The Cairo Brief

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  CHAPTER 31

  CAIRO, 27 JUNE 1920

  Kamela El Farouk stepped out of the taxi outside the Grand Continental Hotel and stood for a moment to take in its colonial splendour. The whitewashed four-storey building with its iconic wrought-iron arch over the entrance dominated Cairo’s Opera Square. And although the three flags on its roof were Egyptian, Kamela knew that the vast majority of the 300 rooms would be occupied by Europeans. Her new boss, Dr Faizal Osman, escorted her past the line of bowing porters – uniformly attired in white robes and red fezzes – and up the steps of the grandiose entrance.

  Dr Osman held a degree in Classical Civilization and the History of Art from Oxford University. Of mixed race, his father was a British Major General, and his mother the daughter of one of Egypt’s wealthiest men. She’d been told that he had changed his name from Reece-Lansdale to Osman – his maternal grandfather’s surname – when he took up the job of Director of Antiquities at the Cairo Museum, just before the war. He was a good man who shared her view that Egyptian art belonged to the people of Egypt. However, he was also a pragmatist who realized that the past could not be undone, and a diplomat who knew how to engage with the Europeans and their various museums.

  Which was the reason they were here today. In light of Britain’s intention to withdraw from its administration of Egypt, Dr Osman was trying to renegotiate the decades-old system of licences that allowed European archaeologists to work in Egypt. Their expertise – and money – was still needed by the Egyptians, but Dr Osman wanted to ensure that the power balance shifted more favourably towards the locals. If anyone could do it, it would be him.

  Kamela was proud to work for such a man – and proud to get such a good job so soon after graduating from the Sorbonne in Paris. Despite being top of her class in Archaeology and Near Eastern Studies, she had doubted that she would get the nod ahead of the other, all-male, candidates for the job of Assistant to the Director of the Department of Antiquities. But it seemed that Dr Osman did not hold her gender against her. He told her his sister was a lawyer in England and he believed in equal rights for women. Although younger, he reminded her in some ways of her late father. He too had taken a chance on her – a mere girl – by giving her the same educational opportunities as her male siblings, although she, and she alone, had gone to university – due to the support of an anonymous benefactor. Sadly, her father had died without divulging the identity – or motivation – of the person who had paid for her to study in Paris.

  Now here she was, back in her home country, ready to start a new chapter in her life. Inside the hotel, she and Dr Osman were ushered into the dining room, where obsequious waiters fawned over colonial diners. Here and there were members of Egypt’s upper classes, so she did not feel completely out of place – although she was the only woman wearing a hijab. Kamela was not devoutly religious, but she wore the scarf out of respect for her mother and because it set her apart from Europeans. For Kamela it was important that – despite her European education – people knew she had not been assimilated into the foreign culture. For her it was as much a sign of nationalism as it was of faith.

  At the table she was introduced to people who, up until now, had been merely names in textbooks. They were among the elite of the world of archaeology and Egyptology: Howard Carter, Giles Mortimer, Jonathan Davies, Jennifer Philpott, Heinrich Stein, and Rudolf Weiner. They were a warm, intelligent group of people with a shared interest in preserving Egyptian culture – although they differed, at times, as to how that was to be achieved.

  They were halfway through the soup course when there was a commotion at the entrance to the restaurant. A large, unkempt European man forced his way past the maître d’, dodged a couple of waiters, and approached their table. He was unsteady on his feet and red in face. He demanded another place be set for him – even though there was no room – and, in a booming voice, wanted to know why he hadn’t been invited. Heinrich Stein stood up and addressed him in German. Kamela, whose father had worked with Germans, knew enough of the language to follow the gist of it. His name was Freddie. He hadn’t been snubbed; Herr Stein had assumed he wouldn’t be coming due to the upsetting news he’d received earlier today.

  “Freddie” reached for a bottle of wine on the table. Herr Stein intervened and took the bottle from him, saying in English, for the benefit of everyone else at the table and in the restaurant: “I think you’ve had enough, old man. Let me take you to your room. What’s your number?”

  “Two one seven,” he slurred as Weiner stood to offer his support. Stein and Weiner each took an arm and helped him out, to the visible relief of the maître d’, who apologized profusely – in French – to the diners. A few moments later Weiner returned and said that Herr Stein was able to handle it on his own.

  “Poor old Waltaub,” observed Howard Carter.

  “Waltaub?” asked Kamela, her throat suddenly dry.

  “Yes, Freddie Waltaub. He was once a great archaeologist. But after that business in El-Amarna, he’s never been the same.”

  Kamela took a sip of water, her hand quivering. “What business is that?”

  “Back in 1914,” Dr Osman explained. “I was new on the job. Ludwig Borchardt was still busy on the Amarna dig – Thutmose’s workshop. Then a new chamber was found. One weekend, when Borchardt was away in Cairo, some looters broke in. They were disturbed by a guard. They killed him. Freddie Waltaub was supposed to be in charge, but he was off drinking somewhere. He never forgave himself. He’s never been the same since.”

  Kamela steadied her hand on the stem of her glass. “Did they catch the killer?”

  “No,” said Dr Osman, “but two local youngsters were convicted of looting. They never divulged who their accomplices were.”

