Covert in Cairo, page 25
As readers of the series know, Fredrick Fredricks is based on a real-life spy, Fredrick Duquesne, infamous for clever disguises, disarming charm, and jailbreaks. Although this novel is entirely a work of fiction and more cozy than historical, you might have recognized a few other real-life characters.
T. E. Lawrence, aka Lawrence of Arabia, was a British archeologist and army officer famous for his role in the Arab Revolt. Another influential archeologist, Gertrude Margaret Lowthian Bell, played a crucial role in gathering information from tribal leaders for British Intelligence. Both Lawrence and Bell worked for the Arab Bureau, which was housed in the Savoy Hotel.
Archeologist Howard Carter is best known for the discovery of Tutankhamun. Like other archeologists, he had to suspend his work in Egypt when the war broke out in 1914. But by the end of 1917, when the novel takes place, he was excavating again on behalf of his patron, Lord Carnarvon. Although some have speculated that Carter had an affair with Carnarvon’s daughter Lady Evelyn, she denied it as absurd.
Brigadier-General Sir Gilbert Falkingham Clayton was in charge of the Arab Bureau at this point. He was a British army intelligence officer. T. E. Lawrence called him a perfect leader for the wild men of the Arab Bureau, which was made up of archeologists and intellectuals rather than proper soldiers. His wife was Lady Enid. The rest is fiction.
Mori Al-Madie is very loosely based on a real-life actress, Munira al-Mahdiyya, known for playing male parts. She founded her own theater company and performed and recorded anti-colonialist songs. She was a committed nationalist who worked against the British occupation of Egypt. She was not, however, involved with German spies or murderers.
Hermann Gabler is loosely based on Hermann Grapow, a German archeologist who eventually went to work for the Nazis in World War II. Although he didn’t work for the German army in World War I, he was known to be unscrupulous when it came to artifacts.
German archeologist Ludwig Borchardt is infamous for illegally removing the bust of Nefertiti from Egypt.
Recently (2022), the Metropolitan Museum in New York returned twenty-one precious artifacts illegally trafficked out of Egypt. Some of the greatest museums in the world, including the British Museum, display artifacts taken from Egypt. Stolen or not, the “repatriation” of antiquities continues.
My research for this novel included a lot of history books. Some of the most helpful were: Spies in Arabia: The Great War and the Cultural Foundations of Britain’s Covert Empire in the Middle East by Priya Satia; The Pyramids of Giza by Annie Pirie; Archeologists, Tourists, Interpreters by Rachel Mairs and Maya Muratov; A World Beneath the Sands: The Golden Age of Egyptology by Toby Wilkinson; and my personal favorite because it has lots of pictures, Grand Hotels of Egypt in the Golden Age of Travel by Andrew Humphreys.
NOW TURN THE PAGE FOR A SNEAK PEEK AT…
MAYHEM IN THE MOUNTAINS
A FIONA FIGG AND KITTY LANE MYSTERY
Kelly Oliver
Chapter One
The Cortina
Waiting was deuced distracting. Where was the scoundrel? He was supposed to be here yesterday. And he was never late.
Bloody war. It was trying my patience.
I gave up pacing and resigned myself to re-reading the latest version of Detective Story Magazine. I’d just settled into a chair in front of the fireplace when Kitty flounced into the lounge and flung herself onto an overstuffed chair. Her little dog trotted hot on her heels.
Kitty Lane was my new partner. We were thrown together by the War Office under direct orders from Captain Hall, the girl’s guardian and my boss. Along with Clifford Douglas, our sometimes chauffeur and chaperon—as if we needed either, we were on a mission to follow known German spy and all-around cad, Fredrick Fredricks.
“I’m bored!” Kitty threw her head back and raised her hand to her brow like the doomed heroine of a tragic opera. “And so is Poppy. Right, Poppy-poo?” Poppy the Pekingese barked in agreement.
“Boredom is the result of a lack of imagination.” I dropped my Detective Story Magazine into my lap. “Either that or indolence.” I sniffed. “And you, my dear, suffer from neither.”
Although I’d just met Kitty Lane two months ago—and under false pretenses, I might add—I knew the girl was as full of energy and mischief as Poppy, the furry beastie who’d jumped up into her lap and was licking her face.
