by Jana Petken
The two men had their heads together now, leaving Anubis and Abu out of the discussion. The café was packed with men who had come there after prayers. Music on the Sintir and Buzuq was playing in the background. Smoke from shisha pipes was becoming denser and settling on food dishes and Arabic sweetmeats, and conversations were becoming more robust.
Anubis, unable to hear a word, waited for his companions’ responses to his request that they meet with Rolf Fischer. It had been over a week since he had taken the plunge and asked Abu to set up this meeting. The two men present were well known within the Muslim Brotherhood as being advocates for a more aggressive policy. That he’d even reached the men’s ears was a great achievement, and it deserved a British pardon, he thought, struggling to keep his face placid while his anger simmered.
“We are agreed. We will meet with your Swiss weapons trader next week in Cairo, at a place of our choosing,” Brother Sarraf finally said. “Abu will tell you when and where nearer the time.”
Anubis’ body shook with anticipation as he stood to shake the men’s hands, “Ila likaa – until we meet again.”
Chapter Twelve
Max Vogel
Cairo, Egypt,
8 September 1942
Max’s Cairo apartment consisted of two rooms. Views of Cairo’s best and worst sights stretched beyond the main room’s French doors that led to a foot’s width of balcony enclosed by railings. Located near the Nile Delta, the area was a mishmash of buildings, from the tired, old, and ancient, to the amateurishly built modern constructions blasting constant noise.
Standing on a chair and looking straight ahead, Max could just about see the pyramids and the beginnings of the Sahara Desert. With his feet on the ground, however, the view was infinitely less impressive: an ugly concrete jungle of grey, cement block apartments that no one had ever bothered to paint, standing shoulder-to-shoulder on narrow, garbage-littered streets stinking of domestic animal shit.
On their flat-roofed buildings, people grew vegetables, kept poultry and pigeon coops, and erected ubiquitous washing lines with crude wooden poles that were cemented into hollow bricks. A perpetual skyline of white, cloudy thwabs and ghutra head coverings billowed eerily in the wind like an army of ghosts. They stood testament to Arabic wives who tried to keep their men’s robes white despite the billowing sand that stuck to the wet garments. Max didn’t hate the area: a man could disappear into its maze of closely-knit streets; no one asked questions, and the British military police deemed it uninteresting. It was as discreet as one could get in the Egyptian capital.
A single bed, set of drawers, wardrobe, and a rather luxurious bathroom were crammed into the other room. Max thought having the bathtub, sink, and toilet seat inside the bedroom a strange notion, but as off-putting as it was to shit next to where one slept, he was also grateful that the Egypt-based chief of MI2, the British Military Intelligence Section 2, had placed him in this modern middle-class apartment. He could have shoved Max into cheaper lodgings where he would have had a bucket of water to wash with and a walk to the communal toilet in the muddy back yard whenever he needed to have a piss or shit.
Max was close to confirming to Heller in London that John Bryant and the Egyptian boy, Farid, had been killed by members of the Muslim Brotherhood. Anubis’ meeting four days earlier with the militant arm of the group had surpassed his expectations. He’d not got a confession, but he was confident that a man called Brother Sarraf had been referring to Bryant and Farid when he’d said they had dealt severely with suspected British agents.
Anubis had told Max, ‘Sarraf was talking about them … I know it. It’s taken me two months to get here, but I believe we’ll never get closer to a full confession.’
When Max informed Jonathan Heller about the breakthrough, the latter had closed the case. ‘These murders are not the reason you are in Egypt. Do not engage in the Bryant case further – adhere to political protocols with the Egyptian government.’ Max had understood the message behind the writing, and he agreed with Heller. Only when one was in Egypt, could one understand the complexities of culture and laws and the political minefields surrounding religion. One of the Muslim Brotherhood members was guilty of murder, but Max could not march a troop of military police into the group’s stronghold and make mass arrests. The Egyptian government was trying to suppress the Brotherhood in their own way and had demanded the British authorities stay away from all Islamic matters, even when it involved murder, apparently.
