City of Gold

by Len Deighton

  ‘For you it will be easy,’ said Percy. ‘English is your mother tongue. For me it will not be so easy. I have blond hair; I have an accent.’

  ‘All for one, one for all, Percy. We’ll look after you, you know that.’

  Percy didn’t believe him. This was another of Wallingford’s regular pep talks. It wasn’t very different from some of the optimistic views Wallingford had confided to him before. But seeing how badly Wallingford was taking the idea of his leaving, Percy decided to lower the temperature. ‘I will not be doing anything for a while,’ he said.

  ‘No. You’ll need your money,’ said Wallingford.

  Now Percy was sure that he had made a bad move in confiding his future plans to his boss. If Wallingford decided that money would liberate Percy into leaving the gang, Wallingford would make sure he got none. Percy smiled. ‘Maybe I just need a strong drink,’ he said.

  ‘How long will it take to get this stuff loaded?’ asked Wallingford.

  ‘You will have to select exactly what you want to take.’

  ‘I can do that in five minutes,’ said Wallingford.

  Percy looked at his watch. ‘We may not be ready to move before daylight. And in daylight we are sure to be spotted. It might be better to find some good place and just lie low until tomorrow night.’

  As if to emphasise the need for such caution there was the soft sound of distant aircraft. ‘Let’s get back to the others,’ said Wallingford. ‘They’ll be getting worried.’

  ‘They are all idiots,’ said Percy.

  ‘They are all individuals,’ said Wallingford.

  ‘Individuals like Tommy Mogg and Sandy Powell?’ said Percy sardonically.

  ‘Those two did all right,’ said Wallingford warmly. ‘When they saw that the Siwa Oasis was full of policemen, they cleared out quickly and warned us. That was just what I told them to do.’

  ‘Yes, they have a good nose for policemen,’ said Percy. ‘A rapist and a thief.’

  ‘You’re being hard on them: Sandy should never have been trusted with the mess funds. He went to the Gezira races and was unlucky on the horses. I feel sorry for him.’

  ‘And do you feel sorry for Mogg? And sorry for the girl he raped?’

  ‘They did all right at Siwa.’

  ‘Very well. So what are you going to do now? You can not go in there and get the Berettas with the police waiting for you.’

  ‘I am going to sell the Berettas to the Jews. Cash and carry. They pay me. I tell them where to find the guns and they arrange their own collection.’

  ‘Will they fall for it?’

  ‘They need the guns.’

  ‘The Jews will get caught.’

  ‘They might or they might not: I’m going to get that idiot Darymple to help with some paperwork. But if that doesn’t work, and Solomon does get caught, at least we’ll have the money. Stick with me, Percy old lad. I have a head for business.’

  ‘Solomon will betray you if they catch him. He will describe all of us to the police.’

  ‘Why should he suspect us?’ And when Percy didn’t answer, Wallingford added, ‘Solomon will not turn informer. I’m a good judge of people: Solomon hates the British. That’s the beauty of it. Solomon won’t give them any help at all.’

  16

  Peggy West had seen very little of Prince Piotr until Solomon had told her to spy on him. Now they’d become friends.

  ‘If we went round the clubs one evening, we’d probably run into the royal entourage,’ said Piotr. He said it casually and went on to talk of other things, but he knew that Peggy, like so many other Cairo residents, was fascinated by King Farouk and everything he did.

  ‘How would we know which club?’

  ‘I could discover that from someone at the palace. The king has his favourite establishments, which change constantly. He’s like a child in some respects. I could find out where he is likely to turn up.’

  ‘I saw him one night last week,’ said Peggy. ‘Everyone knew he was coming because the police cleared the streets, the way they do lately. He was in a big red Rolls with motorcycle outriders, and a truck of infantry, and then more cars with plainclothes policemen.’

  ‘He likes a lot of fuss,’ said Piotr. ‘Arabs all like show, you must know that by now. I used to have a silver and black Wraith, a Mulliner drophead coupé. I loved it but the king sent the word to me that I should get rid of it. He didn’t like being upstaged.’

  ‘How stupid. You should have refused.’

