Oasis of Night

by J. S. Cook

  “Yeah, I wondered about that.” I didn’t know a whole lot about Egyptian customs. Not every woman chose to wear the veil, and I understood it was a matter of religious devotion to those who did. Religious or not, however, an Egyptian woman was expected to observe certain behavioral conventions, and if Mrs. Halim had seen fit to meet me—a foreigner and an unmarried man—in public, her reasons must be pretty important.

  “When I married Sam, I knew that his work was very important to him and also very dangerous.” She picked up her cup and sipped her tea. “I knew that he would be called upon to travel, and that I might not hear from him for weeks at a time.” She shrugged. “Such is the nature of his profession, that there is often physical danger.”

  “Physical danger?” She’d lost me. “Wait a minute. He’s the assistant to the British Consul in Newfoundland. How dangerous could it be?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Assistant to…. Oh, Mr. Stoyles, no. I imagine Sam told you that as a covering tale, as you Americans say.”

  This was getting more and more confusing. “He’s not the assistant to the British Consul in Newfoundland?”

  “Mr. Stoyles, my husband is a captain with the Cairo police.”

  You could have blown up a fifty-story building right in front of me then, and I wouldn’t have even noticed. “He’s… did you say… he’s a cop?” I’d always figured there was more to his story than Sam had originally told me, but I hadn’t counted on this. Sam, a cop? It explained a lot of things, though, come to think of it: his intelligence, his excellent physical shape, and his air of eternal watchfulness.

  “You did not know.”

  I gulped down some tea. “No. No, I didn’t.”

  A waiter passed by, and I stopped talking, but he was merely conveying a tray of dainties to a table in the far corner. Two blonde American girls, maybe sixteen years old, sat with a gray-haired man who was probably their father. The girls wore pastel dresses in some light fabric, with hats and gloves to match; the older man was smiling—a little painfully—as both girls chattered at him.

  “So if he’s a Cairo policeman, what was he doing in Newfoundland?”

  She shook her head, lips pressed together. “I don’t know. There are aspects of my husband’s work that have to do with the war, and he is not free to discuss things with me or with anyone else. Mr. Stoyles, I am afraid. Sam was to have returned home several weeks ago. Since then, I have heard nothing from him. I question the police almost daily, but they always tell me the same story: they have no information, and even if they did, they could not divulge anything for reasons of national security.”

  I helped myself to a tiny square of something that seemed made entirely of nuts and honey. “Mrs. Halim, I’m not sure what I can do to help.”

  She extended her hand across the table, but did not allow herself to touch me. “Find him, Mr. Stoyles. Please. I have some money of my own. I will pay you what I can.”

  “Oh, no.” I stopped her as she was opening her purse. “Not a chance, lady. I never take money from women.”

  “You will not help me.” Her shoulders sagged. “You have no intention of helping me to find my husband.”

  “Mrs. Halim, the only reason I came here was to find Sam, so you can bet I’m going to help you.” I smiled, but I was careful not to look directly at her; that kind of thing doesn’t go over too well in Egypt. “I’ll stay here as long as I can. I can’t promise you anything. I’m a restaurateur, not a detective.”

  “Oh, thank you!” She clasped her hands together. “Thank you so much. Thank you. Shukran Gidann!”

  I FIGURED the first place to start my search would be the Cairo Police Department, so first thing the next morning, I went down to find a taxi. As luck would have it, Shiva was waiting in front of Shepheard’s with his engine already running. If I didn’t know better, I could have sworn he was following me. “Not at all, effendi, but I make it my business to anticipate your needs.” When I told him to take me to the Cairo police, he didn’t even ask questions, just shifted into gear and pulled out into the noisy, smoky chaos of the Cairo street. “You know, effendi, I am not any ordinary taxi driver.”

