by John Wilcox
‘I see.’ Simon sipped his coffee and made a decision. He leaned across the table and took her hand. ‘Oh, Alice,’ he said. ‘This is nonsense. I have thought about you so much. Please tell me all about yourself and your life since we parted. I presume that you have no children? I want to know everything.’
Alice sighed. ‘Oh, that’s better, Simon. And yes, I have thought of you, too. And no, we have no children.’ She allowed her hand to remain in his, and slowly began to recount the details of her life in Norfolk: the work on the estate, the social round, Covington’s unrelenting attempts to overcome his disabilities, his efforts to regain his commission, Wolseley’s acceptance of him and her consequent successful application to rejoin the Morning Post.
‘And tell me, Alice. Are you happy?’
She looked at him steadily. ‘No, my dear, I am not. But there is nothing, absolutely nothing, I can do about it.’
He stared across the square. ‘I see. Yes, of course. I quite understand.’ He cleared his throat and smiled at her. But a little of the warmth between them, regained with such difficulty, had suddenly slipped away, and he released her hand. ‘Very well. Now tell me everything that has happened since you landed here.’
‘Only if you reciprocate.’
‘Agreed. You first.’
So they began talking again, quite formally, as though they were merely old friends who had just encountered each other. Alice told him of her interview with Arabi – he was impressed that she had broken through his defences to see him – of her journey overland to Alex, of her stay at the bank and then her interview with Seymour.
‘Reactionary old devil.’
‘Yes. He thought you were an arrogant young pup.’
They both laughed quite genuinely, and Simon began recounting his recruitment by Wolseley but she stopped him there. ‘No,’ she said, ‘start first with your work for General Pommery-Colley in the Transvaal. I know you were at Majuba.’
He took her through that campaign, his and Jenkins’s return to Brecon, his growing discontent at the boredom of life there, Jenkins’s magnificent performance in the magistrates’ court and the call from Wolseley that had come just in time. Then he traced their adventures in Egypt to the point where they were now waiting in Alexandria for Wolseley to land.
‘So you are kicking your heels here?’
‘Absolutely. We have filled the time over the last few days scouting Arabi’s positions to the south-west. He is well entrenched and, of course, would have to be dislodged before Wolseley could use the railway for his advance south, if he intends to go that way. Wolseley has thanked me for my reports but has given me no idea of his intentions, except that he will sail to Alex and that I must wait for him here because he has plans for me. It sounds as though he will not take my advice about going directly to Port Said and Suez and protecting the Canal before marching over the northern desert to Cairo.’
‘Of course.’ Alice lowered her voice, stuck out her chin and gave a reasonable imitation of Seymour’s gruff tones: ‘What right have you, young man, to lecture the General on his strategy?’
They both laughed and the tension was eased a little. ‘Oh, Alice,’ said Simon. ‘It is so good to see you again.’
‘I feel the same, Simon. We don’t have to stay at arm’s length, do we?’ Then, realising that the question could be interpreted too literally, she flushed and looked embarrassed. ‘I don’t mean . . . you know . . . that would not be right. But we can see each other, can’t we. Please, Simon?’
He smiled at her confusion, but the smile did not quite reach his eyes. ‘Of course. Good friends. Let’s have some more coffee.’ He gestured to the waiter. ‘And then I must go back to Cook’s. I was about to check to see if I had any further cables from Wolseley.’
‘Ah.’ Alice leaned across the table towards him. ‘That reminds me.’ She related the mystery of Mr George. Simon was immediately intrigued, and told her of meeting him in the street and then of their encounter during the looting.
‘There is something strange about that little man,’ said Alice. ‘Even sinister.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. There is probably a perfectly good explanation for how he was able to magic himself up to Alex so quickly when the only obvious route was closed to him. After all, he does work for the greatest travel agency in the world and one that practically owns Egypt – well, it did until Arabi came along. If he couldn’t find a way of getting here speedily, then nobody could.’
