself that I was not here for romance, but for espionage.
Stepping out of the motorcar, I was hit by the spicy scent of cardamom, cinnamon, and cloves mixed with an undercurrent of rotten vegetables. In front of the hotel, a man with a cart was selling roasted sweet potatoes. They smelled heavenly. But just a few steps away, a puddle of stagnant water gave off a foul odor. Cairo smelled both delicious and repellant. The irony of life writ large.
The ground floor of Shepheard’s hosted shops and the first floor sported the famous terrace. Both the walkway in front of the hotel and the terrace were abuzz with a sprinkling of tourists mixed in with soldiers of various stripes. And the entire place was adorned with decorations—holly, mistletoe, wreaths. I’d almost forgotten Christmas was only days away. The Christmas decorations seemed out of place in this desert palace. And yet there was something distinctly charming about palm trees trimmed with tin stars.
I climbed the steps to the hotel entrance and glanced around at the potted palms on either side of the entrance and the gaiety all around. The War Office had made it clear that Cairo was as important to the Great War as the Western Front. Yet the mood among the soldiers was giddy and bright. I squeezed past a jovial group of Tommies and stepped into the grand lobby.
In the center of the lobby stood a giant spruce tree. How in the world did they get that giant Christmas tree to Cairo? With its sparkling globes and gingerbread men, the tree lifted my spirits… and then plunged me into despair. This would be my first Christmas without my ex-husband Andrew. Of course, I’d lost him to Nancy even before he died. But that didn’t make the pain any less.
It would also be my first Christmas away from England. All those years ago, spending Christmases on my grandfather’s farm in Devon, who would have guessed I’d end up globetrotting on a mission for British Intelligence?
Mouth agape, I stood paralyzed by the variety of life buzzing around the lobby: Women covered from head to toe in black robes with their colorful shoes peeking out. Women in gay sundresses and floral hats. Another woman in a skirt and white blouse wearing sturdy boots and a pith helmet. Men in white robes with red fezzes perched on their heads. Men in linen suits and straw hats. Soldiers in khaki. Soldiers in white. Soldiers in green. Soldiers in blue. A sea of soldiers from all corners of the earth.
If I stayed here long enough, I’d surely see the entire world pass by.
Kitty clapped her gloved hands together. “Isn’t it marvelous?”
With its ornate pillars, Moorish arches, stained-glass dome, Persian rugs, and chairs sporting embroidered antimacassars, the lobby of Shepheard’s was indeed marvelous. A cross between a tearoom and a cathedral, all adorned with festive holiday wreaths and bows.
“Smashing,” Clifford answered, tipping his hat to one of our countrymen—or should I say countrywomen. Like a stray dog in search of a master, Clifford had a penchant for befriending pretty women.
Judging by her red cheeks and the strands of fair hair escaping from her chignon, she was a wilting English rose. I touched my own warm cheek. What must I look like to the world passing by? A bedraggled English bramble?
After the long dusty trip from Alexandria, we sent the porters up with our luggage and took tea on the veranda under the shade of a potted palm. Dressed in linen tablecloths and adorned with silk flowers, the outdoor tables were a welcome sight. I dropped into an oversized rattan chair and let out a sigh.
Finally, we’d arrived.
A waiter in flowing white robes wrapped with a wide black belt brought three tall glasses of lemonade. My eyes filled with tears of delight. Back home in London, I hadn’t seen a lemon since the war started three years ago. Each glass sat on a paper doily atop a small plate accompanied by two butter biscuits.
I bit into the biscuit. Delicious. Hidden within the delicate buttery outside was a fragrant treasure—spiced date paste filling. Absolutely scrummy. Unable to contain my ecstasy, I took another bite and then washed it down with bitter lemonade. I was nearly cooing with delight.
The cool beverage and sweet biscuit were an oasis in the desert of deprivation we’d suffered during this Great War. I’d never enjoyed a drink so much in all my years. To top it off, a pleasant breeze caressed my skin. Heavenly.
Even the Christmases of my childhood at my grandfather’s farm hadn’t filled me with so much gratitude and hope… hope that one day this bloody war would end, and we could all enjoy the simple pleasures of life once again. Lemonade, date-filled biscuits, and a cloudless blue sky.
