Covert in Cairo, page 14
Fredricks. His mission was to agitate and persuade the Bedouins to turn against the British. Could he be involved with this Baron Max Von Oppenheim?
“What has this baron chap to do with the codes in the garment hems?” I sincerely hoped this baron business was not another one of his digressions.
“Folks at the Arab Bureau call it the silk conspiracy.” He smiled. “Now, thanks to you, they know where to find the traitors.”
Heavens. The costume girl was involved in an international conspiracy. Hard to believe. For all I knew, her brother was a Turkish pasha.
The pieces were falling into place, if somewhat chaotically.
Now to find out why General Clayton had blood on his shirt and didn’t come home the night the Frenchman died.
Entering the club was to enter another world. The browns and tans of desert sand were replaced with sprawling botanical gardens with fields of green grass, acacias, jacarandas, and other colorful flowers.
Clifford told the gate attendant we were guests of General Clayton, which worked as well as any secret password. We stepped out of the taxi and into a horse-drawn open carriage driven by an Egyptian, who could work for the club members but wasn’t allowed to be one himself.
We passed a polo field where mounted cavalry practiced maneuvers. On the tennis courts, soldiers lined up for inspection. Even the sporting club had been taken over by the army.
“We have four polo grounds, two racetracks, thirteen tennis courts, cricket and croquet lawns, a golf course, and a tea pavilion.” The driver smiled back at us. “And, of course, the hunting grounds.”
Of course.
Sitting in the open carriage in the noonday sun wearing men’s trousers, jacket, and a full beard was sweltering. How I longed for a light summer frock. Men’s clothing might open doors, but the right women’s clothing could provide much-needed ventilation. I wondered if bloomers were cooler. I just might have to get some.
Kitty squirmed in the carriage seat. She was sitting on her hands. No doubt to keep from clapping them together in delight. The girl was altogether too excitable, especially when dressed as a boy.
The grounds of the club were so enormous, it took us longer to cross them than it had to reach the club from our hotel. Finally, the driver dropped us off at a hunting lodge.
The lodge, a handsome stone building sporting the Union Flag, sat next to a man-made pond replete with ducks and swans. Men wearing dark woolen jackets, thick breeches, tall boots, and gloves gathered in front of the lodge. Several Egyptians dressed in British red coats led horses from a nearby stable. And a pack of hounds barked and wagged, eager to kill something.
Already mounted on a sleek bay mare, General Clayton was larking around with another member of the field. His black velvet hat bobbed as he laughed.
I nudged Clifford. “He’s over there.” I gestured with my head.
Clifford held the rein on my horse—a very pretty little black gelding—as I mounted. Thank goodness for trousers. Still, it took me a few tries to get my leg over the horse’s rump.
You’d think in those dreamy summers on my grandparents’ farm, I might have learned how to ride a horse… or bake a pie. Instead of riding or baking, I always had my nose in a book or the latest issue of Strand Magazine for the newest Sherlock Holmes story.
What I lacked in skill, I made up for in determination. I was going to ride in this hunt if it killed me.
Kitty hopped up onto her chestnut mare like a true cowgirl, er, cowboy.
Once mounted, Clifford led his horse over to join General Clayton. Kitty gave her horse a little kick and it followed them over.
“Come on, horse.” I tapped lightly on the horse’s sides with my boots. “Go.” The horse put its head down and munched on some grass. Blasted creature.
Clifford and Kitty had joined the general and were already laughing at his jokes.
My horse still hadn’t moved, except one step sideways to get at a better clump of grass. I yanked on the reins, trying to pull its fat head up. And I thought donkeys were stubborn.
The hunt master blew the trumpet, and the hounds were off. After the staff in their red coats had departed on horseback, the members of the field followed.
When all the other horses had taken to the field, mine decided to jerk its head up and take off at a gallop to catch up. I held onto the saddle for dear life.
It was a wonder these single-minded British sportsmen could replicate an English forest in Cairo. The sandy ground, palm trees, and bright sun outside the club grounds seemed to jeer at their attempt. Like the ancient Egyptians whom I’d read about in my guidebooks, the sportsmen had managed to get sycamores and mulberry trees to grow an oasis in the desert.
