Nile Shadows (The Jerusalem Quartet Book 3)

by Edward Whittemore

  People at the bus stop turned to stare. The small man recovered and spoke with indignation.

  Excuse me? Is there something you wanted?

  Too late, little rabbit, thought Joe. Forget what they told you about showing no emotion. Madmen are disturbing to everybody.

  Joe smiled more broadly.

  All I wanted is the secret to Rommel’s success, he said. Does it mention in the papers what he ate for breakfast?

  Excuse me, said the young man forcefully, angrily. He had closed his newspaper and was trying to move away from Joe, but Joe held him tightly from behind and moved with him, his chin still on the young man’s shoulder. Joe noticed for the first time that he had a limp. The people at the bus stop had formed a circle around them. Joe grinned sideways into the small man’s face, only inches away.

  Would you believe me, he said, if I told you I’ve just been up all night listening to Catherine the Great and Cleopatra explain what Rommel puts his nose into first thing in the morning? Maps or herring, most people might think, but it’s not like that at all. Just shocking information, as a matter of fact.

  The small man had finally pulled away from Joe and now stood facing him, his fists clenched, hatred in his eyes. A large crowd had gathered around them, pushing and pressing forward, trying to find out what was happening. Joe raised his arms and stepped back, shouting at the crowd.

  O worthy Cairenes, O noble sons and daughters of the Nile. Today a great liberator moves ever closer to Cairo and oppression may soon be at an end. But what has this agent of British imperialism just whispered in my ear at this very bus stop? What manner of slander has he dared to whisper right here in broad daylight?

  Silence fell over the crowds pressing in from every side. Joe waved his arms and shouted.

  O worthy Cairenes. Is it right for this secret agent to say the great General Rommel puts his nose into little fellahs first thing every morning? Is it right to say such wicked things about a great generalissimo panzer liberator? Can’t the great General Rommel eat what he wants for breakfast?

  Angry mutterings ran through the crowd. Hisses. Groans. Again Joe waved his arms and shouted.

  And verily I say unto you, a great field-marshal generalissimo panzer savior, our very own Rommel, can eat what he wants for breakfast and British imperialism be damned. And I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, and I’ll keep on saying it no matter what they do to me.

  Rommel eats what he wants for breakfast.

  Eats what he wants,

  Eats what he wants …

  T the hungry masses thronging the crossroads that morning, the visceral appeal of Joe’s booming message was immense and immediate. In only a few words Joe had managed to express the first principle of every poor Egyptian’s dream for a better future, food, the dream disguised as usual as homage for a savior, the first principle disguised as the first meal of the day, breakfast. So it was no surprise to Joe when several daring voices took up the revolutionary cry out of hunger, and in another moment the entire hungry mob had broken into a thunderous chant secretly demanding an adequate breakfast, hundreds of clenched fists raised against the clear blue morning sky.

  We’ve said it before and we’ll say it again.

  Rommel eats what he wants for breakfast.

  Eats what he wants,

  Eats what he wants….

  Joe noticed some policemen forming across the way, getting ready to charge into the crowds before a riot broke out. Already the mobs were surging back and forth in a fierce din of shrieks and sirens and horns. Joe winked at Bletchley’s small Monk, who was still trapped in front of him, and slipped away into the crowds. A block up the street, the shouts and horns behind him, Joe suddenly stopped and leaned against a building. All at once he felt dizzy, as if he had been running for hours.

  A silly trick, he thought. There would only be more anonymous Monks waiting for him near the hotel, the first telephone call from the surveillance team would have seen to that. So why had he done it? Why had he lost control so quickly?

  It was more than exhaustion, he knew that. The night had been filled with many things but the excitement was gone now. For the first time since leaving the houseboat, he felt he could see things clearly. And then he listened to the animal cries behind him and realized what had happened.

  Joe choked and groped for the wall, violently beginning to vomit.

  As he hurried along he thought of the young man he had just humiliated, a small man with a limp, with a bad leg or no leg, a false one in its place. Had he lost the leg in a tank? There wasn’t much room in a tank and small men managed better, so that’s where they were often assigned.