“What are these?” Kitty stole a biscuit off Clifford’s plate. “They’re delightful.”
“They’re called maamoul.” Clifford gestured his approval. “I remember the first time I tasted them.” He smiled. “I was on my way back from hunting tigers in India, and I stopped off here in Cairo.” He pushed his plate toward Kitty, and she snatched the last of his biscuits. He was always trying to get the girl to eat, but the only nourishment she found at all tempting was the pudding course. “We’d bagged a beautiful—”
“Must we talk about blood sports while eating?” I interrupted. If I hadn’t had my mouth full, I would have stopped him before he got started. Otherwise, there was no end to his nattering.
“Yes, well.” He sputtered an apology. “Ramadan, the Muslim period of fasting and prayer, had just ended.” He glanced at me. “I was staying at the Savoy up the street.” He pointed with his thumb. “They served maamoul to celebrate Eid.”
“How much time have you spent in Egypt?” Kitty said.
“Don’t encourage him.” I patted her shoulder. “Or we’ll be here all night.”
Clifford pursed his lips. He sat pouting like that for the rest of the afternoon. Poor lad. He really wasn’t a bad sort. But after the long voyage, I wasn’t in the mood for his longwinded hunting stories.
After my second glass of lemonade, I was revived just enough to feel the full weight of our travels. Completely knackered, I squeezed out enough energy to rise from the table. When I did, through the ferns of a potted palm, I saw the mysterious man from the railway breeze onto the terrace and sit across from a boyish yet intense-looking chap in a smart Egyptian military uniform. I dropped back into my chair.
“I thought we were going up.” Kitty stood up and glanced around.
“Don’t look now,” I whispered. “The gentleman from the railway carriage.” I gestured with my eyes. Although the potted palm was between us and them, they were within earshot. If I tilted my head just right, I could see the plotting pair through the ferns.
“Please sit down, dear.” I bribed the girl with a half-eaten biscuit.
“I say,” Clifford huffed. “Isn’t that the insulting bounder? I have half a mind—”
“Now, now. We’ve just arrived.” I patted his arm. “Can’t we save fisticuffs for later?” I waved down a waiter and ordered a third lemonade.
Kitty asked for another plate of biscuits. Clifford switched to a whiskey cocktail called an Old Fashioned—a name that suited him.
The mystery man and the boyish Egyptian were in the throes of an animated conversation. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, just that they were speaking Arabic—in hushed, but harsh, tones. As the baby-faced Egyptian officer spoke, he pecked at the table with his finger.
Blast. An odd fellow dressed in robes and a headdress appeared directly in my line of sight. Two others trailed behind him, completely blocking my view.
“Douglas, old man, what are you doing in Egypt?” The fellow had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen, no doubt due to the contrast with his tanned complexion. His long face and prominent nose didn’t detract from his overall good looks. Although it was queer to see an Englishman wearing robes and a headdress.
“Lawrence?” Clifford stood up and clapped the fellow on the shoulder. “I say, Lawrence, is it you under that galabeya?”
I leaned around this Lawrence chap, trying to keep my eyes trained on the plotting pair. I wished Clifford’s blasted pal would get out of the way. I couldn’t see what my mystery man and his conspirator were doing.
“Carter, Gertie, this is Captain Clifford Douglas.” The chap turned to his two companions and waved dramatically. “Douglas, these are my friends Howard Carter and Gertrude Bell. We all like to dig in the dirt, among other things.” His brilliant eyes sparkled.
“Ladies.” Clifford turned back to us. “This is Lieutenant Thomas Lawrence, who apparently has gone native on us.” He chuckled. “They call him Lawrence of Arabia.”
Ladies? He couldn’t take the trouble to introduce us properly. Or were all ladies interchangeable? Ladies, my size forty-one foot.
“It’s Major, now.” The berobed chap put his hand to his heart. “But, as always, it’s just Lawrence.”
“Major Lawrence of the Arab Bureau?” Back at the War Office, I’d heard about him being a loose cannon, running around the desert, not following orders, inciting the locals to rebel.
“In the flesh.” His white teeth gleamed.
When I held out my hand to him, he bowed and kissed it. Not accustomed to being kissed by strange men, I immediately withdrew it.