Fredricks’s words from the railway haunted me. “You English see yourselves reflected in a mirror of your own hubris.” He had a point. Everywhere you turned in Cairo, the British were trying to turn the city into a replica of home. From toad-in-the-hole to hunting hounds.
To avoid getting whacked in the face with branches, I ducked as my horse raced under a sycamore tree. Up ahead, the hounds ran in a pack and barked an excited chorus.
Without letting go of the saddle, I reached into my satchel and pulled out Kitty’s fox-fur stole. I launched it into the trees, hoping to throw the hounds off the scent of the fox they were chasing. Poor thing. Imagine getting ripped apart by hounds, even hounds suffering from heat stroke. Gruesome.
It wasn’t long before the hounds slowed down and their tongues hung out of their mouths from the heat. After an hour of chase, the hunt master blew the horn indicating we were to break. By then, even the hounds were sorely in need of water and my bottom was sorely in need of liberation from this blasted saddle.
Shielding my eyes with my hand, I searched for Clifford, Kitty, and General Clayton. Distracted by the sound of the horn and the anticipation of getting off this blooming horse, I wasn’t paying attention when the beast ran under another tree. A large branch swept me off onto the ground.
I heard an uncanny crack as I hit the ground. A sharp pain shot up my arm. With the wind knocked out of me, I lay there, trying to catch my breath. Now it wasn’t just my backside that hurt. My right arm was throbbing. Confound it. I hoped it wasn’t broken, the damnable thing.
“Are you alright?” a familiar voice boomed somewhere above me.
The sun prevented me from seeing him, but I recognized him, nonetheless.
I shielded my eyes with my good hand. “Not you again!”
Fredricks dismounted. He let out a thunderous laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Jolly inconsiderate to laugh at my misfortune. I held my aching arm.
“Fiona, ma chérie, your beard is hanging from that branch.” He pointed and then doubled over laughing.
I touched my chin and immediately regretted it. A jolt of pain shot up my other arm. I cringed.
Good heavens. Sure enough, my beard was blowing in the wind. And my cap was caught between two branches.
“What in blazes are you doing here?” I said through my teeth.
Fredrick Fredricks held out his hand to me. “Looking after you, of course.”
Cheeky devil.
“I can look after myself.”
“True.” He helped me to my feet. “But I enjoy the challenge.”
“Worthy adversary and all that rot.” I brushed off my trousers. “Ouch!” My arm throbbed. The slightest movement caused a stabbing pain.
“Ma chérie, you’re hurt.” Fredricks touched my shoulder.
I swatted his hand away. “Ouch!”
“But you’re hurt.” He moved closer.
“No more nonsense.” Taking a step backwards, I leveled my gaze at him. “Tell me why you had that map of the Suez Canal and why you gave the actress the note about Crocodile Lake?” My head was spinning. I reached out for the tree for support. “An attack planned for a year ago.”
“We need to get you to hospital.” He put his arm around my waist. “You’re so pale.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why you’re in Cairo and what you’re planning for the Suez Canal.” Overcome by dizziness, I fell against his chest.
“Ma chérie.” He kissed my forehead. “Don’t worry about your precious canal. It is safe… for now.”
I ignored his soft lips on my forehead and tried to focus. “The map… the note… Crocodile Lake.” It was no use. My vision blurred. “Red herrings. Why?” I was quite out of breath.
“Red herrings.” He laughed and pulled me closer. “You’re very clever.”
“Why?” I resisted the urge to faint.
“I suppose you reported my little ruse to the War Office?” His breath was warm against my forehead.
“I tried but Captain Hall wouldn’t listen,” I gasped, sucking in air. Had he wanted me to report it? To report false information to lead the War Office astray.
“He underestimates you, ma chérie.” He sighed. “But the lower the expectations, the greater the esteem when you triumph.”
At least someone believed in me. Why did it have to be Fredricks?
“Thank you,” I whispered, and then everything went black.