  The boy hadn’t done very well at the bus stop, thought Joe, but of course he was new to the game. Probably he’d learned about tanks first, then how to walk again, then a quick course with the Monks before he was sent out to walk the streets for Bletchley…. He could imagine the boy’s file being sent to Bletchley and Bletchley going through it and seeing his own life laid out in front of him. The boy patched up and out of the hospital and able to walk, an earnest young soldier who still wanted to help, could Bletchley use him? And Bletchley looking at the file and seeing his own life twenty-five years ago, everybody gets his own war. For Bletchley had also wanted to stay on in the army back then, it was just that they hadn’t been keeping men with only half a face, no more than one leg would do it today. So Bletchley had known exactly how the boy felt and had taken pity and made him an offer.

  God help us, thought Joe, but that’s exactly how it works. Sign on as a war hero and lose a leg and if you’re lucky you get promoted to streetwalker, simple as that.

  And the kid was just doing his job back there, thought Joe. He doesn’t know who I am and he’s never heard of Stern and he’s got nothing to do with any of us, but I put hatred into his eyes, I did that. And he’ll pass it along all right but the worst part is I was enjoying myself, I wanted to wound, and laughing I was because I was so clever…. Clever for sure, whipping a crippled kid like that in front of a lot of people.

  He stopped, exhausted again, feeling empty and ashamed. It seemed so futile sometimes. All these years and something like that could happen so quickly. It was frightening.

  But he didn’t have time to think about it. He had to keep moving now. There was just so little time left for anything.

  The alleys of Old Cairo, as always, looked as if they had been gnawed by rats during the night. Joe was near the hotel. He turned a corner.

  A haggard Arab figure suddenly loomed up in front of him, blocking his way, the man’s hair long and matted, his filthy cloak a patchwork of faded rags. Desperately the Arab clawed at the air in front of Joe’s face, his eyes burning as he ripped at the sunshine. But it was the creature’s mouth that horrified Joe, snapping and gnawing at the sunlight. Joe tried to back away but a flaying claw came slashing down and hooked him, the Arab’s bony fingers burning into his skin. Joe winced at the shock. The Arab’s face was only inches away … a wild vision of some hermit who had lost his way in the centuries and come staggering in from the desert to haunt the byways of the city. But then all at once the Arab’s eyes seemed strangely familiar.

  Liffy?

  For a moment the frantic burning eyes held Joe, then the claw slipped away and the mysterious gaze was broken.

  Me, gasped Liffy … an asthma attack … in here.

  He pulled Joe sideways into an alley and dragged him along.

  Are you all right?

  … better now … can’t go back to the hotel…. Here.

  He pulled Joe into a dark room off the alley, separated from the alley by a shabby curtain. There were small bare tables in the room and a counter with bottles in a row, stacked chairs, a mirror behind the counter. An Egyptian faced the mirror, his back turned. The floor glistened from water splashed around to lay the dust.

  The Egyptian behind the counter glanced into the mirror to see them and went on wiping glasses. The mirror was old and cracked and deep
ly grained with time, its edges blackened in the gloom. Joe guessed the place was some kind of cheap bar used by laborers, probably mostly at night, empty now save for its owner. Liffy wheezed and sputtered and ordered coffee.

  Joe found himself gazing into the mirror, fascinated by the odd distortions floating in its hazy interiors. A peculiar thought flashed through his mind. What if Stern were to sit with him looking into that mirror?… Liffy dragged him along to a table at the back, away from the shabby curtain separating the room from the alley. Liffy was still pale and gasping for breath. Joe held his arm.

  Are you all right? Can I do anything?

  Liffy closed his eyes, chewing at the air.

  … better now … passing … an attack.

  Joe glanced over his shoulder at the counter, where the owner of the bar was putting a tiny metal pot to boil, removing it when the froth bubbled up and letting the froth subside before returning it to the flame, boiling the mixture of coffee and sugar three times in all. The color was coming back into Liffy’s face. Finally he opened his eyes and stared at Joe.