On paper, Heller would blame the Brotherhood for killing the British Intelligence Officer and claim he’d solved the crime. He’d put the closed file in a box on a shelf where it would collect dust and be ignored for decades or forever. Bryant was a casualty of war, who, as a spy, would probably remain incognito even in his grave.
For more than two months, Max had lived as Rolf Fischer, settling into the life of a watch salesman and allowing his reputation to grow in both Arabic and foreign communities in Alexandria and Cairo. He was known as a philanderer who liked to drink cocktails as he displayed his watches to tipsy foreigners. He attended dances and paid for the services of beautiful escorts to make him stand out. Loud and brash, he had come to the attention of British officers who continued to look but hardly ever buy from his stock of watches. Both men and women displayed their contempt for his German accent and neutrality status, but that was precisely the attitude he wanted to cultivate. He was confident that his reputation, albeit sordid, would hold fast for the most critical mission still to come.
In the late afternoon, Theo Kelsey arrived at Max’s apartment. Ten minutes later, Captain Gaidar Shalhoub appeared. Max was looking forward to seeing the men, for apart from a sitrep sent by radio transmission to Gaidar three weeks earlier, he had not seen or spoken to either man.
Kelsey was talking about the Bryant murder. He was frustrated, utterly fed up with the whole thing, he told Max before any of them even sat down.
Max, expecting Kelsey’s outburst, felt strings of guilt tugging at him. He was misleading Theo, who was involved in the murder case but unwittingly ignorant of the primary mission. He was a small player in a big game; not much more than a liaison officer between Max and British Intelligence, but he was dedicated – fervent, even – and that made it hard on Max’s conscience to stonewall him.
“We’ve interviewed every person John Bryant was associated with in the Cairo consular offices, and I have nothing of substance, zilch,” Theo said, as he handed Max his reports.
Max skimmed the papers. “That’s disappointing.”
“What about Anubis’ Sudanese friend … you know, the boy who was going to lead your man into the Muslim Brotherhood camp to look for suspects?”
“Anubis has discounted the Sudanese, Abu Hanifa. According to him, the boy doesn’t have the gumption or physique to be an assassin. He’s a devoted Muslim Brotherhood follower and a pious Islamic scholar who is demanding independence for his country. He’s a radical Islamist but has the body of a ten-year-old. He’s not our killer.”
“What about the British employees at the consular offices in Alexandria?” Theo now asked, becoming more irritated.
“What about them?” Max shrugged. “Half of them left Egypt at the end of the June when we thought Rommel was going to invade. Most of them haven’t returned.”
“Are you telling me that after months of tying ends together, we’ve got sod all! What are we supposed to tell John Bryant’s wife?”
“We’ll tell her that her husband died in service to his country, the same inane platitude we tell every dead intelligence officer’s wife.”
Max flicked his eyes to Gaidar Shalhoub, who leant against the wall with his arms crossed as though he were bored or uninterested.
“Look, no one likes to lose…”
“Are you saying it is over?” Shalhoub asked, finally airing his own exasperation.
“No, it’s not over until I say it’s over.”
“We’re punching bloody air now,” Theo said. “This i
s not good enough, sir. You’ve had Gaidar and me twiddling our thumbs waiting for your instructions while you’ve been … bloody incommunicado … and with respect, here you are, finally, with nothing in the bag.”
“Remember your place, Captain.”
Kelsey’s face reddened. “I was concerned for your safety, sir.”
“I appreciate that, but there’s no need.” Max spoke dryly, rejecting Kelsey’s pathetic attempt to backpedal. “I will tell both of you what you need to know, when I’m ready, not before, understood?”
Theo mumbled, “Yes, sir.”
Gaidar let out an angry sigh and rolled his eyes at Max’s banal attitude.
“Do you have something to say, Captain Shalhoub?” Max asked.