Disgusting. Kitty giggled and kissed the creature’s topknot, which was tied up with a pink bow. Obviously, mischief was not the only trait the girl shared with her dog. The girl’s sense of hygiene was as questionable as the pup’s.
“This place is so dreary.” She sighed.
This place was the Ampezzo Valley of the Dolomite mountains in northern Italy, and anything but dreary. Rugged snow-covered peaks jutted out of the high plains like majestic overlords claiming the sky as their inheritance. The rock outcroppings, blood-red sunsets, and icicles that hung down from the roof like daggers were a far cry from the deserts of Egypt, or London for that matter with its crowded streets and thick fog.
No. Far from dreary, this place was a picture postcard.
Kitty bolted upright and pointed at the window. “We’ll never get out of here if it doesn’t quit snowing.” She sighed and leaned back in the chair, sliding her legs over one of its arms. “Maybe that dreamy doctor will stop by again.” Clapping her hands in front of her face, she let out a high-pitched squeal.
My hands flew to my ears. “Good heavens.” The girl really did need to learn to stop behaving like such a ninny. “Don’t screech and sit in that chair properly.” I searched my memory for some dreamy doctor. From what I’d seen it was difficult to find any doctors on the Italian Front, dreamy or not.
“If only we could have a fancy-dress party.” Ignoring me, she kicked her feet back and forth.
“A convalescent spa is hardly the place for a ball.” I glanced around the cavernous lounge of The Cortina. Built into the side of a mountain, in the summer Italy’s premier health spa served as a retreat for wealthy Europeans suffering from chest disease. In the winter, one wing housed hearty sorts seeking adventure, while another outbuilding sheltered wounded soldiers suffering chest disease and worse.
The war on the Italian Front was just as bad as anywhere else. In some ways, it was worse. The Italian Front ran along the rugged, rocky, mountains between northern Italy and Austria, which were better suited to rigorous sportsmanship than war.
“Why not?” Her rosebud lips blossomed into a pout. “Joy and beauty are as important to good health as bitter tasting medicines.”
She had a point.
“Yes, but we have to take the bitter with the sweet.” Speaking of bitter. A bitter, cold draft whooshed in from under the wooden door making the lounge bloody freezing. The Cortina’s stone walls and high ceilings amplified the harsh winter temperatures. Hard to believe it was a health spa. More like a good place to catch pneumonia. Couldn’t they light more fireplaces, for heaven’s sake?
I knew the answer, of course. The war.
Every hardship or inconvenience was attributed to the Great War, which had been raging across Europe, and beyond, for three dismal years now. Up until the last few months, I’d spent the war stuck filing papers at the War Office.
“Bor-ring.” Kitty kicked at her chair.
“Here.” I thrust the magazine at her. “Why don’t you read Arthur Conan Doyle’s essay about Sherlock Holmes and the process of deduction?” As Doctor Watson says, “A solution explained is a mystery spoiled.” I doubted Mr. Conan Doyle’s readers would agree.
“Aunt Fiona.” She groaned and waved the magazine away. “I’m too old for children’s stories.”
I wished she’d quit calling me aunt. A mere seven years her senior, I was hardly an old maid. The girl was barely eighteen but fancied herself a woman of the world.
“Horsefeathers.” I scoffed. “You could learn a lot about detective—”
“Ha!” Kitty cut me off. “Orange monkeys don’t commit murder, and criminals don’t go around painting horse heads—”
“So, you do read.” Now it was my turn to interrupt. “And here I thought you just looked at the pictures in your high fashion rags.” I grabbed my magazine and stood up. “You could help out next door at the hospital.” The British army had commandeered an outbuilding next door for a makeshift hospital. Having volunteered at Charing Cross Hospital back in London, I knew firsthand the stomach and stamina it took to care for broken soldiers. “Unless you’re too squeamish or afraid to walk in the snow.”
Kitty guffawed. “You have no idea…”
It was true. I had no idea what the girl had seen or done. She was more of a mystery to me than our current assignment in Italy.
“Don’t tell me.” I tucked the magazine under my arm. “Boarding school in France.”