  ‘I have a French passport,’ said Piotr sadly. ‘These are sad days. That passport makes me very vulnerable to the authorities.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You know why, Peggy. The French were fighting the British in Syria last summer. Now the Japanese have attacked the British using French bases in Indo-China. The British hate the French. They would love an excuse to kick me and all the other French passport holders out of Egypt. Where would I go then, Peggy? Where would I go?’

  Peggy was tempted to say Syria, but taking Piotr’s rhetoric literally always led him on to worse bouts of self-pity. That was something she’d learned the hard way over the previous few weeks. ‘Everyone loves you, Piotr. Cairo would never be the same without Prince Piotr. You know they would never ask you to leave.’

  He brightened. Peggy knew exactly what to say. ‘Then you’ll come dancing one evening?’

  ‘I’ve nothing to wear,’ said Peggy.

  ‘I’m disappointed in you, Peggy,’ he said archly. He was back in form now, his worries temporarily forgotten. ‘I thought you were a woman who rose above the hackneyed cliché.’

  ‘You’re right, Piotr. I have plenty to wear. Dresses I haven’t tried on since the war began.’

  ‘What about that low-top, pale blue dress? That was so becoming.’

  Peggy looked at him; he could always produce another surprise for her. The only time he could have seen that dress was when she’d worn it at a party some twelve months ago. ‘Yes, I could wear the pale blue if you think it would be suitable. It’s a short dress.’

  ‘Suitable? You’ll look ravishing, Peggy. No one wears long dresses at the clubs any more.’

  ‘I have matching shoes,’ said Peggy as she tried to decide how to have her hair arranged.

  ‘I know what! I said we’d have a birthday celebration and have some chums along. Let’s do it in style.’

  ‘That’s a wonderful idea, but it will be awfully expensive.’

  ‘I only have a birthday once every ten years. It’s time I celebrated properly.’

  ‘You’re very generous, Piotr.’

  ‘With a cake and lots of candles. It will be fun.’

  It worked as planned. They even saw the king. They were at the Tutenkhamon, a grandly named and fashionable nightclub on Sharia Muhammad Ali. The street had been built as an attempt to reproduce the Rue de Rivoli in Paris but it was not a comparison that leaped to the mind, especially for anyone at the Opera House end, which had, since the war, become an unofficial meeting place for black-market salesmen and their customers. The nightclubs and drinking places here had largely come under the control of Arab racketeers, notably an aged Nubian who spent most evenings at the gaming tables and his days at the races.

  Piotr had decided that his acquaintance with the king should be witnessed by his closest friends. Alice’s corporal being unavailable, Robin Darymple had volunteered to escort her. The other guests were Sayed and Zeinab el-Shazli. They were delighted at the opportunity to dress up and spend an evening in such company. Sayed had, in the past, expressed polite doubts about whether Prince Piotr was actually a friend of the royal family. This evening they would discover the truth, Sayed told his sister, as they stood together in front of the mirror with him dressed in a dinner suit he’d borrowed from a friend of his father’s. The suit was not a perfect fit, and Sayed was worried at the way the trousers bunched slightly at the waist under his jacket. But Zeinab reassured him that he looked very English.

  They arrived at the Tut ea
rly enough to have the ‘luxury French cuisine’ dinner that was advertised as an important part of its attractions. Sayed showed caution as he studied the menu, fearing that he would eat something forbidden by the Muslim code. Finally he had the spinach soup and roast pigeon. It was not adventurous, but it was safe. His sister laughed at Sayed’s reluctance to try new dishes. Placing herself in Prince Piotr’s hands, she daringly ordered the lobster thermidor and the lamb cutlets in mustard sauce. Sayed looked at her sternly; he didn’t approve. Neither did he approve of her accepting the offer to sip Robin Darymple’s freshly poured champagne. Sayed could never get used to the idea that his sister was a grown-up woman who did not have to take his advice or follow his example every minute of the day. She tried to make her brother laugh, but he was not to be coaxed so easily from his anger. She decided that he was worrying about the ill-fitting trousers and turned away from him and pulled her chair closer to the prince. If her brother was determined to be bad-tempered all the evening, so be it. She looked around her and smiled. She was determined to have a good time.

