by Susan Lewis
‘The Pasha? David Walters mentioned him. He thinks Christine is with him.’
‘He could well be right, but that doesn’t help us much. The Pasha practically owns Cairo, she could be anywhere.’ He waved his hand for me to look out of the window.
Little as I could see in the dark, I understood at once what he meant. Cairo looked as if it were the sort of place you could hide in forever without being found. By the light of madly winking neon signs I could see that behind the modern buildings that lined the main thoroughfare the city became immediately a maze of little streets and alleys, a warren of decaying houses and tenements, all of it seething with human life and activity. To my foreign eyes, it looked like a vision of chaos. Even the main road wasn’t much better. Death-defying drivers honked their horns and jammed their accelerators with a recklessness bordering on lunacy. We ground to a halt at the base of the Sixth of October bridge, where ahead of us a policeman was yelling at a man whose body was half out of his car window. Somewhere in the distance loud yet haunting music wailed its contribution to the city concert.
As we crossed the bridge, heading for Zamalik, Robert laughed. ‘Cheer up! It’s not as bad as it looks.’
The Marriott Hotel was the most welcoming sight so far: white marble fountains and a golden web of cast-iron arches, it was like an island of civilisation quietly resisting the encroaching chaos. As it was nearing midnight I insisted Charlotte went to bed. Robert and I ordered drinks from room service and sat up talking late into the night.
The following morning at eight o’clock, breakfast arrived, and Charlotte and I sat on our balcony chewing rubbery toast. We overlooked the palm trees, fountains and waterfalls that surrounded the hotel pool. The air was still cold, but the sun was struggling up through a grey, low-lying mist. From the corner of my eye I watched Charlotte as she stretched out her long legs and reached for her tea. She flicked her hair out of her eyes, in just the same manner as Elizabeth always did. I felt a stabbing sense of loss. I had missed so much of her childhood. I had never allowed myself to think too long or too hard about the way I felt about her before, but seeing her now, I could hardly believe the ridiculous surge of pride I felt that she was mine.
She didn’t turn her head as she spoke, but continued to look out over the gardens. ‘I know you’re pretending not to, but you’re watching me,’ she said. ‘What are you thinking?’
I found I had to swallow before I could answer, and then I laughed. ‘I was wondering how I came to be lucky enough to have a daughter as beautiful as you.’
She thought about that for a moment, then turned to look at me with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. ‘Do you think Mum might have had something to do with it?’
‘I think she had everything to do with it. After all, apart from you, she’s just about the most beautiful woman alive.’
‘And you’re not biased, of course?’
I laughed. ‘If I remember rightly, she once accused me of the same thing herself.’ I sighed. ‘God, that all seems such a long time ago now, probably about the time you ceased being just a twinkle in my eye.’
‘Tell me about it. Tell me how you first met, and why it was you didn’t marry her when I was born. I’d really like to know.’
The phone rang then and I got up to answer it. It was Robert saying he wouldn’t be able to get away from the Embassy until two. I didn’t relish the idea of waiting so long, but I knew that without his help there was very little I could do. On the other hand I was glad to be able to spend some time with Charlotte. She was right, it was time for her to know the truth about Elizabeth and me.
We were sitting by the pool when Robert arrived, an hour earlier than he’d said. With him was a short, scruffy-looking Egyptian dressed in what had once been a rather smart Western suit. The man grinned, showing more gaps than teeth. His name was Mohammed Abu el-Shami. We were to call him Shami, he said.
Robert explained that Shami had returned to Cairo that morning, and seemed to think that his arrival heralded an end to our problems. I regarded the weaselish little man sceptically – but I had only to listen to his broken English for half an hour to realise that he knew everyone and everything to do with the city’s covert world. Favours was the currency used, and I was soon persuaded that half of Cairo owed Shami a favour – I didn’t ask about the other halt. Robert had already explained to him why I was there, and he would go away now, he said, and ‘begin the ball turning.’