“That’s right.” She raised her eyebrows and grinned. “Marie and I—”
“Miss Marvingt?” Rumor had it that Miss Marie Marvingt had once donned a mustache and dressed up as a boy and fought on the frontlines. A woman after my own heart. I would love to have tea with her and compare mustaches. I rubbed my hands together. Just thinking about my slender case filled with fake facial hair and spirit glue that I had hidden under my bed made me giddy.
“Marie was my ski instructor.” Kitty pulled the squirming puppy closer to her breast. “Wasn’t she, Poppy-poo?” The girl used an especially annoying high-pitched voice when addressing her dog.
“Nurse Gabrielle told me she flew an air ambulance and may even visit us here.” I moved closer to the fire and warmed my hands.
“She taught me to shoot and...” Her voice trailed off. Was the girl blushing?
“I bet she’s a crack shot.” I turned around to warm my backside.
A cloud passed over the girl’s countenance. Yes. Her rosy cheeks had turned bright red. Her lips stretched into a thin line, but she didn’t say a word. Apparently, I’d hit a nerve.
“What’s wrong my dear?” What else had this Miss Marvingt taught the girl? Whatever it was, Kitty was unusually shy about it.
“He was supposed to be here by now.” She picked at the pink ribbon tied around Poppy’s topknot. “What if he doesn’t show up?”
I bit my tongue, fighting the urge to feign ignorance. For I knew exactly who she meant. Fredrick Fredricks, of course. South African huntsman, American journalist, and German spy. The War Office had assigned us to trail the bounder and report back on his plans to sabotage the British war efforts. Where the devil is he?
It wasn’t the first time he’d lured us to some far-flung corner of the globe. But it was the first time he hadn’t shown up. It wasn’t like him not to keep his word. Perhaps a jealous husband or ambitious spy had finally caught up with him. It would serve him right.
Posing as a British officer, the rotter was supposed to have been inducted into the Knights of the Supreme Order yesterday at the Basilica Minore dei Santi Filippo e Giacomo in the town square. Apparently, he did something to deserve a Catholic religious award. What I couldn’t imagine. Truth be told, he was supposed to be in jail in Cairo for the part he may or may not have played in the murders of two British agents. But the sneaky cad had escaped almost two weeks ago. Why anyone would accept the scoundrel into a religious order was beyond me.
“I say.” A familiar voice inserted itself into our womanly tête-a-tête. “I was wondering where you girls had got to.” Pipe in hand, Clifford strode into the lounge. No doubt he’d just come from the hotel pub. Captain Clifford Douglas was tall and lanky with a long face, receding hairline, and prominent chin. In his late thirties, aside from his lively blue eyes, he resembled an aging racehorse. Still, he was a decent sort of chap. If only he could keep his mouth shut. He was a notorious blabbermouth, a quality deuced inconvenient in our line of work.
After five successful missions—nearly successful missions—I could hold my head up and say my line of work was espionage. Too bad Captain Blinker Hall, my boss at the War Office, wasn’t as confident in my work. At least not yet.
Poppy jumped off the girl’s lap and ran to Clifford. He scooped the pup into his arms. “What if who doesn’t show up?” He cooed at the little beastie.
“If you must know, your best pal, Fredrick Fredricks.” I scowled at him, thinking of his constant reminisces about hunting with Fredricks in Africa.
“Fredricks is a man of integrity.” Clifford put the dog down and jammed his pipe between his teeth.
Ha! Fredricks, a man of integrity. That’s a laugh.
“If he says he’ll be here, he will.” He struck a match. “Mark my words.” After a couple of puffs, he blew out a cloud of foul smoke. “Once, when we were hunting in the Serengeti, the old boy was delayed by a charging rhinoceros—”
“Please.” I waved my hand in front of my face. “Not another one of your gruesome hunting stories.”
Red in tooth and claw. Tennyson had it wrong. It’s not animals, but men who are the true beasts. I loved my king and country as much as the next girl but the horrors I’d witnessed at Charing Cross Hospital had quite put me off war. It wasn’t exciting. It was bloody heartbreaking.