  “Uh-huh.” What was Tareenah Halim’s angle anyway? How much did she know about Sam and me? She knew we were friends, but I somehow doubted she’d understand if I told her Sam and I had kissed—or maybe she would. I’d heard from more than one person that open and public displays of affection between men were quite common in Arabic societies, even encouraged, as a kind of bonding ritual. All the same, I found it hard to believe that any devout Moslem would cotton to the idea of two men kissing in anything other than friendship. It was kind of hard to tell what Mrs. Halim would think; she was difficult to read. Sure, she’d started crying on the terrace at Shepheard’s, but maybe that was calculated, designed to make me open up and tell her everything I knew. I’d seen dames use that kind of manipulation before, so I wouldn’t put it past her. In spite of her careful efforts to make me think she was harmless and delicate, I sensed there was steel in there somewhere, hidden underneath her pretty pink dress and red hibiscus flower.

  “I anticipate and fill your every need, effendi Stoyles.” Shiva grinned at me in the rearview mirror. His teeth were white and very even. “I am your friend.”

  “Hey. How do you know my name?”

  “I had only to inquire at the hotel.” But he sounded uneasy, and his gaze slid away from mine.

  I didn’t believe him, and I wasn’t about to let it go, but right now my main concern was getting some answers. Luckily, Shiva knew the city well, and before too long, we were pulling up in front of the police station—how he knew which police station, I couldn’t figure, and this made me really uneasy. Ever since I’d arrived in Egypt, I’d been besieged by people who seemed to know why I was there, and I didn’t like it. What happened if some knife-wielding crazy decided to take exception to me? Was there anybody I could call for help? Come to think of it, was anybody in Cairo what he or she seemed to be? I felt in my pocket for the tiny diorite bowl, making sure it was still there; I’d get Shiva to take me to the museum after I’d been to the police station.

  “Uh, look—”

  “I will wait for the effendi Stoyles.” He produced a folded newspaper from between the seats and sat back.

  The inside of the police station was pretty much what you’d expect: a chaos of ringing telephones and conversation, the continuous movement of people up and down the corridors and in and out of the building. I approached the main desk, where a tall, skinny guy with great big ears was leaning on his elbows, staring down at the contents of an open file folder. My Arabic wasn’t the best, but I’d gone to the trouble of buying a phrasebook; on the long plane ride over I’d amused myself by learning the half-dozen or so that I figured I’d need. I approached the desk. “Salam alekum. Sabah el-kheir.”

  Big Ears looked up. “Peace be with you, also, and good morning.” He had a faintly British accent, and I felt more than a little foolish. English seemed to be the lingua franca around here, what with the war and so many different nations all trying to score one for their side.

  “You speak English, huh?”

  “So it would seem.” The arch of his right eyebrow could slice through flesh. “What can I do for the Americani?”

  “I’m looking for—” I figured there was no point in being coy about it; best to just come right out and say. “I’m looking for Sam Halim.”

  His attention shifted back to his file folder. “Captain Halim is out of the country on important business. Good-bye.” The telephone rang, and he reached behind himself to pick up the receiver. “Aiwa? Assif. Mish fahiim.” He placed his palm over the receiver and looked down his nose at me. “I cannot help you. Good day.”

  “No, you don’t understand. It’s very important that I see Captain Halim.”

  “Captain Halim is out of the country on—” He snapped to taut attention as a slightly older officer with sergeant’s chevrons on his sleeve approached the des
k.

  “What is going on here?” The sergeant picked up the file folder and flicked a glance over it, then turned to scrutinize me. “I heard you asking about Captain Halim.” His eyes were huge black pools of utter contempt. “He is out of the country on important police business.” His voice was sharp and slightly nasal, and he struck me as one of those people who always sounded irritated. You know, the kind of guy who thinks talking to you is a waste of his time.

  “Yes, I know, but it is very important that I speak to someone connected with him.” I did my best to look desperate. “Please. This can’t wait.”

  “I am Sergeant Ibrahim Samir, Captain Halim’s second-in-command.” He lifted a hinged section of the counter and summoned me forward. “Come with me.” I followed Sergeant Samir’s elegantly trousered and beautifully shaped behind down a narrow corridor and into a room marked PRIVATE. He closed the door behind us and gestured at a small table and chairs. “Sit.”

