by J. S. Cook
“How’d you know I wasn’t?” This was getting ridiculous. “You got somebody tailing me?”
She threw me a nervous smile. “Mr. Stoyles, I am eager to have my husband returned to me safely. There are many things you do not understand.”
How much did she know about Sam’s other life, about the relationships he’d formed away from Cairo? It wasn’t my place to tell her; that was Sam’s job. “You said a mouthful, lady.”
“Have you eaten breakfast?” She turned down a narrow side street and put the car in park. Her long, black hair cascaded around her shoulders as she took the scarf off and tossed it into the back seat. “I apologize if I shock you. I do not normally wear the hijab.”
“It’s fine.” I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She really was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. “I understand. So, what now?”
“Food.” She put the car into drive and peeled out onto the main street. “First, a good breakfast. My Samuel would never forgive me if I let you starve to death.”
I was confused, and I told her so. “What’s going on? Why are you involved with all this?”
“It is complicated. Before Sam left on his most recent assignment, he took care to put certain measures into place. This included a handpicked cadre of trusted informants. One of these you have already met.”
“Ibrahim Samir.”
“Correct. He is much valued by my husband. A difficult and often angry young man, but faithful to a fault and completely loyal to Sam. You cannot imagine how rare a thing that is these days, with war raging throughout the world.” She stopped to let a blue-robed fellah and his donkey cross the street; the donkey was so weighed down with bales of cotton as to make his species nearly unidentifiable.
“Who else?”
“A young American working at Shepheard’s Hotel as a masseur. I believe you have already met him. He is also loyal to my husband, but I took the precaution of asking him to watch out for you while you were in Cairo.” She rolled down the driver’s side window a little. “The third is, I regret to say, no longer with us.”
Shiva, the taxi driver. “Do you know who killed him?”
She shook her head, the black hair flying around her shoulders. “I do not. Probably the same person who was shooting at you this morning. He has already determined you are my husband’s close companion. You are a marked man, Mr. Stoyles.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“My great-grandfather’s first wife was the ugliest woman in Zaqaziq.”
My head snapped around. “What?”
Her smile was luminous, as beautiful as the day. “You said to tell you something you did not know.” She laughed gently. “Mr. Stoyles, I am not what you expected. I realize this. Too often, those of the West imagine the women of Egypt as creatures from some medieval caliph’s hareem whose marriages are arranged for them by a male relative. I met Samuel at university in England, where I was studying languages.” She turned down the street leading to the Halim residence. “Not all marriages are arranged, Mr. Stoyles. Some of us do marry for love.”
It was like a punch in the gut. Oh, I knew I had no right to be jealous—Sam and I had never made any promises to one another—but it felt like a metaphorical door had just slammed in my face. He loved his wife and she loved him. They’d been pals in university; they had a beautiful house and four lovely kids and everything was fine. “That’s nice.” I tried to put some feeling behind it. “Yeah, that’s real nice.”
We pulled into the driveway, and she turned the car off, but she didn’t get out right away. Instead she turned and put her hand in mine. There was something in her beautiful dark eyes that told me this woman knew everything. “My husband speaks very highly of you. He has said to me many times that he cherishes you as the dearest among all his companions. Indeed, he called you habibi.”
My throat was tight. “I don’t know what that means.”
She squeezed my hand. “It means you are beloved of my husband.”
“Did he….” A whisper was the most I could manage. “Did he say that?”
“Come inside and eat, Mr. Stoyles. You have had a very eventful morning.”
A little girl in a pink dress was waiting for us inside. She had dark hair and wise, sad brown eyes; she might have been a tiny, feminine version of Sam. “Stamos won’t let me have the crayons.”
“Tabia, where are your manners?”
Tareenah Halim introduced us and, crouching so we were at eye level, I took the girl’s soft little hand in mine. “I am very pleased to meet you, Tabia. Your father has told me about you.”
Her brows creased. “Are you his friend?”
“I am.”