“Yes. I do,” Gaidar grumbled. “We have no one left to question. This should be shut down. It’s a waste of time. If Bryant’s killer is connected to the Muslim Brotherhood, we’ll be pissing up a wall forever and a day. May I speak freely?”
“You already are but carry on.”
“With respect, sir, your asset is no closer to getting you a meeting with the Brotherhood than he was the day you picked him up from a British prison and offered him the deal. I don’t believe you will succeed with him. You must agree?”
“Must I?”
Gaidar’s eyes narrowed. “It would be easier for a fat camel to go through the eye of your proverbial needle than it would be to get you through a Muslim Brotherhood door. I have been against this operation from the outset. Even before you came to Egypt, I advised Captain Kelsey that it is against the Muslim Brotherhood’s nature to allow outsiders into their camps. Two years ago, they acquired weapons, but they dealt with Muslim soldiers fighting at the front, not foreigners…”
“What is your point?”
“My point, sir, is that they probably killed your John Bryant and they will kill a Swiss, German-speaking, Rolf Fischer just as easily – they will kill you.”
“Have you finished?” Max asked.
Gaidar leant against the wall again, arms folded in their guarded position across his broad chest and nodded.
“Good, then that will be all, gentlemen. Captain Kelsey, when I need you, I’ll let you know.” Max lit a cigarette, then poured cold coffee from the pot into his glass. He glanced at the clock on the wall; Anubis would arrive in less than an hour. “In the meantime, use the emergency protocol if you need to contact me – and stay away from this apartment, both of you.”
“What are we supposed to do now?” Gaidar asked.
“Take a couple of days off.”
“Very well, Major. Good evening.”
Alone with Theo, Max said, “I understand your frustration, Theo, but you should have known better than to question me in front of another officer.”
“I apologise, sir.”
“Accepted. Goodnight, Theo. We’ll regroup in two days.”
******
Anubis drove the battered Volkswagen through the Cairo streets towards the Mokattam Hills, situated at the edge of the city’s eastern suburbs. He was silent, his eyes fixated on narrow roads and dirt tracks littered with people who ignored the concept of looking left and right before crossing from one side of the street to another.
Max, glad of the silence between them, tried to anticipate any contingencies that might arise. It was an oxymoron, he admitted, to try to second-guess unpredictable events, but he was unarmed, making his most effective weapons, should he need them, his well-prepared, smooth-talking tongue and his gut feelings.
Anubis slowed down, stopped, and cut the engine on a narrow road behind a house. “We must leave the motorcar here. We will go the rest of the way on foot. I hope you have saved your strength. It will take us at least an hour to reach the top of the hill.”
“I’ll be fine. You just concentrate on finding the meeting place.”
Max, dressed in a khaki shirt and shorts that reached his knees, felt his feet dragging as they arrived at the Mokattam’s halfway point. He stopped to drink water from the leather flagon slung over his shoulder on a leather strap and marvelled at the views. An ancient-looking structure bathed in the red hue of dusk stood on a jutting ridge to his left, as if peering down on the capital’s streets like an all-seeing father. “What is that building?”
After drinking, Anubis wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then pushed the cork top into the flagon’s opening. “The Coptic Church. Mokattam is well-known to the Christians. There’s a story – probably untrue – that describes the day Coptic Pope Abraham of Alexandria performed a mass here. He wanted to prove to the Caliph that the Gospel was true. It is said that at the precise moment the Pope declared, ‘If one has faith like a grain of mustard, one can move a mountain,’ the hill did move up and down. The Coptics believe this is the reason Mokattam has many protruding plateaus. Who knows whether it happened or not – who cares, but the Christians?”
Max, still catching his breath, observed the stunning magenta and peach shades of the sun melting into the haze. Cairo’s vast panorama served as a backdrop, stretching westward over a sea of jumbled rooftops and minarets across the shimmering Nile towards the dark points of pyramids jutting through the misty horizon.