  “Sergeant Samir, I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice—”

  “You will produce appropriate identification. Failure to do so will result in immediate incarceration.” He leaned against another table with his arms folded on his chest, while his big, black eyes bored into me like a pair of diamond-tipped drills.

  “Like to play hardball, huh?” I took out my wallet and laid it open on the table. “There. Knock yourself out.”

  He didn’t smile. “The American style of humor has never appealed to me.” He picked up the wallet, and I couldn’t help noticing that his hands were lean and tanned, and that the forearms left bare by the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt rippled with muscle. The same shirt was open at the neck, offering me tantalizing glimpses of his throat’s smooth hollow, sprinkled with dark hairs. Like many of the Egyptians I’d seen in the streets, he wasn’t real tall, but he sure made up for it. His face was square-jawed, lean and tanned, with full lips, a straight nose, and beautifully arched brows framing liquid black eyes. He was clean-shaven, albeit with a faint dusting of beard, and I wondered whether Sergeant Samir was just coming off the night shift—maybe that would account for his sour disposition—or if he just really needed to get laid. “Jonathan Stoyles.” He read the name off my driver’s license, drawing out the syllables. “Jonathan Stoyles.”

  I tried to lighten the mood. “Most people call me Jack.”

  The black eyes fastened on me. “I am not most people.”

  “Look, Sergeant. I’m not looking to cause trouble. I just need to find Captain Halim.”

  “Captain Halim is out of the country.” He flicked through my wallet with palpable disdain. “You are not to go around Cairo asking questions about Captain Halim, is that clear?”

  “Now, wait just a minute—” I started up out of my chair, and before I could blink, I was pinned against the wall, his arm across my throat. We stood there like that, just staring at each other in the silence, and somewhere outside that little room there were other noises: phones ringing and people talking and footsteps walking up and down. He smelled like clean linen and incense, and he gave off a radiant heat. His eyelashes were long and thick and very black, and there was a tiny scar at the corner of his mouth. His gaze played over my face, and he slowly dropped his arm in favor of pinning me to the wall with his chest. It was suddenly hard to breathe, but not for the reasons you might think. We were lined up and pressed together, and I was painfully aware of him not merely as a police officer, but as a man. His gaze flickered over my face, committing my features to memory, and his hands moved to clasp my elbows. His tongue slid out to wet his lower lip, and I nearly groaned out loud. Dammit, I thought feverishly, I need to get laid.

  “You will not ask about Captain Halim. If I find that you have done so, I will not hesitate to arrest you.” His fingers tightened on my elbows. “Resist, and I will have no choice but to take you. By force.” If this were any other situation, and he was any other guy, I’d be convinced that he was teasing me, flirting with me, trying to get me hot and bothered. It wasn’t real hard to imagine, except I had a hard time picturing this guy letting his guard down long enough to get horizontal. He was wound as tight as a cheap watch. “Do you understand?”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  He stepped back and handed me my wallet. “You may go.”

  Shiva was napping in his taxi, head back and mouth open, when I rapped on his window. He snapped instantly awake and turned the key in the ignition. “Where does the effendi Stoyles wish to go now?”

  “The Egyptian Museum.” It was time I returned the diorite bowl. Maybe somebody there could shed some light on this business.

  THE MAIN entrance to the Egyptian Museum was big and red and arched, and reminded me of the Newfoundland Museum in these respects, although the latter was on a much smaller scale. The main hall was an enormous, vaulted space, set about with precious artifacts from Egypt’s long and illustrious history. The curator in charge of antiquities, Mr. Hassan, was one of the most imposing men I’d ever seen. Well over six feet tall, he dominated the museum’s main hall like some great, ancient colossus come to life. He was maybe fifty years old, with graying hair and piercing green eyes. When he took my hand to shake it, I felt as if half my arm were being enfolded in a bear’s paw. When he told me to step into his office, I obeyed.

  I unwrapped the little diorite bowl from the nest of cotton that I’d packed it in and explained how it had been entrusted to me by the mysterious Mr. Blount on behalf of the Newfoundland Museum. I was glad to have the opportunity to return so rare an artifact to its original home.