“Why do you think your pal the great hunter lured us to Italy? The only wildlife I’ve seen circling about The Cortina was a pair of bearded vultures. He’s hardly coming to hunt.” No doubt Fredricks had his sights on bigger prey. Double agents were his usual quarry.
“For the ceremony.” Clifford warmed his hands in front of the fireplace. “That Catholic do.”
“That Catholic do was yesterday. You know as well as I do that Fredricks is up to something.”
“He always is,” Kitty chimed in.
“That’s why we’re chasing him across the globe.” The earthy smell of my wool skirt heating up encouraged me to step away from the fire.
“Why do you say that?” Clifford looked hurt. He still didn’t believe that his old hunting pal could be a German spy. Why he always defended the rotter was beyond me.
“Let’s see.” I held up my hand and counted off on my fingers. “He killed an English countess at Ravenswick Abbey. And a Russian countess at a Parisian garden party—”
“I say, no one could prove he did for those two ladies.” Clifford tapped his pipe on the interior wall of the fireplace and tobacco ash fell to join the wood ashes below.
“Then there was that poor nanny in Vienna.” I held up three fingers. “And in New York… well, he didn’t kill anyone, but—”
“Enough!” Kitty stood up. “Fredrick Fredricks is guilty as sin and must be stopped.”
Speechless, Clifford and I stood staring at the girl. Since we’d arrived in Italy, she’d been as changeable as a January sky. On the surface, Kitty was a sweet, bubbly teenager in love with frilly dresses and flirting. Underneath the high-pitched squeals and nervous hand clapping was an intelligence officer skilled in foot-fighting, forensic science, and heaven knew what else.
“He is an enemy of Britain.” She yanked on Poppy’s leash. “You two can stay here bickering like an old married couple but I intend to bring Fredricks to justice.” She stomped off with Poppy in tow.
“Temper. Temper.” I shook my head. There was no need to be insulting. Old married couple, my eye. Why I’d turned down at least one marriage proposal a month from Clifford.
Still, the truth sank in my stomach like a stone.
The reason Captain Hall had continued sending me on assignments was because Fredrick Fredricks kept taunting me to follow him with personal invitations to operas, royal balls, or fancy induction ceremonies—that, and the fact all able-bodied men were off fighting the Germans. Otherwise, even now, I’d be back in Room 40 filing documents and delivering tea to codebreakers.
Roar. Clank. Roar. Whoosh.
A great commotion outside interrupted my lament. I glanced out of the window. The roaring of an engine was accompanied by a snow-devil whirling in the distance. What in heaven’s name? Had the Germans lobbed a bomb?
I dashed to the window, used my palm to wipe off condensation, and stared out onto a wintery world. It was still snowing. The mountains were covered in a blanket of white. And a sudden burst of snow blew up from the valley below and enveloped The Cortina in a cloud. I shielded my eyes with my hand, but between the fog on the window and the whirling snow devil, I could barely see the icicles hanging from the roof let alone what was happening out in the meadow.
By the time I turned around, Clifford was already at the front door. Where is he going? As he went out, a frigid gust came in.
Shivering, I quickened my pace to fetch my coat, which hung on a hook next to the door. I tugged on my coat and hat, slipped on my gloves, and bolted outside.
My wool velour trench coat was no match for the wind. And neither was my bare face. Icy snow pelted my skin. My eyes stung and watered, and half-frozen tears burned my cheeks. The air I sucked in clawed at my lungs and stabbed at my ribs. My nostrils crackled. No doubt my nose hairs were turning into tiny stalagmites. I smiled to myself. My mother would turn over in her grave if she knew I’d even thought of nose hairs.
I pulled my coat tighter.
The engine sputtered and then changed pitch from a deep roar to a metallic whine. I followed the sound. Eventually, I made out Clifford’s silhouette up ahead. Reassured, I lowered my head and charged through the blowing snow toward the meadow. At least I hoped I was heading toward the meadow.
“Wait for me!” The last gasps of the dying engine drowned out my voice. Blast it. Snow had breached my lace-up leather boots. Not stopping, I reached down, hopped on one leg, and tried to fling the icy intruder away from my ankle. And I thought soggy London was hard on footwear. Ruined. My favorite boots would be ruined.