“Stop teasing the ladies.” The woman I took to be Gertrude Bell punched him in the shoulder.
“Ouch!” He held up a fist. “Watch out for this one. Gertie has a wicked temper and a deadly right hook.”
“Why, you’re Gertrude Bell.” Kitty clapped her hands together. “The famous lady explorer.”
A pith helmet atop her head, Gertrude Bell had soulful eyes, and a mouth that would have been sweet if her expression weren’t so stern.
With his thumb, Major Lawrence pointed to his companion. “She’s not what she seems.”
Too bad. Except for the pith helmet, she seemed a proper Englishwoman, rather pretty, too, with a carelessness about her that only intensified her beauty.
An attribute not lost on Clifford. He was positively beaming.
If she so much as got a grain of sand in her eyes, he’d be proposing to her by day’s end. Clifford couldn’t resist a damsel in distress. He proposed to me at least once a month. Although—as he surely knew by now—I was hardly a damsel in distress.
“Isn’t that right, Carter?” Major Lawrence elbowed his companion in the ribs. “Gertie here is a curiosity, is she not?”
Mr. Carter grunted. “A lady archeologist is a curiosity, I suppose.” Howard Carter’s egg-shaped head was offset by soft caterpillar eyebrows and a rather large nose.
“I’m not a curiosity,” Gertrude said. “Just curious.” When she removed her pith helmet, a coil of light brown hair sprang out from underneath. “Anyway, what’s wrong with curiosity? Where would humanity be without it?”
“She’s got you there, Carter.” Major Lawrence’s high-pitched tinny laugh was unnerving.
Mr. Carter’s countenance hardened. “Good day, ladies.” He touched his hat. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to the dig.”
“Carter, lighten up.” Major Lawrence laughed. “Always ready for a fight, that one.”
“I’m a bit of an amateur archeologist myself.” Clifford chuckled.
Clifford, an archeologist? I rolled my mind’s eye. Clifford fancied himself a cross between Sherlock Holmes and Sir Lancelot. Now he thought he was Arthur Evans, too?
Poppycock.
“You should come out to the dig tomorrow morning.” Major Lawrence flashed a toothy smile. “Carter won’t mind. He never finds anything but pot shards and shoddy ones at that.”
“Brilliant!” Clifford pumped the major’s hand. “We’d love to visit the site.”
“What fun.” Kitty squirmed in her chair.
You’d think we were here on holiday, the way my companions carried on. Had they forgotten that tomorrow we were expected at the Arab Bureau for a briefing? Since I didn’t know these archeologists—and these days, anyone could be a German agent—I didn’t mention our engagement at the bureau.
Instead, I again tried to maneuver into position to see what my mystery man was doing. I wasn’t here to sightsee or visit digs. I was here to gather intel on plans to sabotage the Suez Canal. And if I was right, that’s what the plotting pair were doing at the next table, making plans. Why else would the stranger have a map with an X marked at the mid-point of the canal? The Suez Canal wasn’t exactly a tourist destination.
The Turks had already tried to blow up the canal several times without success. One hundred miles long, the canal was vital to the British war effort. Without it, ships from India would have to sail all the way around the tip of Africa, which took twice as long. And that was why, as Captain Hall had explained, protecting the canal was a top priority at the War Office.
Finally! The archeologists moved out of the way. Just in time, too. Leaning over the table, the stranger wrote something, handed it to his Egyptian companion, and then got up to leave. It was obvious from their grim faces that they meant business. Once the mystery man was out of sight, the petite Egyptian officer hustled down the steps and out onto the street. Within seconds, both men disappeared into the crowd.
I had to find out what the mystery man had written on that slip of paper. But how?
Glancing around the terrace, I slid out of my chair, popped over to the next table, and sat down. An ashtray encircled with ashes overflowed with stinky cigarette butts. Two demitasse cups sat opposite each other, one empty and one full. The Egyptian officer’s side of the tablecloth was stained and dirty from chain-smoking while he’d waited. The mystery man’s side, on the other hand, was immaculate.
Quickly, I removed the tracing paper and charcoal pencil case from my skirt pocket. I examined the tablecloth for indentations. Nothing. Gently, I ran my hand over the cloth. I opened the leather case and removed the pencil.