  Hassan listened politely as I related my tale, but when I tried to hand the bowl over to him, he refused. “Mr. Stoyles, I fear you have been misled. This bowl is very beautiful and, at first glance, I am inclined to say it is genuine. I regret to say, however, that it does not belong to us.”

  “It doesn’t belong to you.” Maybe the long overseas flight was still wearing on me, but for a moment I thought he was joking. “This bowl doesn’t belong to you.”

  “It does not.” He smiled. “It is the law in Egypt that any ancient artifacts must be immediately turned over to the government. We pay fair market value for them, and the artifact in question becomes part of our permanent exhibit.” He ran a careful finger around the bowl’s rim. “This is lovely, and as I said, on first glance I would say it is genuine, but alas, it is not.” He shrugged. “It would seem you have been… misled.”

  “Not your bowl, huh?” I pressed my fingers to my eyes and made a mental note to find a good Turkish bath. Maybe a soak and steam, followed by a good hard pummeling, would clear my head. “Mr. Hassan, I’m very sorry.”

  “Not at all.” He took a key out of his desk drawer and stood up. “Come with me.” We went down a wide, open hallway to where a series of glass cases were set into the wall. Hassan stopped in front of a display of stone vessels and unlocked the cabinet. He took out a small, pink bowl and handed it to me. “This is a diorite bowl, recently unearthed at Giza. It is consistent with a style of stone carving that dates to the Old Kingdom. You can see it is identical to the bowl you hold in your hand.” He smiled indulgently. “Perhaps a little too identical.”

  “Yeah.” The little bowl was smooth and pleasantly cool to the touch. “Yeah, too identical.” I shook my head. “Mr. Hassan, I don’t know what’s going on. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.” I handed him back the museum’s small bowl, feeling slightly foolish and more than a little irritated. Maybe Blount figured it would be a fine joke to send me halfway around the world, but I didn’t think it was funny.

  “You haven’t wasted my time, Mr. Stoyles. Any time I have an opportunity to share our nation’s culture with a visitor, that is time well spent.” He walked me back to the main door and shook my hand. “If you have any further questions, I am at your disposal.”

  Shiva tucked his newspaper away between the seats. “No luck, effendi?”

  “No luck, Shiva. You might as well take me back to the hotel.”
r />   We eased out into the traffic, and I laid my head back on the seat and closed my eyes. I was bone weary, and the arousal I’d felt earlier with Sergeant Samir had dissolved, leaving nothing behind except faint irritation. What the hell was I doing here? I must be out of my mind, traipsing the world on what amounted to some imaginary goodwill mission. Maybe Sam Halim didn’t want to be found; maybe Mrs. Halim had no business asking me to help her find him. Maybe I should have stayed in Newfoundland, running my cafe and minding my own business.

  “The effendi is weary?” Shiva’s dark eyes sought mine in the rearview mirror. His tone was kind, and his expression said he was willing to listen if I wanted to talk.

  “Shiva, you have no idea.” It was barely three o’clock in the afternoon, but I was bushed. Somehow, in the midst of all my running around Cairo, I’d forgotten to eat, my body’s internal rhythms still messed up from the long overseas flight. I felt headachy and thirsty, out of sorts.

  “Might I make a suggestion, effendi Stoyles?”

  “Sure, suggest away.”

  “A cleansing bath, followed by a massage, often works wonders for the body and the spirit.”

  For a moment I wondered if he was offering me his services. Maybe he wasn’t just a cab driver? “Uh-huh.”

  “There is a very fine masseur at the Shepheard Hotel. He is an American from Texas. If you ring the front desk and ask for Nick, you will not be disappointed.”

  Shiva dropped me at the hotel, and I decided to do as he suggested. After a long, cool shower, I called down to the front desk and got Tania, the same girl who had checked me in the day before. I felt a little foolish even asking, but she was all business. “I’d like a massage. Uh, I heard you have an American working here, a man named Nick?”