Song of the Nile

by Fielding, Hannah

  His words filled the air around them with tangible hurt and anger. Phares’s eyes flashed bitter reproach as they dwelt on Aida’s face, which had gone so white that her mouth looked bruised. He took a breath as if gathering his self-control. ‘The word “honour” has meaning for all the Pharaony family, as you know, and I’m surprised it didn’t hold more importance for you.’

  ‘Honour?’ In an instant, Aida’s contrition turned to fury. Despite all she had promised herself, she was on the verge of retorting that it was he who’d had little regard for honour when he repeatedly asserted to her that his relationship with Nairy Paplosian was a thing of the past when she had not only seen him with the model, but had heard him arrange a meeting with her for that evening. Just in time she bit her tongue, silencing those irrevocable words that might have ended their relationship. This was not the right time to confront him, but she needed to know if he still wanted to marry her.

  Straightening her back she took a step towards him and spoke with angry pain in her voice. ‘I sincerely regret my behaviour. I was totally wrong, and would understand if you decided to withdraw your proposal.’

  Phares didn’t answer immediately. There was a quality of stillness about him that made her think of a panther – tensed to spring on its prey. The silence between them held the warning of a pounce.

  ‘My proposal stands.’ He angled a direct stare at Aida. ‘And as you will be coming to this marriage with a large dowry – your land – you will hand it over to the Pharaony Estate as soon as we are married so that I can oversee its management properly.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘You can’t be serious!’

  ‘I have never been more serious.’

  Of course Aida knew Phares was only claiming a right deeply ingrained in Egyptian culture. The sharing of land would symbolise their union, but for her, it would also mean the final surrender of her independence. Yet it wasn’t only the issue of her land that pained her.

  Where in his declaration was there mention of love?

  If only Phares would say those words to her she would never care that he would always be the master. Aida had met a will stronger than her own and would do her best to obey … she was ready to be a loyal, faithful and supportive wife. If she could be sure he truly loved her, she could do all of that for him.

  ‘I will never give up my land,’ she murmured, almost desperately. ‘You can have money in lieu, but never my land.’

  ‘Those were the terms my father discussed with yours when he asked for your hand.’

  ‘I’m sure my father would never have agreed to giving away all our land.’

  ‘Correct. Not all your land, but part of it while he was alive and he could look after it. You know as well as I do that you are out of your depth running your estate so I’ve made it my sole condition.’

  ‘Condition?’ She scowled at him. ‘You speak of marriage as though it’s a cold transaction.’

  He clenched his jaw. ‘Why must you twist everything I say, Aida? You know there is more than that between us.’

  ‘Yes, lust, that’s all,’ she shot back, the truth of it feeling like a chill down her spine.

  ‘You think so?’ His brows drew down like a visor, shadowing his eyes. ‘In that case, lust, if nothing else, will force you to marry me.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’re flattering yourself?’

  ‘Am I, chérie?’ He laughed and it rang out arrogantly in the quiet garden.

  His eyes met hers, their quizzical depths as baffling as ever, and his hand brushed away a strand of hair that the breeze had driven across her face.

  Aida sucked in her breath, instinctively putting a hand to her cheek and feeling its warmth. Being Phares’s wife … a tremor raced through her. No, she knew only too well that he wasn’t flattering himself. His gaze, his brief touch, even his arrogant laugh reawakened in her that wild, strange ecstasy that could not be called love, but a hunger, a driving need that she shared with him entirely.

  ‘Why are you always running away from me, Aida? What are you so afraid of?’

  ‘I’m not afraid,’ she lied, as a shiver snaked up her spine.

  ‘And yet you ran straight to Sakr El Din’s palace when I didn’t turn up at the club.’ His gaze fixed hard on her, mingled with taunting fury, pride and desire. ‘Were you enjoying the prince’s attentions so much, you wanted to see what it was like to become one of his harem?’

  ‘You know that’s not true,’ she half gasped. She tried to move away but he inched closer, backing her up against the trunk of the acacia. ‘I swear to God if that son of a ibn el sharmouta had touched you …’

  Her breasts were rising and falling in tandem with her rapid breaths. ‘No! No, Phares, he didn’t, I swear. I escaped before he could do anything.’