After a trip to hospital—where a nurse bandaged my sprained arm and put it in a sling—I was back in my hotel room, nursing my wounds, lying on my bed, and feeling sorry for myself. Of course, I’d lost Fredricks again. He’d disappeared after delivering me to hospital. At least he’d confirmed that the map, the note, and Crocodile Lake were all red herrings. Or had he?
I turned over on my side. Ouch! My arm ached. But my ego was more bruised than anything else. So much for my disguises. It would be impossible to hide this sling. Thank goodness the bloody thing wasn’t broken.
Kitty lounged on her bed reading a magazine, as usual, while Poppy slept snuggled at her side. Clifford sat at the dressing table, smoking his pipe.
Discouraged by the afternoon’s events, I didn’t even care that he was filling our room with foul smoke.
“It wasn’t a total bust,” Clifford said, trying to cheer me up. “Even if the hounds doubled back and lost the scent. Seems they took after a stray fox fur some daft woman lost.” He puffed. “What in god’s name was she doing in the woods?”
I smiled to myself. I may have sacrificed my arm, but I’d saved the fox.
“Tell Aunt Fiona what you found out from General Clayton.” Kitty looked up from her magazine. “That will lift her spirits.” She grinned from ear to ear.
“Of course. Yes.” His countenance brightened and he removed his pipe from his mouth. “You asked me to pump Clayton for information. So, I stuck to him like a hedgehog tick throughout the hunt. At one point, he almost shook me loose when he jumped a fence.” He chuckled. “I say, I thought I’d be thrown into a heap. Funny thing—”
“Clifford.” I narrowed my brows. “Please do get to the point.” My arm ached and I was in no mood for his prattle.
He clamped down on his pipe stem and pouted.
“Sorry.” Sigh. “Carry on.” I nodded my approval.
“Tell her about the stains on his shirt.” Kitty was stroking the bridge of Poppy’s nearly nonexistent nose. “What was it on his shirt, Pops?” She used her baby voice and then bent down and kissed the pup’s topknot.
“The bloodstains?” I struggled to sit up in bed.
“That’s just it.” Clifford smiled. “It wasn’t blood.” He poked the air with his pipe. “It was wine.”
“Wine?”
“Apparently, at some point during their post-ball row, Lady Enid spilled a glass of wine on the general’s shirt sleeve.” Clifford winked. “He ended up sleeping at the bureau to let her cool off, you see.”
“Or so he says.” Although, having been married once myself, the story did sound plausible.
“He sounded sincere,” Kitty said. “Remorseful even.” She threw her legs over the side of her bed and scooped up Poppy. “Tell Aunt Fiona about HG.” She straightened the ribbon on the dog’s topknot and then glanced over at me, another smug grin on her face.
“HG?” A stabbing pain in my arm reminded me that I was injured. Blast it all. “The HG of HG at GAI 11?” I propped myself up on my good arm.
“That’s quite a story.” Clifford pushed his thumb into the bowl of his pipe and then popped it into his breast pocket. “Once the hounds turned around, in the confusion, the general’s horse almost ran—”
“Clifford, dear. Get on with it.” Sigh. Could the man never just give a straight answer?
“Yes. Well. Sorry.” He blushed.
“HG,” I reminded him.
“You know how Jean-Baptiste got the Borchardt concession?” Kitty said, stealing Clifford’s thunder. “Hermann Gabler was one of the German archeologists working for Borchardt at the German Archeology Institute.” Thankfully the girl put me out of my misery and finally answered my question. We would have been there all afternoon waiting for Clifford to get around to it.
“They were all sent packing when the war broke out.” Clifford lit his pipe again.
“Hermann Gabler. HG.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed and plucked my notebook from the nightstand. “Jean-Baptiste went to meet this Hermann Gabler chap at the German Archeology Institute the night before he died.” I wrote HG=Hermann Gabler on my list of suspects.
“That couldn’t be a coincidence.” Kitty scratched Poppy behind the ears. “No, it couldn’t, could it, Poppy-poo?” Poppy licked her face and the girl giggled.