  The three women all looked particularly attractive this evening. Piotr’s invitation had given them all a chance to dress up in a way they seldom did these days. Peggy was wearing a pale blue dress, decorated with bugle beads. Zeinab had seen it before. Peggy had shown her her entire wardrobe one evening after Zeinab had offered to lend her a pair of silk stockings. In Cairo silk stockings were rare.

  Peggy had pulled out all the stops for this evening: her diamond earrings, a necklace and a small gold brooch in the shape of a P, as well as a gold wristwatch. She knew now that she had overdone it. She always overdid things. Perhaps she had overwhelmed Karl with her plans and her hopes and her aspirations. She had thought of taking off the necklace and the brooch and putting them into her evening bag. But if she did it now, someone would notice. Piotr might even tease her about it. Peggy looked at Alice. She envied Alice, not because of her youth but because of her effortless restraint. Alice never had to stand in front of a mirror taking things off and putting them on, and trying to decide what was right. Alice always got things right.

  Alice was wearing the plainest of cocktail dresses: black silk with a high silk-braided front. Her mother had ordered it from Harrods by mail just before the war began. Her only accessories were a double string of pearls that her father had bought in the Gulf and a simple gold wristwatch. Apart from pale lipstick, she wore only a touch of makeup. For tonight’s celebration she’d had her sleek blonde hair cut shorter than usual, so her ears were revealed.

  ‘These Arab women,’ Darymple told Alice in a discreet whisper that put his lips close to her ear. ‘They may end up fat and wrinkled, but when they are young they can be spiffing.’ He’d been eyeing Zeinab with great interest, as if seeing her for the first time.

  ‘You’ll spoil my makeup,’ said Alice, as he succumbed to the temptation to nuzzle her ear. She brushed her hand across her ear as if chasing away a midge. Leaning across the table she said, ‘That’s a wonderful dress, Zeinab.’

  ‘It is my mother’s, on loan for this evening only.’

  ‘You look wonderful, doesn’t she. Captain Darymple?’

  ‘Robin, please. What? Yes: wonderful.’

  Zeinab was looking particularly beautiful that night. Her dress was a colourful local print, such as only the very young could get away with. Her makeup was formal and quite heavy. She’d carefully applied heavy eye shadow and used a base that made her skin very pale. Zeinab at her most beautiful had that solemn quality that young Egyptian women can muster. And yet it was easy to make her erupt into laughter that transformed her into a very young woman, if not a child.

  The restaurant was crowded, as all Cairo restaurants were that year. Peggy saw several people she knew, including Nurse Theda Borrows and Jeannie MacGregor. They were with two wounded Hussar officers who were going back to their unit next week. They all knew Peggy and waved to her. Perhaps this evening Jeannie was celebrating her assignment to an Advanced Surgical Centre. There she would be as near the fighting as women ever got. Peggy had arranged the move, as Jeannie had no doubt guessed, but she’d not complained about it. Jeannie MacGregor seemed to have got over her caustic anger, and Theda Borrows had recovered from her inconsolable grief. The very young are made of rubber, thought Peggy. Perhaps it was better to express your emotions than to bottle them up all the time the way she did. And yet what would happen at the hospital if the sisters and senior staff went round shouting and sobbing?

  ‘A penny for them?’ said Robin Darymple.

  ‘Those girls I work with: should I remind them that tomorrow they are both on early shift?’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that, old girl. They look like they are thinking of other things.’

  When the royal entourage arrived, the club’s management cleared a dozen or more customers from three tables directly alongside the dancing floor. Not all of the customers relinquished their places with good grace. A party of four merchant navy officers angrily took their chairs and went and sat amid the dance band.

  The king liked to have a view of the room. Fresh tablecloths were fluttering like flags, flower arrangements came to the royal table, and ice bucket stands – each bucket containing some expensive wine – were arrayed like trench mortars.