  Phares seemed only slightly mollified. He braced his arms against the trunk of the acacia, trapping her between his body and the tree. His voice was dangerously soft. ‘Because you are mine, Aida. You were always destined to be mine, and deep down, you know it. You will be my wife, and no man will touch you but me.’

  Aida was trembling but she met his mesmerising gaze, saw the flare of his nostrils and the passion etched on his full, strong mouth. All her life she had been fearless, and there was a quality of elusiveness about her that charmed some and disconcerted others. Right now, however, she was at the mercy of her love and her need for this man … utterly defenceless.

  Phares’s eyes narrowed as he looked at her, his lips only inches away. ‘There will be compensations, chérie. You know how flames kindle between us. The blue in your eyes is already darkening at the thought of your initiation to more carnal delights. Dare to tell me I’m wrong.’ He caught Aida’s slim body and pulled her against him.

  Oh, that hardness, how she had missed it!

  His eyes were brilliantly alive as they held her gaze … held it until she threw her arms around him, her hands pressed against the nape of his neck. She drew him in until their breaths mingled, tantalising, electric. Finally their lips met with a sensuousness that turned to hunger, and whatever her hesitation of a few minutes before, it was now abandoned as she sank into his powerful frame, melting into his strength. She was lost on the wave of his urgency as he pressed himself hard against her, enjoying his turbulent kisses and the feel of his hands on her body. All tenderness was gone as he claimed her mouth like a ravenous animal, thrusting his tongue into her mouth again and again, driving Aida to incoherence … to a wanton wildness of feeling. He broke away from her lips and kissed a scorching trail down her neck, every sensual word he murmured, every note in his voice making her senses beat like a forest fire. And then, he seemed to come down to earth and he pulled away from her, dropping his arms to his sides. His eyes twinkled with devilment and he laughed quietly, almost in surprise, although she saw through her own haze of thwarted desire the hot tide of blood mount under the skin of his throat and face, evidence of him battling to regain his self-control.

  He stepped back. ‘This is just a teaser, chérie, in case you’d forgotten … No more until our honeymoon. I haven’t planned for an engagement period. You have one week. Prepare yourself for our wedding next Sunday.’

  * * *

  While Phares was scrubbing up, his assistants knew better than to make conversation as they waited to help him don his surgical gown and cap. He was always quiet while getting ready to operate. It was his way of gathering his focus – to think about the procedure step by step. Sometimes, if it was a particularly difficult intervention he would pray before beginning work.

  Today, his face was more intense than usual as the first patient was brought to the theatre, but for once his mind was not wholly on the imminent minor surgical operation.

  Alastair Carlisle had finally received intelligence on El Kébir’s latest smuggling operation in the Western Desert. The authorities only had wind of it in the last forty-eight hours so Phares had to act quickly. Tonight, he would be heading out of Cairo.

  According to the Embass
y’s sources, an important convoy of stolen antiquities had already begun its journey south from Ras Gharib on the shores of the Gulf of Suez. From Ras Gharib, it would head for the Kharga Oasis, eventually bound for Dakhla, another oasis in the Western Desert. At Dakhla, it was to meet another convoy travelling down from Siwa in the north, which would take delivery of the goods to finally pass them on to Libyan traders, then across the Mediterranean to Greece and the rest of Europe.

  This mission consisted of ambushing the convoy, and the seizure was to be made by a Kharga patrol of ten Sudanese guards appointed by the Embassy and two guides – one who knew the roads and local conditions, the other to control and read the tracks. The men would be under the command of Phares and Captain Charles Montgomery.

  The Embassy had been informed that as one of the vehicles was to contain a priceless piece, the convoy would be overseen by one of the main leaders of the criminal organisation. If Phares and the others could capture this man, the police had no doubt they would be able to extract from him the names of the other leaders of the smuggling ring. Above all, El Kébir.