His round face beamed with pleasure as he added, ‘You have no cause to worry, Meester Belmayne. There is nothing Shami cannot do.’ And he dragged a tobacco-stained hand from his pocket which he held under my nose, rubbing thumb against fingers and leaving me in no doubt as to the magic ingredient required for the performance of Shami-miracles.
That evening Charlotte and I attended a cocktail party at the British Embassy. The Ambassador, David told me, had taken a particular interest in our case, and had expressed a desire to meet us. I guessed immediately that my father had been on the phone to him.
It was a strange feeling, turning up at an official function with my daughter on my arm and I had to hide a smile as she took a compact from the beaded purse Robert’s wife Susie had lent her, and checked her lipstick before we went in. She looked beautiful. Her dark hair curled loosely round her shoulders, and the long white jacket and pleated grey-and-white linen skirt – ‘by Calvin Klein,’ she’d informed me – highlighted perfectly the slight tan she’d already acquired. I felt ridiculously proud when heads turned as she walked in, and almost choked when she winked at me and asked if I’d feel happier introducing her as my girlfriend.
When we got back to the hotel there was a message from Shami. It told me that if I wanted to find out where Christine was, I should go straightaway to the supine statue of Ramesses II at Memphis.
Robert was still at the Embassy, so – since I didn’t know how long I would be – Susie offered to take Charlotte home with her. The minute the Embassy car turned the corner, heading for Aguza, I asked the doorman to call me a taxi.
‘You go to Memphis?’ the driver said, as he pulled away from the hotel. I caught his eye in the mirror. I hadn’t told the doorman where I wanted to go.
It was a long drive, and once out of the glare of the city lights we were driving into a dark unknown, with a cluster of black bushes to our right and an expanse of dry, barren land to the left. Neither of us spoke. Finally, after about half an hour, we pulled off the road and the driver switched off his headlights. In the dim glow of the moon I saw no more than a sandy wasteland.
‘Ramesses.’ The driver was pointing. ‘You wait.’
I got out of the car and started to walk in the direction he had indicated. I heard the car turn round. Then, to my alarm, it drove off.
About ten yards in front of me I could make out a building. Then the moon slid behind a cloud. I had never known such darkness. The wind whined over the desert and strange night creatures twittered and squalled. My skin prickled.
I trod carefully through the sand. Coming up against the building, I ran my hands along the smooth concrete until I found an opening. I called out, but the only answer was my own voice, echoing eerily around an open chamber. I decided to wait at the door – there was no point in going inside when it was too dark to see.
Time ticked by. Once I saw a car approaching in the distance, but it turned off before it reached me. The wind picked up. Something ran across my foot. I stepped back and it scuttled off into the night. Then I heard a noise and spun around. There was only the looming shadow of a tree, bending and creaking in the wind.
As quickly as the wind had risen, it dropped. The silence it left was eerie, and I was beginning to wonder how the hell I would get back when suddenly the chamber was flooded with light. I waited a moment, expecting someone to come out. When no one did, I made my way tentatively inside. The only sound was the flutter of a bird, disturbed by the sudden blaze of light. That, and my footsteps.
I looked round. In front of me, lying on its back in the
centre of the room, was a colossal statue. I froze. The slanting, stone eyes were as sinister as the insane serenity of the limestone smile. Pugnacious arms with clenched fists pressed against the skirted torso, and below the powerful thighs and knees the right shin bore the jagged edge of amputation.
‘Mr Bejmayne?’
I spun round as the owner of the voice stepped out of the shadows. He was as tall as me, but slighter. His black hair was combed neatly back from his face, and greased into place. His suit was dark, his shirt a dazzling white against his brown skin. He held out his hand to me. I looked at it, but didn’t take it.
‘Are you the Pasha?’ I asked, knowing instinctively that he wasn’t.
He smiled, and the gold in his mouth glinted. ‘You are very formal, Mr Belmayne,’ he said, eyeing my dinner suit. ‘I saw you earlier, leaving the Embassy with your daughter. A very beautiful girl.’
He shrugged when I didn’t answer, and took out a cigarette. ‘Shami tells us you are looking for someone.’
‘Do you know where that someone is?’