Alice frowned. ‘I am not sure. There is the strange matter of him saying that he was on company business here when his colleague had not seen him for six months.’ Then her face brightened. ‘Since we are both virtually kicking our heels until Wolseley arrives, why don’t we work together to try and solve the mystery of how Mr George got here and what he’s up to?’
Conflicting emotions ran through Simon’s brain. Part of him wanted to clutch at any straw that would allow him to be near Alice, to see her regularly and even perhaps to persuade her that she still loved him. The other, more rational part, however, argued that this would be a dishonourable course to pursue and would only lead to more pain and distress.
‘What?’ he said, disapproval seeping into his voice. ‘Conduct a sort of intellectual exercise, a kind of game?’
‘Yes, why not?’ Enthusiasm had taken hold of Alice. Her eyes were bright and her face glowing. ‘We have nothing better to do – I can’t see any action breaking out again here that I can write about until the General arrives – and it would be fun. In fact, it could help us both. If the little man has found a way of slipping through Arabi’s lines easily, then it could be more than helpful to us both to know about it. What do you think?’
Simon looked into Alice’s sparkling eyes and was immediately lost. ‘Why not?’ He grinned. ‘It would be fun to solve the puzzle, as long as we don’t harass the little fellow.’
‘Of course. Now,’ she leaned across the table conspiratorially, ‘where do we start?’
Simon thought for a moment. ‘I suppose we could begin by checking whether George was telling me the truth when he said that he was acting for a client when I saw him directing the removal of the contents of that house during the riots.’
‘How do we do that?’
‘Well, I could call on the municipal authorities here and discover the name of the owner . . .’
‘And we could check with Cook’s to see if the owner is, indeed, a client of the company.’
‘Quite so.’ Simon thought for a moment. ‘On second thoughts, perhaps you had better do that. I can remember the address. Also, see if George has called on the company since first you checked this morning. You say that he left your hotel only today?’
‘Yes, about an hour ago.’
‘Good, then he might not yet have left the city. I will harness Jenkins and Ahmed and the three of us will split up and see if we can check the main routes out, particularly the way you came in, through Arabi’s lines. Perhaps, somehow, he does travel by train and has the military’s permission to do so. It is not going to be easy, but there is comparatively little movement in and out of the city now, so it is not so hopeless a task as it might seem.’ He frowned. ‘In fact, the more I think of it, the more I am beginning to agree with you. There is something strange about the man. What was he carrying when I first saw him up here? And why was he so anxious to slip away and not speak to me? He could not have been more obliging and talkative in Cairo.’
‘Yes, and perhaps there could be a story in there for me.’
They exchanged the names of their respective hotels and agreed to meet at the same place at the same time the following day to report progress. As they stood, Alice half leaned forward, offering her cheek to be kissed, but Simon had already turned away.
Jenkins was amazed and delighted when Simon returned and told him of his meeting with Alice, but less than impressed when he heard of the plans they had made to pin down Mr George.
‘But bach sir, it will be like looking
for a needle in a bleedin’ ’aystack,’ he growled. ‘An’ why bother, look you? The bloke’s not important to us, is ’e? ’E’s got a perfect right to move about the country, ’asn’t ’e? This is a nice little billet’ere. Old Fati’s cookin’ suits me fine. Why do we ’ave to go poncin’ around the town lookin’ for a little bloke in a celluloid collar? I just don’t understand it, see.’
Simon had to confess that Jenkins had a point, but he attempted to rationalise the ‘game’. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘until General Wolseley gets here, we are more or less bottled up in this place. If we can find a quick way out, that could be invaluable to us.’
Jenkins grimaced but did not pursue the argument. Ahmed, on the other hand, was delighted at the prospect of an end to their days of inaction.
‘Fatima can help,’ he said. ‘She know everybody here. She can – what you say? – put out the words, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Will it be fighting?’ His eyes lit up. ‘I should sharpen sword?’
‘No – well, perhaps you should. One never knows. By all means see if Fatima can help us.’ He gave Jenkins and Ahmed a very detailed description of Mr George and handed the latter three gold sovereigns for Fatima to offer as a reward to anyone who could lead them to the clerk. Then the three of them set out.