  Tonight, he would be going by Jeep from Cairo to Assiut, then travelling over two hundred kilometres south into the desert with the Sudanese guards to Kharga, where they would abandon their Jeeps and use dromedaries to reach the outskirts of the Dakhla Oasis, the drop-off point for the smugglers. Travelling quietly by camel would allow them to go unnoticed since some of the local people might be El Kébir’s spies, and they didn’t want the conspicuous noise of vehicles alerting the convoy to their presence.

  Phares had camped more than once in the seven oases of the Western Desert. He knew the Kharga, Dakhla and Farafra oases well, and even if the mission itself was causing him some apprehension, at least he was feeling confident enough about navigating the desert. Still, this mission was coming at a most inconvenient moment. What with the arrest and imprisonment of Camelia at the same time as Aida’s reckless episode in the desert, his focus had been splintered in too many directions. Then there was the wedding too, which, now that he finally had it in his sights he was almost feverish to accomplish as quickly as possible before Aida changed her mind and decided to return to England.

  His thoughts were interrupted by one of the nurses as she tied his surgical gown at the back. ‘You look tired, Doctor,’ she remarked. ‘You’ve been working too hard. You look as though you could do with a vacation.’

  Phares shook his head and smiled enigmatically. ‘Time enough for that later.’ Then, looking around him, he remarked, ‘Where is Dr Isis? Has she not been informed that we have three operations today?’

  ‘She called in sick. She was very apologetic, but she has laryngitis and a fever.’

  ‘Is Dr Safwat here?’

  ‘Yes. He’s just come in and is about to scrub up.’

  ‘Good.’

  Phares sighed quietly. He was sure Isis wasn’t sick. No doubt she’d heard about his engagement to Aida; by now the whole of Luxor was bound to be talking about it: servants’ gossip travelled fast. She was probably sulking. She’d been acting even more possessively since Aida had returned to Luxor. Still, he couldn’t help it if Isis was jealous: he had always been honest with her. She would have no problem finding herself a good husband: once she set her mind to it, Isis would pursue that as single-mindedly as everything else. Still, he hoped her resentment wouldn’t lead to her resignation. On the other hand, even though she was a good anaesthetist, he could find another. If she did resign, then Dr Safwat was capable of holding the fort for the time being. Phares could help Isis find a good position at another hospital – he owed her that.

  He flexed his fingers, staring at them thoughtfully. Sometimes it was terrifying, the faith patients had in him. At least today the interventions were fairly straightforward. He needed to conserve his energy for the next forty-eight hours.

  * * *

  It was growing late as Phares took the road out of Cairo. The sun was already setting, a ball of glittering gold swimming, so it seemed, in a lake of flame; the swift darkness of night would soon descend. He had packed his Jeep with a change of clothes for night, a filled water-skin, and a small amount of bread and cheese for the long journey ahead. Once in the desert, after leaving his Jeep, he would stow everything in the saddle bags of his dhalul, dromedary.

  The temples on the banks of the Nile were already taking on the purple bloom of night, while the far-off desert hills began to look like a great black wall cutting across the horizon, casting deep indigo shadows and strange, eerie depths of blackness here and there. The Nile too was changing quickly to a sombre ribbon of ebony beneath the sentinel palms. At this hour there was no one on the agricultural road bordering the river, so Phares was able to speed ahead.

  As he drove to Assiut, his mind turned over what was at stake if all went to plan. They would be one step closer to El Kébir, and hopefully also to clearing Ayoub El Masri’s name. Strange to think so much had happened so quickly. Phares recalled the conversation he’d had with Alastair Carlisle at the beginning of this venture a few months back.

  During the war, he had treated many British soldiers at the Anglo-American Hospital and had saved Alastair’s brother’s leg from being amputated. A solid friendship had sprung up between the two men, and in January of that year, when Mrs Carlisle had visited her son in Egypt, Alastair and his mother had been invited to stay at the Pharaony Estate in Luxor, where they were lavishly entertained by the Coptic family. It was there that the consul, a keen rider, had accompanied Phares one afternoon on a horse ride around the pyramids of Gizeh.