He laughed. ‘Maybe she does not want to be found.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘I am here to show you it would be wise to return to your own country.’
‘I’ll leave when I’ve found her.’
‘It is unlikely, Mr Belmayne, that you will have the chance to find her. She has asked me to deliver a message to you. It is a very short one.’ He took a long draw on his cigarette then ground it into the dust.
I waited. Our eyes locked. He was smiling, mockingly. Not for one second did I doubt that he meant to use the gun he was now taking out of his pocket.
His finger tightened on the trigger and there was a dull click. He laughed, and I felt myself breaking into a cold sweat. Again his finger moved. I didn’t have time to pray for a distraction before it was upon us. I looked up at the bird, and so did he. The gun flew from his grasp as my foot connected with his wrist and my fist smashed into his face. I swung round, searching frantically for the gun. As I made a dive for it, his foot exploded into my groin and I dropped to the ground in agony. Within seconds he was holding the gun to my head. I heard footsteps, then, as something crashed into my skull, I lost consciousness.
– 30 –
I was woken by a party of Japanese tourists peering down at me. Dazed and disoriented, I blinked hard as I tried to focus on the ceiling of bewildered faces. Seeing my eyes open, one of them helped me to my feet while another, somewhat robustly, dusted me down.
Fortunately the Japanese tour guide spoke English, so I was able to ask for the nearest phone. He laughed loudly, and translated my request to his party who, slapping me fondly on the back, joined in the joke. However, after much to-ing and fro-ing I managed to hitch a lift on a horse and cart. The driver, an elderly, toothless peasant who spoke not a word of English, dropped me off at a run-down hotel somewhere on the road to Sakkara.
Once he had established where I was Robert came to collect me.
‘Do you know who it was?’ he asked. We were nearing the outskirts of Cairo, and I saw his hands tighten on the wheel as he prepared to do battle with the city drivers.
‘No. He didn’t leave his calling card. All he said was that he had a message from Christine.’
‘And the message was your hasty despatch?’
‘You know, what beats me,’ I said, as we bumped our way through uncordoned roadworks, ‘is why he didn’t kill me.’
‘Well, don’t sound so put out. My guess is they were just putting the frighteners on. If they’d wanted to kill you they’d have done it, be in no doubt of that.’
When we got back to the hotel Robert came in and waited while I showered and changed. The hotel manager called to check that everything was all right, as the security guard he’d posted outside my door, at the Ambassador’s request, had told him my room hadn’t been slept in all night.
It was probably because of the manager’s call that I noticed, when we left half an hour later to go and collect Charlotte, that there was no guard outside. I asked Robert if he remembered there being one when we’d come in. He frowned. He thought there had been, but he wouldn’t swear to it.
I went back into the room to call the manager, leaving Robert outside, searching the corridor for the guard. But before I could pick up the phone it rang.
‘Mr Belmayne?’
‘Speaking.’
‘You don’t know me, Mr Belmayne, but I am ringing for the Pasha.’ The voice was Oxford-smooth. ‘It was inshallah, was it not, Mr Belmayne, that you came to no harm last night in Memphis. Allah smiles upon you. However, the gun was merely a means of communicating to you Miss Walters’ reluctance to be found. The Pasha feels certain that you will now be willing to do as he asks so that we can avoid any further unpleasantness. All you have to do is go to the Suez Canal Bank, where the Shari el-Giza meets the Shari el-Nil. Somebody will be waiting for you there. You will be given an account number. Please place into this account one hundred and fifty thousand Egyptian pounds – roughly fifty thousand pounds sterling. When you have done this, you are to take the next flight back to London. Your seat is booked, courtesy of the Pasha. I thought you would prefer to fly British Airways. You will find your ticket waiting for you at the . . .’
‘And Christine Walters?’
‘I think you misunderstood me, Mr Belmayne. The money is not for the deliverance of Miss Walters. The money is merely the first instalment of what Mrs Walters owes the Pasha. And in return, because the Pasha is a generous man, he will endeavour to . . .’