It proved to be a most frustrating day. There were, of course, many exits from the city, but only two main routes: one along the coastal road to Rosetta in the east, and the other to the south-east, by the isthmus across Lake Mareotis, to where Arabi’s lines crossed the railway. Ahmed took the first and Simon and Jenkins the second. It was true that traffic in and out of the city had been reduced since the bombardment and the riots, particularly on the exit policed by Simon and Jenkins. But there were sufficient pedestrians for it to be difficult to distinguish between small, genuine Arabs and a particular Englishman in Arab dress. The three gathered together later that evening in Fatima’s kitchen to report failure. Even Fatima confessed that she and her informants knew nothing of a little foreigner who might meet George’s description.
Their failure, however, did little to depress Simon, for he was elated at the thought of meeting Alice again the next morning. It was, after all, only a game they were playing.
He arrived early for the rendezvous and so was not surprised to find that Alice had not yet arrived. He ordered coffee for them both and sat idly speculating on the plans that Wolseley might have for him. Most likely out into the desert to wheel around Arabi’s lines to see what sort of reserves the Egyptian had down the line; or perhaps a spot of sabotage on the railway line behind the Colonel, to prevent him retreating by rail towards Cairo? That would be fun.
The coffee arrived, and it was as he took his first sip that he saw the envelope lying on the table, secured and partly obscured by the ashtray. He picked it up. It was addressed to him in a firm, schoolmasterly hand – a clerk’s hand. The letter inside read:Dear Sir,
I am afraid that your lady friend will not be able to meet you this morning, because she has, it seems, encountered a little trouble.
If you wish to see her again, then come tonight to 23a Ismail Street at 8 p.m. You will come alone and unarmed. If you inform the authorities, then she will be shot. You are under constant watch.
G. George.
Simon’s mouth went dry and he instinctively looked around him. There were several couples taking morning coffee at the table but they seemed innocuous enough and quite uninterested in him. Conventionally dressed Egyptians and one or two desert Arabs ambled by. He looked up at the houses fronting on to the square. Most of them had shutters across or blinds down to keep out the flies and the heat, but dozens of eyes could be observing him from behind them. He licked his lips and put his hand to his brow. This was no longer a game. Who was George, and what was he up to? Was he an Arabi spy? Yes, most likely. Then Simon’s heart sank further. If so, then he was in a perfect position at Cook’s in Cairo to report to his master on the contents of all cables – including Simon’s own – that passed across his desk. But why capture Alice? There was no obvious reason why Arabi would want to harm her.
His mind in turmoil, he paid for the coffees – one of them, alas, untouched – and stood for a moment undecided. Yes, his first point of call must be the offices of Thomas Cook, here in Alexandria, to talk to Mr Roberts. But wait. Was Roberts in on the game? He conjured up the picture of the tall, stout ex-soldier, with his waxed moustache and stolid Englishness, and shook his head. He was poles apart from the unctuous Mr George. He had served with Wolseley and, for God’s sake, not everybody could be a spy! Nevertheless, he decided that he would not confide in Roberts. Not yet, anyway.
Roberts was not on duty at the desk, for once, but was soon fetched.
‘Nothing for you, sir, I’m afraid,’ he said, like the village postmaster at Simon’s home outside Brecon.
‘Thank you, Mr Roberts. Tell me, you may remember that I met a lady here yesterday – an old friend?’
A broad grin spread under the waxed moustache. ‘Oh yes, sir. She seemed a bit upset at first, but I’m sure you soon cheered her up.’
Simon forced a grin in return. ‘Yes, indeed. But I half promised to meet her here this morning. Has she called in yet, do you know?’
‘No, sir, and I’ve been on the desk until a couple of seconds ago. She did come back yesterday, though, in the afternoon. Asking about a Mr Ahmed Kamul, to see if he was a client of ours. I had to tell her I’d never heard of him. Oh, and she also wanted to know if Mr George from our Cairo office had been in since her previous visit. Blimey, I don’t know what old Georgie’s done to deserve all this attention, I’m sure.’
