by Susan Lewis
‘You’ll see,’ he answered calmly. And within the hour I did.
The Cairo Chief of Police came to my room at the Marriott. With him was the British Ambassador and two henchmen. The Chief questioned me for over an hour, during which time an emergency police headquarters was set up in the Verdi Salon downstairs.
‘The Pasha is being questioned,’ the Chief said, as he pulled back the curtains and looked down into the garden.
My heart thumped adrenalin into my veins. ‘You know where he is?’
‘We have him at headquarters. I’m afraid so far this is all we have to go on.’ He took a scrap of paper from his pocket and laid it on the table. ‘It is all the Pasha will say.’
We all looked at it, but it was written in Arabic. I didn’t bother to disguise my irritation. ‘So, what does it say?’
‘It says, Mr Belmayne, the French earl curses into double figures.’
‘And what the hell is that supposed to mean?’
‘As it stands, nothing. We have to work it out. It is the way the Pasha works.’
The Ambassador looked bemused. ‘You mean it’s a riddle?’
‘I suppose, yes. But it is more than that, I’m sure. I believe it will give us the clue to where your daughter is being held, Mr Belmayne.’ I glared at him, certain he had taken leave of his senses. He turned to the Ambassador. ‘Your intelligence agents, sir, I think they should join forces with the police in order to break this code. We have very little time.’
I snatched up the piece of paper. ‘For God’s sake, it’s a riddle. The way you’re behaving, anyone would think it held the answer to die Middle East crisis. A French earl is a count! Curses. Oaths, spells, scourges, plagues . . . Double figures. Anything from ten.’
‘The ten plagues,’ Robert said.
‘Incidentally,’ the Ambassador said, ‘I have just learned . . . What is it, Mr Belmayne? Has something . . .?’
‘The tenth plague,’ I whispered, and when I realised they were all staring at me, I almost yelled, ‘If you knew your bible . . . The tenth plague was the death of the first-born.’
The Ambassador looked at me, appalled, and I stared back at him. She’s dead! She’s dead! The words thumped with my heartbeat. Her face swam before my eyes, and I felt the knife of terror rip through my body.
The Chief was speaking. ‘Please, don’t be alarmed,’ he was saying, ‘it is early days yet. And now you, Mr Belmayne, you have given us a beginning.’ Despite his words he looked defeated.
I exploded. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? Isn’t the message loud and clear? Isn’t that what the tenth plague means? It’s your damned country, your damned history!’
‘Oh yes, that is without a doubt what it means. But that is only the surface meaning. The Pasha, he will never make anything so simple as that. You see, you break the code in minutes, or so you think. But what we do now is solve the riddle of the tenth plague.’
Observing my reaction, the Chief obviously felt it best he withdraw at that point. I had been living on my nerves ever since Charlotte’s abduction, and now, with this new, implausible turn of events it was highly probable I might go over the edge at any moment.
After a sleepless night the police were still no closer to finding her. The Verdi Salon was in chaos; just about every cryptographer in the Middle East had been sectioned off to help decipher the ‘conundrum’, as they were now calling it. The only people keeping a reasonably cool head seemed to be the Chief of Police and the hotel manager.
Another day went by, and still we heard nothing. My father telephoned but I cut him short, wanting to keep the line free. Henry rang later, but again I terminated the call before he could get started.
On the third day, just before lunch, Robert arrived with a handful of telegrams. He passed them to me just as the telephone, which had been silent all morning, burst into life.
‘Mr Belmayne? Claude de Rousse here, from Le Monde.’
‘Le Monde?’
Robert pressed his fingers on the connectors and ended the call. ‘I should read the telegrams if I were you. Somehow the story has leaked out. What you have there are messages from the great British public, expressing their support.’
‘What!’
‘Some clever hack has pieced together your story, Alexander, old chum. It’s all over the press back home, so I’m told. Front page stuff. The great love story of the century, I think one of them called it. You and Elizabeth.’
‘Me and Elizabeth? But what . . . ?’