  King Farouk himself did not arrive until the rest of his party was standing by the table waiting for him. His entrance was stately. He looked round him with a grim smile on his face, obviously enjoying every last gasp and gabble of the commotion he caused. There was a harsh chord before the six-man orchestra bravely battled their way through the Egyptian national anthem. Then the king sat down.

  It was the first time that Peggy had been so close to the king. The lights from the dance floor gave her a chance to see him clearly. She’d not expected him to look so very young, although of course he was only twenty-two. His skin was soft and white. He was distinctly overweight, but his evening dress fitted him so perfectly that her first impression was of an attractive young man.

  As the king’s staff began ordering food and drink, the orchestra and the floor show tried to resume their performance. They played ‘I Want to Be Happy’, and a man with oiled biceps, baggy silk trousers and a whip began an acrobatic dance with two young girls in skimpy shiny costumes. The act was billed as Ivan’s Slave Market, and the posters outside the club said Ivan had come straight from Beirut, Lebanon. There were not so many towns for such cabaret acts to tour, now that the war had sealed off Europe and the whole of French and Italian North Africa.

  After Ivan had cracked his whip for the hundredth time and a juggler, a belly dancer and a Spaniard with castanets had performed, the floor was cleared. The orchestra set aside the sheets of unfamiliar music that they’d had to learn for the visiting acts. Now they played the tunes they always played for the customers to dance to, and the sound of this music made everyone more relaxed. Soon it was possible to forget that the king was sitting just a few yards away.

  The manager himself brought Piotr’s birthday cake to the table. The band played ‘Happy Birthday to You’, and Piotr smiled and said it was all a surprise. He cut the cake, and after tasting it Peggy said that no one would have guessed that sugar was rationed in Cairo. Robin Darymple had a second slice.

  No matter that his style was somewhat dated, Prince Piotr danced very well indeed. He told Peggy that his mother had insisted upon him being given dancing lessons when he was very young. ‘Quickstep. Fox trot. Waltz. Tango. I can do them all,’ said Piotr.

  ‘Then we shall tango at the first opportunity,’ said Peggy.

  ‘It is agreed.’

  It was as they sat down after dancing a quickstep, that one of the king’s party came to their table. He was a man of about forty, with a military bearing and a square-ended jet-black moustache that so many Egyptian army officers wore.

  The aide bowed to Prince Piotr and conveyed to him, in elaborate terms, the king’s compliments and good wishes on the occasion of his birthday. Piotr gave a
smile of satisfaction and looked round the table to be sure that everyone understood this gesture of friendship from the king.

  The aide gave a perfunctory bow to Sayed and then spoke to Zeinab. He introduced himself as an aide to the king and then, looking directly at Zeinab, said, ‘The king sends you his compliments. He would like to dance with you.’ He glanced at Sayed. Sayed looked back at him with no change of expression.

  Zeinab got to her feet.

  The aide said, ‘Not here, not in public. The king would like to dance with you in private.’

  Zeinab looked at her brother. Sayed stiffened and for a moment looked as if he was about to speak. But although the aide waited politely, Sayed sat still and said nothing.

  ‘Please thank the king for his compliments, but I cannot leave the party,’ said Zeinab. ‘I am the guest of Prince Piotr.’

  The aide was used to dealing with such hesitation. ‘The king’s car will be waiting outside at ten thirty,’ he said. He bowed to her, to Sayed and then to Prince Piotr. Then he went back to the table and sat down. He said nothing to the king, who looked as if he did not know anything about the conversation.

  It was already ten fifteen. All Piotr’s guests were looking at each other. For a long time no one spoke; then Peggy West said, ‘Tell him to go to blazes.’

  Prince Piotr, seated next to her, put a hand on her arm in a gesture of restraint. Quietly he said, ‘Sayed will be arrested if she doesn’t go.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Alice Stanhope asked him. She looked round to see if the Shazlis were listening, but they were just looking at each other.

  ‘Alas, I am,’ said Prince Piotr. He dropped his voice lower. ‘Just before Christmas, the wife of an American was propositioned in exactly the same way. The American told the king to take a running jump into the Sweet Water Canal. Nothing happened, of course. The king was frightened that it would get into the American newspapers. But Sayed, alas, is not an American.’