‘And has Mr George been into the office?’
‘Lumme, now you’re doin’ it. No. Haven’t seen him for six months. He rarely comes to Alex.’
‘Thank you, Mr Roberts. Sorry to be a nuisance, but I wonder whether I could use your toilet?’
‘Of course, sir.’ He lifted up the flap on the desk and pointed. ‘Down that corridor and you’ll find it on the right, by the back entrance.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’
Simon walked to the door of the lavatory, glanced behind him to ensure that no one could see him and then opened the door giving on to a yard at the back of the offices. It was deserted and he was able to slip through another gate to find himself in a back street behind the office. He doubled along it and took a circuitous route back to the hotel, frequently turning suddenly up side streets to ensure that he was not being followed. There was no obvious reason for him to have been watched before he met Alice and she began her enquiries, and so hopefully George would not know where he was staying. If he did, then he would surely have delivered the note to the hotel. In turn that meant, equally hopefully, that he would not know of the existence of Jenkins and Ahmed, for neither of them had accompanied him to the Cook offices. He had also been alone when he met George the first time in the street in Alexandria, and when he encountered him during the riots, there were sufficient Arabs milling around for 352 and Ahmed not to be noticed. Hopefully . . .
On his return to the hotel, he summoned a council of war with the others. Jenkins, of course, was all for storming 23a Ismail Street. Ahmed remained quiet, fingering his moustache.
‘No,’ said Simon, ‘we cannot take the risk that they will carry out the threat to harm Alice. I must go alone. Perhaps I can buy her release.’
‘Yes,’ muttered Jenkins, ‘but p’raps it’s you they want. ’Ave you thought of that?’
‘Yes, I have. If George is in the pay of Arabi, then they could well want me as a spy and attempt to get me to tell them all I know of Wolseley’s intentions. After all, George will have seen my original cable from Cairo and I don’t suppose that code would be difficult to decipher, dammit.’ He turned to Ahmed. ‘Would you ask Fatima where this address is and in what sort of area. I presume it will be in the native quarter. Ask her if, by some chance, she knows who lives there or anyone who lives nearby.’
‘Of cou
rse.’ The little man looked up with fire in his eyes. ‘It is a fighting evening all right, I think. Yes?’
‘Well, I do hope not. We shall have to see.’
Simon and Jenkins fell silent for a moment. Then Jenkins spoke. ‘You know, bach sir,’ he said, ‘the more I think about this, the more I don’t like it. This George bloke obviously lied to you when we met ’im unloading stuff from that ’ouse, see, because Miss Alice found that out when she checked at the travel place. It’s pretty obvious, then, that ’e’s one of old Arabi’s lot an’ ’e will want to know what you know, like – an’ that could be messy, bach.’
They stared at each other, and a small, unconscious shiver ran through Simon. Jenkins was talking about torture, of course, and Simon’s mind went back to red-hot coals in a high mountain pass in the Hindu Kush. He shook his head to clear the memory.
‘I don’t intend to let them torture me, 352,’ he said. ‘I intend to free Alice – and with your help. Now, I’ve got a plan of sorts and I will explain it when Ahmed returns.’
The little Egyptian was back within minutes. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘place is in native quarter. Teemings with peoples. Egyptian peoples, that is. She don’t know nothing of peoples there. Sorry.’
‘Never mind. This is what we will do. I am not sure whether they know of your existence or where we are staying. I hope not, but we must take precautions. I will leave well before the time and find this place. You will leave the hotel by the back door and through the garden, exactly three minutes after me. We will plan the route so that you know where I am going. It might be that 23a is just a first port of call, to put off any people, like you, covering me. If that is so, then I will try and leave a clue about the next destination.’
Jenkins was clearly unimpressed. ‘Then what?’
Simon sighed. The thought of Alice in the hands of that strange, obviously ruthless man made his mouth go dry and fuddled his thoughts. He tried to concentrate. ‘I am afraid we must play it intuitively to some extent . . .’