‘You’ll find it goes right back to Foxton’s, I’m afraid. The gypsy and the aristocrat. It’s caught everyone’s imagination. How you’ve loved each other secretly all these years, even that you’re the father of her two children. Everything’s there. Haven’t read it myself, of course, Henry told me. He called me last night. Said he called you first, but got cut off.’
I was listening to him in stupefied silence, while all the time a volcanic rage was rumbling through my gut. When he finished I exploded. ‘This isn’t a bloody soap opera!’ I yelled. ‘Don’t they realise . . .’
The phone cut me short. Robert picked it up. ‘I’m afraid Mr Belmayne isn’t available for comment at the moment,’ he said, and hung up. He rang through to the manager then, and asked him to instruct the operators to divert all calls from the press to the Verdi Salon.
‘Now calm down,’ he said, turning back to me. ‘Don’t you see, with the British public and the press on your side, it puts all the more pressure on the Egyptians to find her. And they will.’
‘I wish I had your confidence. And where the hell is Shami?’
Robert looked at his watch. ‘He should be arriving any minute. He says he knows where Christine is.’
‘What! Why didn’t you tell me this before?’
He shrugged. ‘Thought I ought to warn you about the paparazzi. They all flew in this morning, so we’re going to have to sneak out the back way.’
‘And the police? Have you told them you might know where Christine is?’
‘The Chief is on his way up. Incidentally, the telegram on the top is from your wife.’
He grinned at my look of dismay. ‘I’d read it, if I were you. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.’
It was very short. ‘Good luck, darling,’ I read, ‘try and stay in one piece for our divorce. Love Jess.’
I looked at Robert and saw he was laughing. For the first time in days I laughed too. ‘She certainly knows how to pick her moment,’ I said. ‘Cable her back for me, will you?’
‘The message?’
‘“It’s a promise.”’
The moment Shami walked in and saw the Chief of Police, his eyes sank back in their sockets. He mumbled his apologies for bursting into the wrong room and started to close the door. The Chief was too quick for him and hauled him back inside.
He looked more shifty than ever as he admitted that it wasn’t he who had seen Christine, but his brother. He shrugged. ‘But is the same thing, no?’
The Chief shook his head, and Shami looked crestfallen. ‘But I explain, my brother, he know wife of second cousin of Pasha, she take my brother to a place where they see your Christine. It is in Khan-el-Khalili, where the men they make the gold. The gold they use for King Tutankhamun mask, no?’
The Chief was eyeing Shami. ‘What Tutankhamun mask, Shami?’
Shami looked round the room helplessly. ‘I donno, sir. Shami, he know very little.’ He turned his eyes to me. ‘But my brother, he say to be at Fishawi today. Someone will lead us to the men, and maybe they tell you where is your Christine. We hurry there now, yes?’
‘Yes,’ said the Chief.
Shami’s face was gloomy as he said his brother would not be pleased if he arrived with the police. ‘Not that he no like the police,’ he hastily assured us.
The Chief tossed us a wry smile and picked up the telephone. He spoke hurriedly in Egyptian, then asked us to wait a few minutes while his men arranged a decoy out of the hotel, to mislead the press.
A fleet of cars was waiting, none of them marked with police insignia. As we sped away from the hotel I noticed several of them break away from the convoy and fall anonymously into the traffic.
When we reached the bazaar the Chief disappeared inside the Sayyidna el-Hussein Mosque. Two of his men followed, and when they emerged several minutes later, they were all three dressed in traditional Egyptian garb. A police officer I recognised from the Verdi Salon approached us. He spoke to the Chief, waving his arms in the direction of the bazaar. The Chief listened gravely, nodded his head, then turned to us.
‘My men are in position. They are covering the Khan el-Khalili at every strategic point. I must instruct you, Mr Belmayne, that should we encounter any danger you are to leave everything to them. Please, no heroics. You do not understand the kind of people we are dealing with here. To them everything is inshallah – God’s will. If a man stands in their way and they have to kill him to get what they want, it is inshallah, they do not think twice.’ He turned to Shami. ‘Go ahead to the Fishawi, and no tricks, Shami, you will be being watched.’
