Covert in Cairo, page 4
“The Arab Bureau has no telephone?” Clifford tilted his head. “What kind of outfit is this?”
“How nineteenth century,” I said, wondering the same thing. I slipped my hands into my gloves. “There must be a telephone somewhere.”
“In the lobby,” Gertrude said.
“No longer the lobby, Gertie,” Lawrence corrected her with a smirk. “But army headquarters.”
On the way out the door, Clifford and I passed Frigo. The large man was unnerving to say the least. His crooked tobacco-stained teeth were even more unsettling. I picked up my pace and continued down the hall without looking back.
When I reached the lift, I looked back. Where’s Kitty? Sigh. Annoying girl. “You stay here and call the lift, while I go and fetch Kitty.” I marched back to the Arab Bureau suite and found her flirting with Monsieur Lorrain.
“Kitty dear, we should be going.” My teeth were gritted but I used my sweetest tone.
“But Aunt Fiona,” the girl whined.
I tightened my lips and escorted her out.
Down in the lobby, after getting the runaround from various army men, we ended up in an office off the reception area. Yes. Finally. A telephone sat on a desk manned by a uniformed young woman. Thank goodness. Not another arrogant army man.
I approached the desk. “I need to use your telephone.”
“I’m sorry, but we don’t allow personal calls.” The young woman snapped her gum.
“It’s a very important business call to the War Office in London.”
The woman squinted at me. “And you are?”
“Fiona Figg,” I huffed.
“And your title is?” She tilted her head in a most unappealing manner.
Officially, my title was Head File Clerk in Room 40. I didn’t think this gum-chewing WAAC would be impressed. But I couldn’t very well tell her I was a spy on a dangerous mission.
Clifford stepped up to the desk. “I’m Captain Clifford Douglas.” He showed the woman his military identification.
“Apologies.” The woman looked up at Clifford. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“May we use your telephone to call London?” Clifford was all politeness and charm.
The woman smiled. “Of course, Captain Douglas.” She pushed the telephone forward to the edge of the desk.
“In private,” I said.
The woman scowled but got up from her desk, yanked on the bottom of her blazer, and then marched out of the room. As a professional woman herself, I’d hoped she’d be more understanding. If I’d been dressed in one of my male disguises, perhaps my Rear Admiral Arbuthnot costume, I’d bet she would have been more accommodating. Next time.
The operator connected me to the War Office and Captain Hall’s direct line. I glanced at my watch. It had just gone half twelve. Since it was two hours earlier in London, Captain Hall should still be in his office and not off to luncheon yet.
My stomach growled, reminding me I’d had only a cup of tea and half a piece of dry toast for breakfast.
When Captain Hall answered, I clamped the telephone receiver over my ear and, without taking a breath, quickly recounted every detail of my encounters with the mystery man from the railway carriage: his insults, the map, Lake Timsah, the date and time, 12–22 21:00.
If only I knew Fredricks’s role in all of this. Breathless, I sucked in air.
“Good work, Miss Figg.”
You could have knocked me over with a feather. Captain Hall’s compliments were few and far between. “Thank you, sir.” Maybe he was finally taking me seriously as a spy and not just a file clerk.
“We have a man in Cairo undercover as a stagehand.” Captain Hall lowered his voice. “I’ll arrange for you to meet.”
“Yes, sir. Who? Where? When?” Secretly, I hoped it was Archie. How I longed to see him again.
“Patience, Miss Figg.” He took an audible breath as if reminding me to do the same. “Agent Relish. At Isis Theater. I’ll get word for him to meet you there after tomorrow night’s performance.”
Could Agent Relish be Archie’s code name?
“Black hair and crumb catcher to match.” Captain Hall chuckled.
“Yes, sir.” I tried to hold my voice steady. If Agent Relish was Archie, he was disguised with black hair and a mustache.
“Brilliant. Unless there’s something else, Miss Figg.” He paused.
I scanned my memory. “Krokodilsee.” In my flurry, I’d forgotten this enigmatic but no doubt important detail. “Whatever that means.”
“It’s German for Crocodile Lake.” I heard Captain Hall shuffling papers on the other end. “Crocodile Lake is another name for Lake Timsah.”