  The sun had been dipping below the horizon, the shadow cast by the Great Pyramid stretching sharp and distinct across the stony platform of the desert, as they passed a group of pedlars offering their goods and picked their way down the long sand-slope to regain the road. It was then that some six or eight Arabs in fluttering white garments came out of nowhere and ran on ahead of them to bid the riders goodbye.

  ‘You come again!’ they said. ‘Good Arab show you everything next time. You see nothing this time. You want buy antikahs?’

  ‘Ah, antikahs, antiquities, the big word!’ Alastair scoffed. ‘It’s everywhere, and even worse in Luxor, I suppose.’

  ‘You mean the trafficking of antiquities?’

  ‘Precisely. They’re all at it … Arabs, Copts. Perfectly polite, plausible, but mendacious, every one of them.’

  ‘There are a lot of forgeries, of course, if that’s what you mean.’

  Alastair nodded. ‘More forgeries than genuine antiquities are being sold, I think, because whatever the demand, the dealers are prepared to meet it.’ He’d gone on to outline some of the work the Embassy had been doing in an attempt to curb the activities of a particularly large smuggling ring, one which seemed to have many branches across Egypt and beyond to Libya and Sudan. The scale of the operation had only increased during the war, alongside the trafficking of arms to the Germans, but so far none of the British agents had been successful in finding any significant leads.

  As they rode slowly on, the consul gestured at the Great Pyramid behind them. ‘We’re not so concerned about the small-time forgers and sellers like those men.’ He fixed Phares with a knowing look. ‘It’s the real antiquities that interest us.’

  It was the first time his friend had opened up to this degree about his work, and Phares immediately sensed the subtle hint: ‘Tell me, Alastair, how can I help?’

  The consul gave a smile of satisfaction, as though that was the answer he’d hoped for. ‘We know that you’re a man of the desert, familiar with the sands almost as with the nomads who travel across them. We also know that you have many friends among the Bedouins and that they trust you. We are almost sure that many of the genuine antiquities are taken to Prince Shams Sakr El Din’s oasis. Whether he holds on to them or sells them on himself, we don’t know. We also have no idea of the identity of the big wig supplier, the man responsible for the illegal excavations and who actually provides these antiqui
ties.’

  ‘I had assumed that the looters were opportunists, and most of what is being sold on the black market is forgeries.’

  ‘Believe me, the excavation of real artefacts happens alongside the work of forgeries. More and more diggers are colonising the western bank. They live rent-free among the tombs, driving donkeys or working in the fields during the day and spending their nights searching for treasure. We are aware that hundreds of families live in this grim way, spoiling the sites of the Ancient Egyptians for their livelihoods.’

  ‘So, what is it you want me to do?’

  ‘We need you to infiltrate the organisation so we can catch the person in charge of it. We are almost sure he resides in Luxor or its neighbouring districts. He goes by the name of El Kébir, or at least that is what our sources know him as, and he seems to inspire terror in anyone who has dealings with him. Very few of the opportunistic tomb looters would risk their lives going into competition with this man, and most are in his employ one way or another, through his deputies.’

  Phares’s brow furrowed. ‘That’s all well and good, Alastair, but I’m no connoisseur of antiquities. I wouldn’t know how to tell the real from the fake.’

  ‘That’s no problem, we will provide you with the fakes. We’ve actually managed to penetrate a forger’s workshop. They will copy anything, and I defy anyone, unless they’re a real specialist, to tell the real from these forged ones.’

  Phares stared ahead, deep in thought. ‘How will this work?’

  ‘We want you to put around the rumour that you are a buyer of antiquities. Forgers, diggers and dealers play into one another’s hands and drive a roaring trade, so it will not be difficult to spread the word. Observe and you will see that every foreigner is plagued by sellers from the moment he lands in Luxor till the time he leaves. The boy who drives the donkey, the guide who leads people among the tombs, the half-naked fellah who flings down his hoe as you pass and runs beside you for a mile across the plain … all of them have an antikah to dispose of. And in the majority of these transactions the money will make its way to El Kébir. They will hear about your interest in genuine antiquities, believe me.’