The sun was fading as dusk drew closer, staining the blue sky with a purple haze and lengthening the shadows of the dromedaries on the sand. As he approached the camels, there was a curious unsettled wave of movement in the line, accompanied by thick nasal calls, which Phares put down to his disturbing them. He made a few clicks with his tongue, mimicking the sound the Bedouins made to calm them, and proceeded to unstrap one of the packs he knew contained a stock of rifle cartridges.
He turned his back and in that moment sensed a motion behind him, a disturbance in the air; he jerked sideways and spun round just in time to see the glitter of a blade as it flashed past his shoulder. A Bedouin’s body, lithe and whippet-quick, pushed into the thrust, grunting, the heft of his torso colliding with the camel’s side. A sound filled Phares’s ears, a screech emitted from the throat of the dromedary as the blade sliced into its haunch, missing Phares by inches, and then the Bedouin turned.
The scarf that had been wound around the man’s face had slipped, and Phares saw two pale yellow eyes narrowed in hatred … a gaze he recognised at once: Prince Shams Sakr El Din.
The prince recovered himself quickly and stood back on the balls of his feet, ready to dart forward again, knife in hand.
‘Prepare yourself, Pharaony. Allah won’t be so kind a second time.’
Phares’s eyes never once left the blade as he replied, ‘Ah, Prince, so you finally show yourself. You surprise me. I thought you paid others to do your bidding when it comes to taking such risks. From what I’ve heard, you prefer lying on a sofa, having the women of your harem rub oil into you than getting your hands dirty.’
Both men were tall and strong, but his opponent had the upper hand, not to mention the only weapon. Phares sensed he had only one option now: to try and rile him with words must be his best hope and one look at the prince’s seething face meant he knew he was on the right track.
‘When something as valuable as this is at stake I make it my business to guard it personally,’ snarled the prince. ‘Shame you didn’t do that with the El Masri girl you were making such a play for. Such rare beauty and a fiery spirit too. She put up a good fight, I must say.’ He began circling Phares, raising the knife in front of him. ‘She would have been my finest treasure. Shame.’
Phares clenched his jaw but kept his expression impassive, his eyes darting to the surrounding rocks for any possible weapon and back to the knife in Sakr El Din’s hand. He tsked. ‘You should have known Aida would never have lowered herself with the likes of you,’ he chided, all the time slowly mirroring his opponent’s movements.
The prince let out a harsh laugh but his eyes narrowed. ‘The likes of me? Well, after her little sojourn with me, I suppose the great Pharaony name won’t be sullied by a match with Mademoiselle El Masri. The girl’s reputation was shaky to start with … now, I imagine, it’s in tatters. No Egyptian of any rank will want her. She might as well go back to England. They can have her with our blessing, eh?’
Phares felt his rage rising. ‘Only a gaban, coward would behave as you did. As for reputations … after your countrymen hear of this, you won’t find anyone in Egypt prepared to call you friend. Not even your master, El Kébir. He had you in his pocket but will do nothing to protect you now. Come now, Prince, you have nothing to lose. Tell me his name.’
The prince’s face tightened in a snarl. ‘Enough, Pharaony! At least I will have one less enemy after I’ve slit your throat. My ancestors will be satisfied I have ended the curse and restored the family honour at last. They’ll rest easy in their tomb while you rot in hell!’
At this, he lunged at Phares, who darted back from the deadly blade. The knife caught the side of his robe, grazing the skin underneath, but it was a shallow flesh wound, barely a scratch. The prince recovered himself quickly and turned to make another slash at him, but Phares caught the other man’s knife arm with his fist, a sharp blow that dislodged the dagger from his grip. The prince didn’t try to retrieve it but threw himself on Phares, grappling him to the ground.
The sky above the gorge was now a burning orange and Sakr El Din’s face lit by the fiery rays of the dying sun. Any semblance of suave, civilised sophistication had vanished, replaced by a mask of hatred and almost maniacal savagery.