  Better?

  Yes, whispered Liffy. I was beginning to think you were never going to show up.

  What’s this costume you’re wearing?

  Nothing, just something left over from last night. I was doing a job for the Waterboys and didn’t have time to change. Wait.

  Joe heard the movement behind him. The owner brought over the two little cups of coffee and placed them on the table, a disheveled man with puffy eyes. As soon as he had left them, Liffy leaned forward.

  I was afraid I’d missed you. Something’s happened.

  What?

  Ahmad, whispered Liffy. I came to see you late last night when I finished work. I didn’t think you’d be all night and I was going to wait in your room, but I never got there. Ahmad wasn’t at his desk when I walked in and there was something wrong, I could feel it. There didn’t seem to be anybody there.

  Joe gripped his hands together under the table.

  You looked around?

  Not inside, I didn’t like it. Then I thought he might be out back in the courtyard and I went around and climbed up to look in.

  Liffy’s hands were trembling. He lowered his eyes. Joe stared.

  Ahmad, whispered Liffy. He was lying there all crumpled up. It looked as if he had fallen off the roof. His spyglass was still in his hand and his trombone was beside him.

  A spasm jerked in Joe’s stomach.

  Dead?

  He was lying the wrong way. His legs and his head were all twisted around but his straw hat wasn’t there. I didn’t stay, I left and came to wait for you. I’ve been waiting for hours, I didn’t go back. I have no idea what’s going on there.

  What was he wearing, Liffy?

  His faded lavender nightshirt. That old thing he always wears when he’s on duty.

  Liffy hung his head. He pulled his hands off the table and hid them, his voice trembling.

  I know what you’re thinking. Ahmad never went up there without putting on his suit, it was his special place after all. And where was his hat, Joe? What happened to his old straw hat?

  Liffy’s voice cracked. He clutched Joe’s arm, begging him, imploring him.

  He went up there on a whim? Just decided to do it and leaned, out too far … lost his balance?

  Joe closed his hand over Liffy’s.

  An accident? pleaded Liffy in desperation.

  No, said Joe, squeezing Liffy’s hand more tightly.

  No? Liffy almost shrieked. Just this one time? No?

  Joe gripped Liffy’s shoulder. Tears were streaming down Liffy’s face.

  He was pushed? shrieked Liffy in a whisper. A harmless man like Ahmad? But what’s the sense of that, Joe? What’s the sense of it?

  Joe was on his feet. He dropped some coins on the table.

  There’s no time, I have to leave.

  Liffy’s head jerked back.

  Where are you going?

  I have to see someone.

  Who?

  There was terror in Liffy’s eyes.

  Who? Say it. I know anyway.

  David, whispered Joe.

  Liffy leapt to his feet.

  I’m going with you, then. I am.

  You shouldn’t, Liffy, not now. It would be better if you didn’t.

  Better? David?… Better?

  All right but we have to hurry, whispered Joe, and started down the room toward the shabby curtain separating them from the alley, a sudden image catching Joe’s eye as they rushed past the mirror, the vision of a ghostlike figure drifting through the half-light behind him, wild hair streaming and a billowing cloak and a tormented face glowing in the dimness…. Liffy in flight through time. The unworldly figure of Liffy whirling through one of the last of his mysterious incarnations….

  The door to Cohen’s Optiks was ajar. A bell tinkled when Joe pushed it open. There was no one in the shop.

  Another door, half open, led to the workshop in the back where Joe had talked to Cohen. The workshop was also empty, the door at the rear of the workshop closed. Joe knocked, waited, turned the handle.

  It was a storeroom, the place where Anna had listened to Joe’s conversation with her brother. There were boxes and dusty trays, discarded grinding wheels, a clock on the wall which no longer worked. Anna sat on a box, staring at the floor. She looked up, bewildered.

  I only just heard…. Were you there?

  She stared at Joe blankly and he shook his head. She stared at Liffy.

  You weren’t there?… Wasn’t anybody with him?

  No, said Joe softly. What happened?