“Crocodile Lake,” I repeated. Good heavens. “The Suez Canal.”
“That’s right.” I heard more papers shuffle. “Listen, don’t do anything without Relish.”
“Yes, sir.” Wasn’t he concerned about Crocodile Lake and the canal? “But the canal—”
“We’ve got it covered.” He sounded distracted. “Don’t worry. Meet Relish and follow Fredricks, nothing more.”
K r o k o d i l s e e 1 2–2 2 2 1:0 0
Yes. I knew it. Oh, my sainted aunt. It dawned on me where I’d seen it before. I searched my photographic memory for the details. Good grief. A file back in Room 40 from last year. The exact same code, the exact same location, the exact same date, except last year, 1916. Could the Germans be so daft as to try again in the same place at the same time?
“And Miss Figg…” He paused again.
“Sir?”
“No silly getups.” He chuckled.
“Getups?” By now, he should have realized how valuable my disguises were to our investigations. No spy worth their salt should go into the field without them.
“I mean it! No disguises.” His tone was dead serious. “Act naturally, and don’t you dare blow Relish’s cover. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir.” Instinctively, I stood up straight and saluted, as if he could see me through the telephone line. Thank goodness he couldn’t. “Sir, there’s something off about that information—”
Captain Hall interrupted me. “Meet Relish. And find Fredricks.” More sounds of paper shuffling. “No getups. Understood?”
“But sir. That date is from last—”
“Put Captain Douglas on.”
Why in the world did he need to speak to Clifford? What could Clifford possibly have to report?
I glanced around. Through the window, I saw Clifford outside smoking and chatting up the receptionist. “He’s not here, sir.”
“Kitty Lane?”
Kitty? He wanted to speak with Kitty. That was the last straw. Anyway, I had no idea where Kitty had got to. She was probably flirting with that frothy Frenchman.
“Sir.” I was fuming. “Believe me, they have nothing to report.”
“Very well.”
“Sir, the gen is old. Something is fishy—”
My voice met silence. Captain Hall had already rung off.
I straightened my pith helmet, adjusted my skirt, and snapped my goggles into place.
What I needed now was a strong cup of tea for fortification. And after tea, I’d meet Agent Relish, find Fredrick Fredricks, and stop the plot to blow up the Suez Canal, all on my own, if necessary.
4
THE BALL
After our visit to the Arab Bureau, we took luncheon on the terrace back at our hotel. A lovely breeze and the shade of a palm made for a pleasant temperature despite the blazing sun. The terrace was buzzing. Shepheard’s Hotel terrace was the place to people watch.
I was curious about the locals, who piqued my interest with their melodious language, flowing robes, and colorful tapestries. Perhaps that explains how Clifford talked me into ordering traditional Egyptian cuisine. After a few minutes, the waiter arrived with plates of stewed legumes like I’d never seen before. Dark leaves were rolled up like cigars. And the bread was round and flat. It looked safe. Watching Clifford take a piece with his hands and put it on his plate, I did the same. The bread was not light but rich and buttery. Compared to the rationed war bread back home, it was heaven sent.
Clifford and Kitty drank beer. I had tea. The Egyptians knew how to make a nice strong cup of tea, which, after the dreck that passed for tea in America, I greatly appreciated.
After eating an entire round of bread and drinking two cups of tea, I ventured a bite of something called ful, made up of spiced fava beans. I felt like a fool when my eyes watered, and I struggled to hold back a sneeze. I was quite overcome.
Clifford laughed. “Too spicy for you, old girl?” He tucked into his heaped plate.
I tried. I really did. But my poor palate was not always as adventurous as the rest of me.
Kitty picked at her lunch as usual. “I can’t wait to try the puddings.” The girl had a wicked sweet tooth. It seemed the only course she ever finished was the pudding.
I was relieved when the waiter brought a beautiful rice pudding. It was fragrant but not spicy. Thank goodness. Kitty and I both made short work of it. The sweet pudding was the perfect complement to my strong tea.
I had a devilish time persuading Kitty that we couldn’t prepare our costumes and toilette for Lady Enid’s ball and visit Monsieur Lorrain at his dig site—especially since we still needed to shop for our fancy-dress costumes.