On his back and winded, Phares felt the hard grip of fingers around his throat. His shoulders held down forcibly by the prince’s knees, he found himself pinned to the hot desert sand while his attacker’s fingers did their best to squeeze the life out of him. Phares refused to be beaten; he wasn’t about to let Sakr El Din’s slitted yellow eyes be his last sight on earth. His vision blurred a flame colour, spotted with black, as his right hand scrabbled frantically on the granular, hot surface of the sand.
‘I’ll tell Aida you said goodbye,’ growled his opponent, a note of triumph in his voice.
The tips of Phares’s scrabbling fingers met something hard … cylindrical. The handle of the dagger. Another desperate stretch and they closed around it.
The prince leaned down further and whispered, ‘I’ll enjoy visiting your woman one last time.’
Mustering all his strength, Phares seized his chance and gave a sudden and forceful jerk of his right shoulder. For a brief second the prince was unseated, his knees losing their hold, though his fingers still gripped Phares’s throat. But now Phares had his right arm freed, and in that instant, with a roar of fury, he took a swing.
Above him, as the blade met flesh, the prince’s face froze, eyes popping, and he gave a soft, surprised grunt as the blade penetrated the sinew of his neck. His fingers loosened their hold on Phares’s throat, and for a moment the Bedouin prince sat atop him in this frozen state of startlement, before Phares gave a violent shove to topple him.
Kneeling above the dying Bedouin, Phares gripped him by the robes covering his chest. The words when they came were a hoarse, strangled whisper: ‘Who is El Kébir? Tell me! Give us a name and we’ll let you preserve some of that so-called family honour.’
The prince, his yellow eyes rolling back in his head, was unable to oblige, giving only a whistling sigh as he breathed his last.
* * *
When Phares finally arrived back at Hathor, it was two in the morning. Over-exhausted, he was now too keyed up to sleep, so sank down in a rattan sofa on the terrace, smoking and listening to the sounds of the night. The mission had been a triumph – of sorts. They had succeeded in capturing a handful of smugglers but he very much doubted any of them would have a clue as to the whereabouts or name of the kingpin they called El Kébir. With a man like that keeping to the shadows their only hope had been to get Prince Shams Sakr El Din to speak.
Phares ground his butt into an ashtray in frustration and immediately lit another cigarette. The homecoming of the two patrols bearing their prisoners had been greeted with approbation by the Embassy and noisy alacrity by the Egyptian police and government officials. Reflexively, his hand went to the cut on his side. Phares had never taken a life, only tried to save them, yet he found it hard to feel too much remorse about what he had done. He wondered how the news of the prince’s death would be greeted at Wahat El Nakheel when eventually they found out. Would there be shrill, quavering cries of joy, zaghareet, behind the screened windows of their mashrabiyas? Would sheep be slaughtered for a festival? He imagined they might be happy to know the smugglers had been caught, but would they mourn the loss of their master? Phares, for one, did not.
In the meantime, Montgomery had told him that the powers that be would have to keep the prince’s death under wraps for as long as they possibly could. It might be weeks until the news filtered out, and Phares was cautioned to keep it close to his chest or it might compromise the investigation. Still, all that could wait for the debrief with the Embassy.
He let out a deep sigh; he should take himself off to bed, but his mind was too active. With the capture of the smugglers, he’d hoped to get to the bottom of who had framed Ayoub El Masri with the stolen Nefertari statue. For Aida’s sake he wanted the
answer – it would be the best wedding gift of all, because it would lift the dark cloud that seemed to hover over their happiness. She needed – they needed – the truth brought to light. But time was marching on, and he was still no nearer to finding it. Perhaps Alastair would find some leads. If they could track down Souma Hassanein, they would surely be a step closer.
Meanwhile, the preparations for their marriage ceremony were underway. Camelia had promised to wait until the day before the wedding to go over to Karawan House and surprise Aida with details of their plans. For the first time that day, Phares smiled, thinking of Aida looking radiant and surrounded by all those clucking, boisterous women at her henna ritual, a ceremony that had almost disappeared among the Coptic Europeanised families, but was still kept among the fellahin. He stubbed out his cigarette and walked inside. There was plenty to be happy about, he told himself. Aida had promised to be his – and he wanted above all things to marry her – and his mission was over, at least for the time being.