“We’ve got to find this Hermann Gabler fellow.” I circled his name.
“He’s supposed to be back in Germany.” Clifford blew out a cloud of smoke as he spoke. “If he’s in Cairo, he’s in hiding.”
“Then we have to smoke the rat out of hiding.” I snapped my notebook shut.
“How?” Kitty stood Poppy up on her lap and danced her like a toy doll. “Got any ideas?” She used her baby voice again to ask the dog. As if the dog could tell us anything… other than its favorite spot on the hotel’s carpet.
“As a matter of fact, I have.” Or at least I would, after I cogitated a while. My stomach growled. It was impossible to think on an empty stomach. “Clifford. Be a pet and call down and order us some lunch.”
Over a lunch of cheese sandwiches and soda, I formulated a plan. I told my friends about Agent Relish’s last words and my suspicions about the coded aria in the last act.
Tonight, we would pay another visit to the Isis Theater to discover what Agent Relish had learned that cost him his life. Romeo. Last act.
The plan was to watch the performance, question La Sultana, and then expose the theater as a cover for German spies.
Afterwards, under cover of darkness, I would break into the German Archeology Institute and find this Herr Hermann Gabler chap. If he were hiding out in Cairo, and if Jean-Baptiste had met him at the institute the night before he’d died, then Herr Gabler very well could be secreted at the institute. I planned to find out.
I didn’t bother to mention this part of the plan to my friends. A respectable espionage agent should be able to handle some assignments on her own… especially if she hopes to get promoted.
14
THE ISIS THEATER
Later that night, dressed in our finest, we returned to the theater to watch La Sultana perform Romeo, again.
The Isis Theater was even more picturesque than I’d remembered. With the theater lights on, the vibrant greens and yellows glowed iridescent as if they were illuminated from the inside.
We took our seats in the orchestra section near the front of the theater. Again, the audience filled with soldiers and their dates. The crowd hummed in anticipation.
I recognized a few faces. We weren’t the only ones taking in the same opera a second time. The last time, I’d come for a rendezvous with Agent Relish.
Now he was dead.
I shuddered just thinking about that horrible sound he emitted and those convulsions. Poor man. What had Agent Relish discovered here that had cost him his life?
I considered the sequence of events right before his death. I’d gone to wash my hands. The nurse went to get more supplies. How long had we left the bottles unattended? Long enough for Fredricks to tamper with them? Could he have added more morphine to the syringe when I wasn’t looking?
If Fredricks had set me up to kill the man, I’d never forgive him.
The nerve. Showing up to rescue me after my fall at the hunt club. Fredricks appeared and disappeared again like a ghost. A bloody annoying ghost.
“You’re flushed, Aunt Fiona.” Kitty fanned me with her program. “Are you alright? How’s your arm?”
“I’m fine, dear.” I patted her hand. She was a good girl, most of the time—except that time she’d tied me to a toilet. With her flair for forensics, she’d almost redeemed herself. Almost.
Between the full house and the dark burgundy seats and curtains, a heaviness hung over the audience. The cloud of cigar smoke emanating from the soldiers in the row behind us was suffocating. I didn’t understand men’s passion for cigars. I wondered what Dr. Freud might have to say about the filthy habit, one he himself shared.
Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Ha! I doubt that.
Clifford dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief. Wearing his woolen army uniform, no wonder he was hot.
Even in my lightest bespoke evening gown with pockets, I was sweltering. It didn’t help that my blooming arm was throbbing like a bloody bass drum. With my good hand, I took to fanning myself with my program. Kitty continued to fan me from the other side.
At last, the curtain opened, the stage set for another performance of Romeo and Juliet. The opera opened with a bang: a choreographed street brawl between the Montagues and the Capulets. It was a big number with lots of singers and dancers on stage.
Later in Act One, Romeo appeared on stage and the audience erupted into applause. La Sultana, dressed as the boy protagonist, took a brief bow before speaking her first lines. When Romeo and Juliet kissed, the soldiers went wild with whistles and shouts.