“After all, you want to look your best when you dance with your handsome Frenchman.” I licked my spoon and then tipped the last drop of tea into my mouth. If I was right, and I usually was, Fredrick Fredricks would be at that ball. I wasn’t going to miss it for the world. Not when I had a chance to confront the bounder and find out what he was really doing in Cairo and why he’d dragged me across the world to Egypt.
Kitty pursed her lips. “I suppose you’re right.” Her eyes sparkled. “Dancing is more romantic than trudging around in the dirt.” She stood up and twirled her skirt.
I nodded my approval.
Aside from our trip to the Arab Bureau, we hadn’t yet ventured outside our own hotel. While Shepheard’s was packed with uniformed soldiers, it wasn’t until we went in search of costumes for the ball that I noticed just how much the city had been transformed into a gigantic military base. It was as if the British government had commandeered half the hotels and all the hospitals to house and treat Allied troops. Every pore of the city excreted Australian, Canadian, and British soldiers.
Whether they were en route to India, transferring to the Western Front, enjoying leave, or convalescing from war wounds, one way or another, the entire army seemed to pass through Cairo.
A taxi took us across town to the bazaar district and Wikalat Al Balah in particular, a souk famous for clothing and fabrics. “Us” included Clifford, who insisted on chaperoning two “delicate English ladies.”
Ha! If he only knew. In fact, I knew very little about Kitty Lane. But I did know she was no delicate English lady. Clifford was oblivious when it came to “English ladies,” especially Miss Kitty Lane.
Wikalat Al Balah was a world apart from Shepheard’s and the British encampment around Azbakeya gardens. Yes. There were soldiers. But they were outnumbered by men in robes and headdress and women wearing colorful sheath dresses and wraparound gowns.
Cobblestone alleyways between limestone buildings under mudbrick arches were chock full of vendors selling everything from barrels of spices, legumes, and nuts, to silver cigarette cases, knives, and silk scarves. The overlapping of vibrant colors and rich textures put me in mind of a ragged patchwork quilt my grandmother had inherited from her grandmother, an heirloom as precious for the labor of love it represented as for its vulnerability to the ravages of time.
As I made my way through the crowded market, I kept my mission in mind. Concentrate, Fiona. First, find a costume for the fancy-dress ball—one to work its magic on Fredricks. Second, interrogate Fredricks and determine his plan. Third, stop said plan.
With every step came colorful offerings of yet another stall. Stained-glass lamps, engraved gold plates, sticks of incense, dates, nuts, and an assortment of dried roots. The smells alternated between pleasant aromatic spices and perfumes to foul fish and other pungent odors. And the noise volume was just as intense, with the clamor of pots and sales calls from vendors, not to mention the stray dogs and occasional escaped chicken. The market was a veritable circus of delights, with something for everyone and anyone who dared.
Thoroughly enjoying the sights and sounds, I had to remind myself we were here to find costumes for Lady Enid’s ball. Obviously, the stalls of raw fabrics wouldn’t do. Although they were beautiful. I might have to take some back to London. I wondered if a dressmaker at Harrods could make me a bespoke gown with secret pockets for my spy gear. Right now, we needed premade clothing for tonight.
Most of the tailored clothing was hanging in stalls near the center of the souk. One garment stood out, a purple tunic with an elaborate collar and high waistband of gold, turquoise, and green beads. Seeing my interest, the shopkeeper smiled and nodded her head approvingly. She held up an olive-colored headdress with what looked like a snake. I demurred in favor of a blue and gold headdress with a flower.
Kitty chose a pink wraparound with a yellow beaded waistband and a large collar sporting an interesting geometrical pattern in a bouquet of colors. She was all too happy to accept the snake for her headdress.
I burst out laughing when Clifford tried on a giant headpiece adorned with golden leaves, long fabric flaps, and what looked like a large red gourd protruding out of its crown.
“Perfect.” Kitty held up a regal multicolored belt with layers of patterned fabric fanning out from a golden buckle in the shape of a lion.
“I say!” Clifford caressed the fabric. “That’s quite a belt.”