“I wish you would tell him to come home. Stamos is completely out of control.” She dipped her head and disappeared into the interior of the house.
I sat at the table while Tareenah brought bread and honey, fresh fruit, and strong coffee made as only the Egyptians can make it. She drank a cup while I ate, and she didn’t waste time on small talk. “Mr. Stoyles, who do you think was shooting at you? Is there anyone in Cairo who might wish you dead?” I explained about Jonah Octavian and my theory that he was a Nazi operative involved in war profiteering. She seemed to know who I was talking about. “My husband mentioned this man. He is a kalb—a dog.”
“I agree. Sam telephoned me the night before I left Newfoundland to come to Egypt. He said he did not remember how he got to where he is. Do you think someone might have been….” I hesitated, not wanting to alarm her unnecessarily. “I don’t know… doing things that would confuse him?”
She poured another cup from the Turkish pot with a mere flick of her wrist. “Allied prisoners—that is to say, prisoners who are sympathetic to the Allied cause—are often tortured by the Nazis, who use the drug scopolamine.” Her gaze did not waver. “It interferes with memory.”
“Why did you tell me to stop looking for Sam?”
Her lower lip trembled, but she took a breath and squared her shoulders. “I have reason to believe that some of my husband’s colleagues may not be the worthy men they appear to be. The night of the party, I overheard three of them talking, and one of them let drop a phrase that gave me great pause.”
“I see.”
“Mr. Stoyles, I have debated with myself for a long time. When first I met you, I wanted you to look for Sam. Then I was not so sure. I feared involving you in it.” She turned her cup around and around in its saucer. “You are a foreigner; I did not want to take the risk.”
“You didn’t know if you could trust me.”
She nodded.
“I don’t blame you. Hell, the whole world’s gone insane, and I have no idea where to even start. Sergeant Samir said Sam had gone to Newfoundland on an assignment, and he disappeared right after he landed in Cairo.” Upon arrival, Sam would have either gone to the police station or to his home; there was nowhere else he needed to be. He hadn’t come home, which meant he had gone to the station or been waylaid on his way there. “Mrs. Halim, how well do you know your husband’s colleagues? The other men at the police department, I mean. Is there anybody there you don’t trust?”
“Most of the men Sam works with are veterans of the force. Ibrahim Samir has been there for some ten years; Sam’s superior officer, for nearly twenty-five.”
“Even veterans can be seduced away from duty if the price is right.”
“I don’t think it is a matter of money, Mr. Stoyles. I believe whoever has kidnapped my husband has done so for ideological reasons.” She sighed. “Still, it would be like Sam to get a message out if at all possible. Perhaps I should be a little jealous, Mr. Stoyles, that he chose to telephone you that night rather than his wife.”
“I don’t think it has anything to do with you. I doubt they’d even let him use the phone. He probably got to a telephone and only had a brief window of time to make the call.” That’s why he called me instead of his wife.
“Perhaps you are right.” Her smile was for
ced, and I suddenly felt like I’d overstayed my welcome.
“Mrs. Halim, you’ve been very kind to me. That breakfast was delicious, but I think I should get going. I want to stop by the police department and see what I can find out. I don’t know how much good that will do, but it’s worth a try. I’ll stop by my hotel first and change my clothes.” It would be a good opportunity to advise the Cairo police about Shiva, not that I expected them to do very much. Whoever had plugged him was long gone by now.
She nodded. “I will drive you.”
I DIDN’T tell Tareenah Halim, but I had no intention of looking for somebody who might have a reason to sell Sam out to the Nazis. My experience with thugs like that told me I only needed to make it known I was looking for him, and his captors would come crawling out of the desert like dung beetles.