He was pleased with the results the team had achieved in Kharga, but then again, he couldn’t fool himself that the smugglers’ network was destroyed. It would take more than that. Egyptian police knew how to make people talk, yet the Bedouins were tough men, slippery and clever like desert foxes, and it would be a mistake to underestimate them. This illicit commerce had been going on for a long time, Alastair had said, and it wouldn’t be easy to drag the facts out of such hardened criminals. Antiquities were by no means the only merchandise these men traded in. Drugs, armaments during the war … they were up to every dirty trade one could think of – an utterly ruthless and undiscriminating lot.
Still, for now Phares resolved to put these concerns aside. He badly needed to sleep and the only sensible thing would be to wait until he was mentally refreshed before once again turning them over in his mind. Besides, in a few days he would finally be making Aida his wife, and that was all that mattered.
Chapter 13
The wedding preparations had to be accomplished in only a week – an unusually brief time in Egypt – but the frantic pace seemed only to add to the number of festive elements involved. Uncle Naguib and Aunty Nabila organised work parties to make several hundred bonbonnières, which, given more time, would have been ordered from Groppi’s tea shop. In addition, small, solid silver dishes had been bought from Zaghloul, a famous silver shop at the Musky, as gifts for the wedding guests. Each was to be filled with sugared almonds set around a chocolate truffle, the dainty parcel wrapped in white tulle tied with a satin ribbon set with a pink rosebud.
Dada Amina was beside herself with excitement and kept filling the house with incense to keep away the evil eye. She fussed and cooed and was full of wise advice: ‘You will be living in your husband’s home with his sister, his father and his aunt, who is an aggraba, a scorpion,’ she declared resolutely. ‘Don’t let anybody come between you and him, ya binty, and don’t listen to gossip. People are always envious of one’s good luck.’ And then again: ‘Be content in your husband’s company. Listen to him and obey him. Contentment brings peace of mind, and listening to your husband and obeying him pleases Allah.’ And also: ‘Never disclose a single one of his secrets and never disobey any of his orders, because if you disclose his secrets how can you ever feel safe from his betraying you? And if you disobey him, his heart will be filled with hatred towards you.’
Although Aida laughed whenever her old nanny began her lectures, she was grateful for her care and counselling. She was deeply fond of her, despite the woman’s overprotectiveness
and often simplistic remarks but even though Dada Amina was an uneducated woman, Aida had to admit that she was a sagacious old bird who had often persuaded her in the past to do the right thing.
Apart from the dress and the bridesmaids, Aida herself had nothing to organise. In Egypt, unlike England, it was the custom for all the planning and arrangements to be taken on by the groom’s family. She had decided to wear her mother’s wedding dress, a real masterpiece of ivory chiffon banded with gold lamé and pearls, designed in 1920 by the House of Worth. When she took it out of the tissue paper in its box to try it on, she found to her delight that it still looked new, and not only that: it fitted her to perfection. Her heart was suddenly filled with a nostalgic melancholy as she thought of her parents who wouldn’t be there to attend her special day.
The wedding was to take place at Luxor’s main cathedral in Sharia Maabad al-Karnak, Temple of Karnak Street, and Abouna Youssef, an old family friend who had christened both Aida and Phares, was to perform the ceremony. Aida would have liked Camelia to be her maid of honour, but she had yet to get hold of her friend, and so in the meantime, she had spoken to Aunt Nabila and decided to have five of the Bisharas’ grandchildren, whom Aida had sent to Cléo at Shemlah in Cairo to get outfitted.
Still, notwithstanding her old nanny’s bustling attentions, she was somewhat surprised at Dada Amina’s relative calm. If Phares was away, as Aida presumed, and Camelia was confined to her room, who was dealing with the main preparations? A hushed atmosphere prevailed in the household and although the staff obviously knew about the wedding, they never spoke of it in front of her; indeed, whenever Aida entered the kitchen all conversation ceased abruptly and they continued about their work with sheepish expressions on their faces. Aida had also noticed that Osta Ghaly disappeared for long hours during the day, and she had a suspicion that he was making frequent visits to Hathor, although that, at least, was no real surprise. It was considered a kind of cuisinier’s etiquette for all good cooks to help one another with the preparation of their buffets at a wedding or a similar occasion, all the food being home-cooked by chefs employed by rich families in the neighbourhood.