Kitty handed it to him. He grinned from ear to ear as he wrapped it around his waist. After an intense negotiation with the proprietress in French and his limited Arabic, he was the proud owner of beautiful kingly robes, a colorful band-belt, and a standout headdress.
Our fancy-dress buying was interrupted by a petite young Egyptian woman, who spoke to the proprietress in Arabic. Her arrival was announced by the strong scent of jasmine. The shopkeeper rifled through a pile of European jackets and waistcoats on a table in the back of the stall, and returned with a French military jacket and cap. A man’s kit.
I watched out of the corner of my eye as the young woman slipped into the jacket and tucked her long dark hair up into the cap. Transformed from a lovely woman into a young French officer, she seemed familiar. Despite being taught it wasn’t good manners, I couldn’t help but stare.
Oh, my word! Yes. I recognized her. She was the boyish officer who’d been conspiring with my mystery man back at Shepheard’s. Blimey. The young finger-pecking rooster was actually a hen.
The proprietress wrapped the uniform in brown paper. The impostor quickly exchanged some coins for the parcel and took off at a good clip, zigzagging through the crowds with ease. In a flash, she was gone.
“Who was that remarkable woman?” I asked the proprietress.
She shrugged.
I tried again in French.
“Soltanet El-Tarab,” she answered in Arabic. “La Sultana. Actrice célèbre.” Luckily for me, she’d switched to French.
“The Sultana,” I repeated. “Famous actress.”
Famous actress, indeed. She had posed as an Egyptian military officer and conspired with the stranger from the railway. And I’d completely fallen for her disguise. A woman after my own heart.
It was too late to follow La Sultana. She’d already disappeared into the crowd. But if she was that famous, she shouldn’t be too difficult to find.
Later that evening, dressed in our newly purchased outfits, Kitty, Clifford, and I attended Lady Enid’s fancy-dress ball. Since the party was in our hotel, we didn’t have to step outside. Jolly convenient. If I needed to touch up my face or visit the lav, I only had to pop back upstairs.
The ballroom at Shepheard’s was world renowned. Even back in Room 40 at the War Office, Mr. Dilly Knox told stories of grand balls and receptions he’d attended there. He hadn’t exaggerated. With its towering ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and decorative Moorish arches, it was grand indeed.
The cavernous ballroom was buzzing with people, mostly soldiers, of course—many not in costume, unless their uniforms counted. There were so many soldiers, I wondered if General Clayton had commanded his troops to attend his wife’s party.
An orchestra played loud American music and soldiers swung their partners around the dance floor. The few women in attendance had their pick of the litter, as it were.
Weaving in and out of the crowd, my companions and I made our way to the bar. Even before I’d had a cocktail, the dizzying assortment of shapes, patterns, and colors in Shepheard’s ballroom made me lightheaded. Ornate twenty-foot ceilings crowned arched windows which sat atop walls with bands of orange and blue florets, turquoise diamonds, and carved fig leaves. Giant columns stood guard around the circumference of the room. The elaborate Oriental chandeliers hanging from the ceiling looked like lace made from precious metal. Carved mahogany framed stained-glass doors through which rainbow prisms shone.
Once I was clear of the throng, I made a beeline to the first person I recognized, Gertrude Bell. She was standing alone at the other end of the bar. Kitty and Clifford tagged along.
“Quite the shindig, isn’t it?” Clifford said.
“Before the war, there were dances every night.” Gertrude Bell’s voice was wistful.
“Can I bring you a cocktail, Miss Bell?” Dear Clifford. Always accommodating when it came to beautiful women, even when they already had a drink in their hands.
Gertrude lifted her glass. She was the belle of the ball in an Egyptian pale lace tunic and silk slippers. Her face had the healthy glow of someone who lived for the outdoors. Yet she also had a classic, if slightly unkempt, English beauty. “Of course, I never went in for parties.” She sipped her champagne and struck a pose.
A middle-aged woman with a plain but open face joined us. Gertrude introduced her as our hostess, Lady Enid Clayton. She was dressed in full WAAC uniform, slouch hat and all. I couldn’t tell if she was in costume or merely hadn’t changed for the ball.