I didn’t bother going up to my hotel room, either. As soon as Mrs. Halim’s yellow Fiat turned the corner of Shari’ esh-Sheikh Rihan, I hailed a cab and directed him to the National Bank of Egypt branch on the Sharia El Madabegh. I had no real way of knowing which branch the key had come from, but this particular branch was the one featured on the tourist map I had bought to replace my guidebook. I figured I’d start there and work my way backward if necessary. Hopefully, they wouldn’t raise too much of a stink when I asked to unlock the box; some banks were okay with it as long as you had the right key, but some got suspicious if just anybody waltzed in asking for admission to the vault.
The cabbie let me out practically on the doorstep, and I made sure to give him a decent tip. I’ve lived in cities all my life, and one thing I’ve learned, a savvy taxi driver is one of the best friends you can have. “You want I should wait for you, effendi?” He was young, not more than twenty years old, neatly dressed in a white, button-down shirt and khaki trousers. “I do not mind waiting.”
“Yeah, why don’t you? I’d appreciate it.” I handed over a pound note and watched his eyes light up.
“The Americani is most generous! I will wait here.”
“Thanks, pal.” I tapped the passenger door. “This won’t take too long.” If he knew I was whistling in the dark, he didn’t say anything.
I went in through the big double doors and joined the line forming to one side of the tellers’ counter. The bank had opened for the day’s business less than an hour ago, but already there were quite a few people ahead of me. I noticed a woman in full native garb with two little boys, and an elderly man wearing a hearing aid. There were also two men in casual trousers and long-sleeved shirts who seemed to be together; I couldn’t be sure, since they were standing with their backs to me. One was taller than the other and slender in that rawboned way that suggests a familiarity with physical exercise; he was standing close behind the shorter man and seemed to be holding his companion’s elbow from behind. The man in front was wearing clothes that weren’t exactly pristine, and this seemed strange to me considering how many admonitions to personal cleanliness there are in the Koran. Most Egyptians, even the poorest of the poor, make an effort; the soap sellers and perfumers do a brisk business in this part of the world. The way his companion was standing was weird, too, almost reaching around the other man from behind and holding on to him. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. There was something really wrong about this, something undeniably sinister.
The young man standing at the wicket looked me and my key over carefully before consenting to give me access to the vault. We passed through a doorway and into a small anteroom; the vault door was open, and I could see row upon row of safety deposit boxes, reaching from floor to ceiling. “Your number is 28.” He took the key and ascended a small ladder, unlocked the box, and brought it down to me. “There are rooms out the door and to your left, should you wish privacy. Please advise someone on the staff when you are done.”
I tucked the box under my arm and started out the door, but I never made it. The rawboned man was there, holding a Luger against his companion’s side. “You will stop right there, Mr. Stoyles.”
His companion was Samuel Halim.
Chapter 4
SAM’S FACE was pale and frightened, the skin over his cheekbones taut. There were new lines bracketing his mouth. I saw recognition in his eyes, and I was relieved; maybe the bully boys had left off with the drugs. He gazed at me and shook his head, a millimeter’s shift from right to left.
“Step into this room, Mr. Stoyles.” Sam’s captor waved the Luger at me, directing me into one of the small booths the bank provided for the privacy of box holders. I went in first, with Sam following me. Luger-Boy came last. He had the thin, ravaged face of a fanatical ideologue, complete with the burning eyes; a long, jagged scar ran from his left eye to the corner of his mouth. He shut the door behind us and took the box from me. “If any of the contents are missing, I will kill both of you.” His accent wasn’t Egyptian and he wasn’t an American; if I’d had to guess, I’d have said Swedish or Norwegian, one of the Scandinavian states. He flipped open the lid with one hand, while his other held the gun to cover us both. I was standing close enough to Sam that I could touch him, and I did, laying the palm of my hand on the curve of his lower back. It felt good to touch him, to feel the heat of his body burning through his dirty cotton shirt.
“Where is the list?” Luger-Boy rifled through the contents of the safety deposit box and came up with a small piece of pale blue paper. Someone had written on it in pen, both sides, but it was just long columns of numbers. “Ah. Captain Halim, you delight me.”