When Shami had blended into the crowd the Chief turned again to Robert and me. ‘Now, please, follow me. I will lead you to the Fishawi – it is a coffee bar a few streets from here. When you see me sit down, please go no further than a nearby stall where you should inspect the merchandise. Do not, under any circumstances, move from there unless I say so. We will be in Shami’s hands. And again I stress, please, no heroics.’
A few minutes later we plunged into the pandemonium of the Khan el-Khalili. The Fishawi wasn’t far, but I knew that if I tried to find my way there again I would undoubtedly fail. The Chief, in his striped galibaya and turban, blended perfectly into the coffee bar crowd. Robert and I stood innocuously by, hustled and jostled as we inspected a display of brass and copper pots. Within seconds the owner of the stall was asking us to name a price, and so as not to call unnecessary attention to ourselves, Robert entered into a long-drawn-out haggle. I made a pretence of watching them, but all the time my eyes were fixed on Shami who was seated a few tables from the Chief of Police.
Through the hanging haze of smoke and steam I could see blank faces sucking peacefully on their hookahs, while excited traders bellowed for turbid mint tea and Turkish coffee. The Fishawi was a strange place. Though decaying and filthy, it had a unique sepia-like charm; battered tables spiled out into the covered alleyway, and waiters scuttled back and forth hoisting hookahs and trays from kitchen to table.
Robert bought a copper tray.
To my dismay I watched Shami remove his shoes and hand them to a shiner. The Chief called for a hookah, and Robert bought an urn. Time dragged on.
Eventually the Chief set aside his hookah and wandered over to us. He made a pretence of admiring the brass pots while saying he could only assume that either Shami had been lying, or he himself had been recognised.
My heart sank. I moved to one side to let a woman and her baby pass, thrusting my hands in my pockets before I hammered my fists against the nearest object.
I felt a sharp kick on the leg and Robert – now so laden with purchases he could barely move – nodded towards Shami. The woman who had just passed us was standing over him, speaking to him hurriedly. Shami listened, stroking the baby’s head. When the woman had finished, she tucked the baby back into its blanket and started to move away. Shami got to his feet.
I started towards him but the Chief pulled me back. ‘Wait,’ he hissed.
The woman and Shami disappeared round a corner and we moved across the Fishawi. As we rounded the curve of the building I spotted the woman, pressing determinedly through the crowd. Shami was behind her. Following him, we pushed steadily on through the maze of passageways, past stalls selling carpets, jellabas, jewellery . . . . Traders dived into my path, thrusting their wares in my face, and motor-cycles roared through the crowds, but I never took my eyes from the woman ahead. Suddenly somebody screamed, there was the crash of a stall falling, and a motor-cycle skidded into a shop front. I looked up, and the woman had disappeared.
I started to run, tearing through the people, thrusting them ruthlessly aside. My eyes darted from left to right, searching the alleys. A man grabbed me by the arm, spinning me round to show me the damage I’d done to his stall, but I shook him off and charged on. A sea of startled faces loomed towards me as I pressed through the crowds. And there was the woman with the baby again, but no Shami. She was standing on a corner, looking to her right. I forced my way towards her, but as she saw me she ran on. I let her go and turned into the dark alley. It was thronging with sheep, but at the other end I saw Shami’s scrawny figure disappear into a doorway.
The animals huddled round my knees in a knot of bleating, lice-ridden bodies. I grabbed at them, throwing them one on top of another as I forced my way through. There was no sign now of either Robert or the Chief.
The doorway opened into a blackened passage. I almost drew back as the acrid stench kicked at my gut. The walls were slimed with mildew and the dingy linoleum floor was coated with filth. I strained my eyes to see into the shadows. Several feet to the right was a staircase. I took it, two steps at a time. When I reached the top, I could see daylight at the end of a corridor. I rushed towards it, and as I pushed out into the fresh air I found myself faced with a maze of roofless gangways and stairwells. Turning into the nearest, I felt my foot hit something heavy and soft. I looked down into a face covered in blood. Shami groaned. I bent down to help him, and as I did so a foot crashed into the side of my head.