  Oh. Oh a lorry struck him. The police just told me. He was crossing a street. They said it was nobody’s fault.

  Her face was empty. She stared at the floor. Joe heard a muffled cry beside him and all at once Liffy was on his knees beside Anna, gathering her up in his arms, the two of them rocking back and forth and wailing and crying out … crying and crying.

  Joe looked at the motionless clock on the wall and felt himself sinking. He pressed his eyes shut, too weak to stand, his heart crushed by the eternal sound of their weeping.

  The tiny Greek church they had sought for refuge was deserted save for the two of them, the floor of the nave bare as was the custom, the few high-backed wooden chairs pushed back against the walls like thrones at a convocation of wary medieval kings. Shouts from playing children pierced the cool darkness.

  Liffy sat on his throne with his hands in his lap, the life drained out of him since they had left Anna. Beside him Joe moved uneasily on his throne, thinking how stark the tiny church was without its priest and worshipers, its canticles and incense, with only vanished chants to fill the shadows. Liffy stirred, whispered.

  Joe? What are you going to do now?

  Well I’m going to try to see Stern tonight, one way or another, but in the meantime I need a sanctuary. In another era this little cave would have been fine, but the concept’s no longer honored, sadly. Seems holy places have a way of getting lost over time, don’t they, so you always have to be seeking new ones…. Can you think of a place, Liffy?

  A refuge, you mean?

  Yes.

  Liffy was gazing up at the low dome, at the fresco there depicting the austere figure of Christ as Pantokrator, the Paraclete or Intercessor, the stylized face expressionless, the enormous powerful eyes staring down at them.

  You could try old Menelik’s mausoleum, whispered Liffy. That would probably be as safe as anywhere.

  It might be at that, thought Joe.

  But Ahmad kept his forgery equipment there, he whispered. Won’t Bletchley think of that?

  Liffy stirred.

  There’s no reason for him to bother with it. There’s nothing but a small printing press which runs by hand, so old and battered no one but Ahmad could ever work it. I imagine they’d just leave the place locked and forget about it. It doesn’t mean anything to any of them.

  Seems likely, thought Joe.

&nb
sp; But how could I get in then?

  I have a key, murmured Liffy.

  You do?

  Yes. I had a duplicate made of Ahmad’s once. He used to let me borrow his and I was always afraid of losing it.

  You used to go there by yourself, you mean?

  Sometimes, to get away from everything. Ahmad took pity on me and let me use it. I used to go there to read.

  Joe looked at him, surprised.

  What did you read down there?

  Buber, mostly. It was very quiet and I could feel at peace.

  Joe nodded. I’ve been thinking about the Waterboys, he whispered, wondering if they could help in some way.

  Liffy moved on his throne, still gazing up at the dome.

  Why them?

  Because I doubt they know anything about this, security being what it is. And because there’d have to be some sense of rivalry between them and the Monastery, human nature being what it is. And also because Stern’s done work for them in the past, which means they’d have a high opinion of him. And because Maud works there. I know she only does translations, but that still means they’d trust her. Is there any officer there you know particularly well?

  The Major, murmured Liffy. He’d be the one to contact. We get along and I think he reports directly to the Colonel, Bletchley’s equivalent. In fact I think he’s the Colonel’s personal assistant. I can give you his private phone number and you could pretend you were me, asking for an emergency meeting. I’ve never had to set one up in the clear over the phone, but you could do it. We have the arrangement.

  I couldn’t imitate your voice, whispered Joe.

  You wouldn’t have to. Whenever I call him I use a different voice. It’s a kind of game between the two of us.

  Joe nodded. Liffy’s gaze was still fixed on the fresco overhead.

  Joe? What will you do if Menelik’s crypt doesn’t work out? If you have to find another place to hide? Where will you go?

  I’ve been thinking about it and I suppose I might have to try the houseboat. The Sisters would take me in all right, the trouble is Bletchley would think of it. I know no harm will come to them, I’m sure they’re right about that, Bletchley wouldn’t dare. But the houseboat just sits there on the water and if Bletchley’s men came looking, well, they’d find me soon enough.