“It is striking, is it not?” Anubis said, following Max’s eyes. “During the day, this place is full of nature’s wondrous sounds, as satisfying as a puff of apple shisha in the quiet desert.”
To the left of the shallow incline, the dusty hills’ six-hundred fifty-foot cliff face loomed like a second citadel over the valley. It was both imposing and wild, and Max felt the first quiver of fear. “Why the hell did they want to meet up here? I could think of a hundred places where we don’t have to climb a damn hill.”
“The Muslim Brotherhood conducts its weapons training in these hills. I’m sure if you were to tell your soldiers about that, they could also come up here and arrest dozens of brothers.”
“Egyptian and British soldiers have ears, Anubis. They already know about weapons firing in the hills, and if they haven’t arrested the culprits, it’s because the Egyptian government has forbidden foreign intrusion into their business.” That was all Anubis needed to know.
Anubis, seemingly disinterested, checked his watch. “It will be dark soon. We need to move.”
Max’s trek came to a halt at a beautiful setting on the most eastern section of the hills’ plateaus: mimosa, jacaranda, and cypress trees stood in an almost perfect circle, as though a visionary gardener had planted them with an eye to their future growth. The oasis, in what was otherwise a stony, arid landscape, was a stunning reminder of Egypt’s fertile land. Max had been in the country for months, but he was still in awe of the plants and trees that produced the most delicious fruit he’d ever tasted, the spices and herbs that grew wild, and the ubiquitous shadows of palm trees that gave comfort and sustenance to the poorest of people and shade to those who toiled in the fierce Egyptian sun. If not for the violence of men, it would be a Garden of Eden.
The black shadows of six men shuffling in single file approached the clearing within the circle of trees where Anubis and Max waited. Max hung back, daunted by the half dozen rifle-toting Arabs wearing black thawbs hiked up to their waists with black undergarments to their ankles billowing softly in the breeze. Anubis, however, looked relaxed as he greeted the man Max perceived to be the group’s leader.
“Brother, this is Herr Rolf Fischer – Herr Fischer, this is our esteemed Brother who will negotiate with you,” Anubis eventually said, when he escorted the man to Max.
Max stared into the Brother’s eyes; their irises were so large and black that they almost consumed the surrounding sclera. Those eyes were all Max could see; the brother and his men had covered the bottom halves of their faces with the same black material as was used on the ghutrahs covering their heads. Max was strangely comforted by the men’s caution; he would have been more afraid had they shown him their faces.
“Marhabaan – hello. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me,” Max said in
a respectful tone.
Max studied the man’s reaction when Anubis translated what he’d said. One thing he had learnt about the Arabs of Egypt was that they responded well to the compliments of foreigners who were not part of the British Empire. To them, it was one in the eye of the English occupiers who displayed, at most, a modicum of respect to their Egyptian hosts.
“I understood what he said,” the Brother responded with a sharp tone of voice.
Max’s biggest hurdle would be the language barrier. He couldn’t hope to be understood if he used German, and had, therefore, elected to speak flawed English, laced with a heavy German accent. The accent was important. Most educated Egyptians understood the King’s English. It was the universal vernacular in the Middle East and North Africa, and the imposing Brother would detect a flawless London accent, which would blow Max’s cover out of the water.
The Brother ushered Max and Anubis to three stools around a copper tray balanced on a wooden tripod. The immediate area was lit by fire torches that had been dug into the soft ground. In the secluded spot, a man was boiling water and already putting a handful of mint leaves into a copper teapot. Another was filling a bowl with crunchy yellow unripe dates while the rest of the men were facing outwards and focusing on their surroundings.
“This is a real home-from-home.” Max smiled. “I can see why you chose this spot. Ja, wunderschön – beautiful.”
“We must pray to Allah that it is not destroyed by the careless hands of the English and Germans. Slowly, they are demolishing everything else, even our precious desert,” the Brother said.