‘I will pay the amount you ask, not as an instalment of any deal Mr Walters set up with the Pasha, but for Christine Walters.’
‘Mr Belmayne, you will pay the money. But, I am sorry to say, on the Pasha’s terms, not your own.’
‘I am in this country to locate Christine Walters. Until I do, then please tell the Pasha I shall not be leaving.’
‘Perhaps, Mr Belmayne, you will reconsider when I tell you that your daughter, even as we speak . . .’
My mouth went dry. ‘Charlotte! Where is she? What the hell . . .’
‘She is safe, Mr Belmayne. Please, just do as I ask and she will remain so.’ And the line went dead.
‘Jesus Christ!’ I spun round as Robert came running in. ‘Charlotte! Where is she? I thought she was with your wife.’
‘She is. What’s going on?’
‘That phone call . . .’ I snatched up the receiver and started to dial. The phone rang at the other end, and almost straightaway Susie answered.
‘Alexander. At last. What happened? Where . . .?’
‘Where’s Charlotte?’ I barked.
‘Isn’t she with you?’
I felt the bottom drop out of the world. ‘No, she’s not with me. When did you last see her?’
‘About an hour ago. I dropped her off at the hotel.’
‘Then where is she now?’ The question was futile, of course.
I slammed the phone down and caught Robert by the throat. ‘They’ve got her. Do you hear me?’
Robert wrenched himself free and snatched up the phone. ‘I’m going to ring the Ambassador. What did the man say exactly?’
I told him. ‘Have you got the money?’ he asked.
‘Of course I’ve got the fucking money. The money’s nothing.’
‘Then I suggest you do as they say.’
‘Robert, you’d better get this into your head now. I am not leaving this country until I’ve got my daughter, so don’t let’s even discuss it.’
‘Robert Lyttleton here,’ he said into the phone, ‘put me on to the Ambassador. I don’t care if he’s in a meeting, put me on now!’
He waited as the operator put him through, and I paced the room, berating myself over and over for not sending Charlotte straight back to England.
‘What did he say?’ I asked, as Robert replaced the receiver.
‘He’s getting on to London.’
‘London! What fucking good will
that do?’
‘We’ll see,’ he answered. ‘Meanwhile I suggest we get ourselves over to the Suez Canal Bank.’
We stopped off at the hotel manager’s office. Thank God he wasn’t like his fellow countrymen. Instead of the million apologies I had been expecting, he merely picked up the telephone. I had no idea what he was saying, but when he’d finished he told me to go to the National Arab Bank by the lobby where one hundred and fifty thousand Egyptian pounds would be waiting for me.
When we got to the Suez Canal Bank we didn’t have to wait long before I was approached by an old woman, huddled darkly behind her gilbab and khimara.
‘Eengleesh?’ she hissed.
I nodded, and she handed me a scrap of paper, then turned and disappeared into the crowd. I made to go after her, but Robert pulled me back. ‘She’ll have been paid to deliver the note. It’ll have passed through too many hands before hers for us to be able to find out where it came from.’ He took the piece of paper from me and unfolded it. The only thing written on it was a bank account number.
The transaction went smoothly and I was outside the bank again in less than ten minutes. Robert was waiting in a taxi. ‘I think we’d better go to the Embassy,’ he said.
‘Drop me at the hotel. If anyone wants to contact me, that’s where they’ll try.’
But for the rest of that day we heard nothing.
The first call came the next morning. It was the Ambassador to say the tracing of the bank account had led nowhere. However, his instructions had come through from Whitehall. He was to inform President Mubarak that Her Majesty’s Government would be greatly obliged if every effort would be made by the People’s Assembly to ensure the safe return of the Lord Chancellor’s granddaughter, forthwith.
I looked at Robert, dumbfounded.
‘I don’t think you realise, Alexander just what . . .’
‘You don’t think I realise? This is my daughter we’re talking about. She’s been kidnapped. Kidnapped! Given the lunatics we’re dealing with, she could be lying out there dead for all I know – and all you lot can come up with is a polite request that she should be returned! What bloody good do you think that’s going to do?’