“Made your day, huh, buddy?” I wondered what the piece of paper was that had him so interested. Maybe radio frequencies or some sort of code; I’d heard the Allies were using special routing codes to foil German code breakers, who seemed to be nicely keeping pace with Allied cryptographers. Getting hold of that sort of intelligence would be a real coup. Maybe this was what Sam had meant with his FETCH REC anagram, although I couldn’t see Sam being so stupid as to leave something like that lying around in a safety deposit box. “Now that you’ve got what you came for, how’s about letting us go, huh? We won’t cause you any trouble.” It only made sense they’d been tailing me ever since I’d come to Cairo; that I hadn’t spotted anybody meant nothing. The city was full of taxi drivers and water sellers and beggars looking for baksheesh, and anybody could have been feeding these guys information.
“Shut up, Stoyles. If I want your opinion, you will be the first to know.” He pored over the list, his expression almost gleeful. “Yes, this is perfect. We have been looking for this for ages.”
“Must be your lucky day.”
“It is, Mr. Stoyles.” His wolfish grin came and went. “Now that I have this, Captain Halim is of no further use to me.”
“What are you gonna do with him?”
“He will be disposed of. But first, you will take this box back and give it to the teller. And don’t bother trying anything. I will be watching you, with this gun in Captain Halim’s ribs. Trust me, Mr. Stoyles, I will shoot him right here, and then I will kill you.” He shrugged. “Perhaps I will kill everyone in the bank and make you watch. It is hard to say how my mood will take me.”
Sam spoke for the first time. “You are a true patriot, Errki. Your German comrades will be pleased a Finn has managed to attain what they could not.” He was giving me information, and I was careful to make a mental note of it. “The name of Aaltonen will doubtless be renowned as a great one.” Errki Aaltonen. Finnish. According to some people, the Finns had spent this war sitting on their hands; maybe Errki Aaltonen was trying to score points with his Nazi bosses. “You are lucky to have found it. Truly, Aaltonen, it is the only thing of value in that… box.”
I didn’t look at Sam; his tone of voice told me everything I needed to know. I took the box Aaltonen passed me and started for the door, but I was watching the Finn out of the corner of my eye. He turned his head, and I tripped myself. The box flew out of my hands, and its contents scattered everywhere. “Aw, jeez, I’m sorry!” I fell to my knees and started picking up th
e scraps of paper; Sam, edging toward me, placed his foot over a scrap of plain white paper and drew it toward him. While Aaltonen cursed me, I gathered up the contents and stuffed it back into the box, assuming an appropriately contrite expression. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen. I’ll just take this back to the teller.”
Aaltonen’s face was brick red. I’d have to say he was furious with me right then. “Do that, Mr. Stoyles, and attempt nothing. Remember, my gun is pressed against the dear captain’s ribs.”
I stepped outside, located the teller, and handed the box off to him. When I went back into the room, Aaltonen had hold of Sam’s elbow again. “Leaving so soon, Errki?”
“Do nothing that you will regret, Mr. Stoyles. Turn your face to that wall and count to one hundred slowly. Then you may leave. I would caution you, however, against any… unwise ideas.”
“Do as he says, Jack.” Sam’s face was serene, his eyes full of affection for me. “Ana uħibbuk.” I watched Aaltonen drag him out the door, and then I did as the Finn had ordered. Near the wall where Sam and I had been standing was that scrap of plain white paper he’d had under his foot. I bent and picked it up and read what was written there. It seemed to be a quote of some kind, poetry:
If anyone wants to know what “spirit” is,
or what “God’s fragrance” means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.
Like this.
When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.
Like this.
If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don’t try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.
Like this. Like this.
I FILLED up then, and before I knew what was happening, I was blubbering like a child. I hadn’t cried in ages, not even when Judy died in Philadelphia, but I was crying now. I cried as I walked through the great foyer of the bank, past the tellers’ counter, and out the great double doors. I stopped before the taxi and wiped my eyes on the tail of my shirt before I got in.