Then there was mayhem. I fell on to Shami, blood cascading from my mouth and nose, as my attackers trampled over me and ran back the way I had come. I dragged myself to my feet and down the stairs after them. A gun was fired and I dodged back into the shadows. Then there was the sound of running feet and voices yelling. More gunfire – and I dashed out into the street. The police were swarming in as my attackers – four of them – fled in all directions. I saw one of them dive into a twisting alley and made after him. We broke out at the other end into the very heart of the bazaar. I paused and looked round. Someone screamed, and a black Peugeot sprang out of the crowd.
Quick as a flash, I heaved a driver out of his taxi. As I started the engine the passenger door flew open and Shami, his face battered and still bleeding, leapt in beside me. ‘Let’s go, Meester Belmayne!’ he cried.
I roared out into the traffic. Shami hung out of the window, screaming at everyone to get out of the way. Minarets and domes sped by in a blur. Behind me I could hear the wail of police sirens, while in front the black Peugeot tore through the streets until eventually it screeched into the Pyramids Road. I turned in after it, then slammed my foot on the brake as I skidded round a pack of meandering camels. The Peugeot was surrounded. I leapt out of my car. Then suddenly the camels parted and the Peugeot was speeding off into the distance. Back behind the wheel, I pressed my hand on the horn, yelling at the camel drivers to clear the way. The police came round the corner, managed to skirt the mêlée, and roared off towards the Pyramids, after the Peugeot.
By the time I was clear there was no sign of the chase. About two miles further on, where the road stretched endlessly out in front of me, I knew it was pointless to carry on. I turned round and drove slowly back. Then a police car came speeding up behind me and screeched to a halt as I waved. The Chief clambered out of the back seat.
‘We’ve got him! Turn your car round and follow us. If you get lost Shami knows where the Alexandria Road is. And you, Shami . . .’He said something in Egyptian and went back to his car.
A few minutes later we pulled up outside a palatial villa. The gates were locked but a police officer got out of the Chief’s car and spoke for some time on the intercom. Eventually the Chief joined him, listened for a while, then went back to his car and opened the back door. Robert got out and the two of them came over to me.
‘The Pasha is inside,’ the Chief said. ‘He wants to speak to you. I have agreed to wait outside, b
ut Mr Lyttleton will go in with you. I think you know by now that the Pasha is a dangerous man. Please, just listen and don’t do anything foolish.’
I nodded and waited while the Chief went back to the intercom. A few seconds later the villa gates slid slowly open. As I drove in I saw the Chief and two police officers creep in behind me and disappear into the bushes of the garden.
Robert followed me over to the door. Tentatively I tried the handle, and to my surprise the door opened. The entrance hall, carpeted in tiger skins and ornamented with elaborate gilt mirrors, was empty. I turned back to Robert and suddenly the double doors at the end of the hall swung open.
‘Mr Belmayne.’
The first thing I noticed about the Pasha was the almost overpowering beauty of his smile. The second was his height. His forehead was masked by the doorframe, but his eyes gazed down into mine as he lifted a gold-laden hand. With a long, claw-like finger he stroked his lips. His movements were almost feminine and yet his every gesture exuded menace – a sinister combination that made me shudder with revulsion.
‘We will not waste words, Mr Belmayne,’ he drawled. ‘If you want your daughter returned, then you will ask the police to leave my premises immediately.’
Suddenly my control shattered and I lunged at him, grabbing him by the throat. ‘Tell me where she is now, or so help me, I’ll kill you.’
He squealed like a rabbit, his limbs thrashing about in all directions.
‘Let him go!’
I wheeled round to see a woman standing at the bottom of the stairs. She was pointing a gun at Robert. Her hair and part of her face were covered by a spangled scarf, and her eyes were heavily ringed with kohl. She was looking at me and I sensed rather than saw the triumphant smile.
I let the Pasha go. He held his hand out for the gun, then casually looked Robert and me over. ‘It would seem, Christine,’ he said, ‘that they have not yet solved my little riddle. So what we have in the child is our passport out of the country.’