The week passed in a flash, during which Aida walked around in a tremulous, glittering dream. Although he never came in person to Karawan House and there were no notes from him, Phares sent daily boxes of presents and bouquets of flowers for his bride-to-be in the week preceding the wedding. There were evening dresses, delicate and elaborate dresses of crepe de chine for morning wear, trailing silk and lace gowns for the afternoon. He sent slippers, and shoes with four-inch heels, and gossamer stockings and fine silk underwear trimmed with lace and bunches of rosebuds. His taste was impeccable. Aida had tried to ring him to thank him, but he was apparently away, and Camelia was still keeping to her room, she’d been told.
So, it was with some surprise that on the eve of the wedding, Aida received Dada Amina’s announcement that Camelia was in the drawing room to see her.
Her friend, although looking a little drawn, greeted her effusively: ‘Mabruk, congratulations, Aida! You can’t imagine how happy I am that you and Phares have finally decided to admit your feelings for each other and tie the knot.’
Aida instinctively rushed to her friend and drew her into a hug. ‘My goodness, Camelia, habibti, how are you after your terrible ordeal?’ She stepped away, holding Camelia’s shoulders in both hands and scrutinising her with concern. ‘I was told that you were in a depressive mood and wouldn’t leave your room.’
Camelia waved her hand dismissively and laughed. ‘Ah my dear, but that was the only way I could get on with the preparations for your wedding.’ Then she laughed, her beautiful almond-shaped dark eyes twinkling mischievously. ‘Phares and I wanted it to be a surprise.’
Aida joined in with her friend’s merry spirit. ‘Oh, how lovely! Thank you. I did feel that something was going on. Dada Amina was too quiet and Osta Ghaly kept disappearing after lunch every day, which he’s never done before.’
Camelia linked her arm with Aida’s and they moved to one of the sofas. ‘I’ve been organising a henna night for tonight. I thought it might amuse you.’
‘Goodness, I thought that sort of ceremony had gone out of fashion with the likes of us a long time ago.’
‘Well, Phares and I thought you’d enjoy it. Dada Amina has prepared her own henna recipe and her cousin will paint the henna drawings on your hands and feet, if you like. If n
ot, you can just have your fingernails and toenails coloured, like the pharaohs, a sort of royal Ancient Egyptian manicure.’
Aida beamed at her friend. ‘Oh, thank you, Camelia, you’re a real sister to me.’ Her expression became more serious as they sat down. ‘But tell me, what happened with you?’
A shadow passed over the beautiful face of her friend, who hesitated before answering. ‘There was a kapsa, a raid, on Youssef’s house. A large group of us were there to visit Sami, and also for a reunion.’ She frowned. ‘There’s a mole in the midst of our party, but God only knows who they are.’
‘My poor darling! Did they hurt you?’
Camelia’s dark gaze turned to her, looking suddenly haunted. ‘No, not me … not the women. But they dragged Sami out of bed, and I haven’t had any news about him since then.’ At that, her face puckered, her eyes filling with tears.
Aida took her hand. ‘Can’t Phares help? He seems to have some clout. He’s the one who got you out, isn’t he?’
Camelia shook her head sadly. ‘Yes, my brother was instrumental in securing my release, and for that I owe him my deepest gratitude. I’ve promised him that I won’t involve myself with the party any longer, much as it pains me. I tried asking him to find out about Sami too, but he won’t hear anything of it. He’s very angry with me, not least because apparently I was the reason he missed your lunch appointment at the Gezireh Sporting Club and for you going off in a huff to Shams Sakr El Din’s party.’ She shot her friend a tentative, reproachful look. ‘By the way, I know I’m hardly one to speak, but that was a very unwise thing to do.’
‘I know, and it’s something I regret bitterly.’ Aida chose not to tell Camelia about Nairy Paplosian and what she had seen at the hospital. She was trying desperately to forget that whole episode and start afresh. ‘I acted foolishly and I’ve learnt my lesson.’ She squeezed her friend’s hand. ‘I’m sorry it’s caused you problems too.’
Song of the Nile Page 48