  Kamela cleared her throat. “Did you attend the trial?” she asked.

  “I didn’t. But Borchardt filled me in on it. I also read the official transcripts.”

  “Do you recall the names of the young people who were convicted?”

  “I don’t, no. Have you finished with your soup?” A waiter was hovering. Kamela said she was, and her plate was taken away.

  After dinner, the archaeologists retired to the bar. Kamela waited until everyone had drinks and lit cigarettes and then announced that she needed to powder her nose. She hoped that the only other woman in the group – Jennifer Philpott – would not offer to join her. But Miss Philpott was comfortably nursing a tumbler of whiskey and in animated discussion with Howard Carter about the possible whereabouts of King Tutankhamun’s tomb. Kamela slipped quietly away.

  Room 217 was on the second floor. The corridor was deserted as she stepped out of the elevator and knocked on the door. There was no answer. She tried the handle – it was unlocked. She entered the dimly lit room and closed the door behind her. “Herr Waltaub!” she called out.

  “Go away. I didn’t call for room service.” The voice was thick with tears. She turned towards it and saw Freddie sitting in a wicker chair near the window. On the table beside him was a bottle of whisky, and in his hand a revolver. She froze in her tracks.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “You’re Osman’s new girl, aren’t you?”

  Kamela swallowed hard. “I am, yes. I was just coming to see if you were all right. And to apologize for not inviting you to the dinner. It was obviously just an oversight.”

  Freddie sniffed, loudly. He had been crying. “No it wasn’t. No one wants me any more. Not Stein, not Osman, not – not – my wife.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  He sniffed again and gestured with the barrel of the gun to something on the table. “Look for yourself.”

  She approached, gingerly, not certain of his intent, and saw what he was pointing at. It was a telegram, in German, from someone called Helga telling him not to bother coming home because she and the children were leaving.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. The wreck of a man in front of her was not the man she re
membered from her trial – cocksure and confident, announcing that he couldn’t possibly have killed the native because he was drinking with an old friend. The old friend – a French archaeologist – duly backed up his account. At the time Kamela had no reason to disbelieve him. She had no idea who had killed Mohammed and his dog, only that neither she nor her brother had done it. In the end, the judge believed her. But she was still given three months in jail as an object lesson for other looters. Her brother was given three years. Despite Borchardt himself asking for clemency, the judge declared that a message needed to be sent, and that as long as the boy did not divulge the names of his collaborators, a murderer was getting away scot free. However, if the lad gave their names, his sentence would be reduced to the same as his sister. Sadly, he had no names to give. Two years later, a month before he was due to be released on good behaviour, there was a prison riot. Azar Abbas was killed. He was only nineteen. It was at his funeral that her father told her – Kamela Abbas – that an anonymous benefactor had offered to pay for her to study in Paris. But as she had a criminal conviction against her, it was decided that she would apply in her mother’s name: El Farouk.

  Kamela sat down in the chair opposite Freddie. She had dreamt of this moment for two years, ever since she had overheard a conversation in the post-graduate common room at the Sorbonne. One of her archaeology professors, a man named Chirac, was discussing a paper with a fellow academic.

  “Waltaub’s not up to the job any more,” he’d said. “This is utter twaddle. No wonder Borchardt let him go. Stein should do the same.”

  “You knew him, didn’t you?” said his companion.

  “I did, yes. I vouched for him during that El-Amarna scandal.”

  “That’s right… you gave him an alibi, didn’t you?”

  “I did, yes. But to be honest, I wasn’t sure what time he left. I’d had a lot to drink and fell asleep. When I woke, he was gone. He had been with me, yes, but he could have left before he said he did.”

  “Good grief man, why did you back him up then?”

  “I had no reason to doubt him. I still don’t, really.”

  “But he could have been lying. He could have gone back to the dig and killed that native. And stole the Nefertiti mask.”

  “It’s possible, yes. But not likely, surely. Waltaub’s a good fellow. Sad how he’s gone to seed...”

  And that was it. Kamela made an appointment to see the professor. She questioned him about his conversation. When he asked why she wanted to know, she said she had known the family of the young people who were jailed. She asked him why he didn’t go to the police now and tell the truth – that an innocent boy had gone to jail.

  “Is he still in jail?” the professor asked.

  “No, he’s dead.”

  The professor shrugged and said, “Well it’s too late then.” And brought their conversation to an end.

  Kamela had thought of going to the police herself when she got back to Egypt, but realized that without the French professor’s cooperation she would get nowhere. She sent him a telegram asking him if he would testify to what he’d told her. She received a telegram in reply saying: “No”.

  And now, here she was, in front of the man who might have killed the watchman and was ultimately responsible for the death of her brother. She had been over the events of that night so many times. There were only two possible suspects: James Maddox and Freddie Waltaub. Maddox’s defence was that he would not have called the police if he had been involved – a tenuous argument, but one the judge seemed to accept. But after what she’d learned from the French professor, she leaned towards the theory that it was Waltaub who had done it and Maddox who helped cover it up.

  “Herr Waltaub, do you remember that night back in 1914 when the watchman at Thutmose’s workshop was killed?”

  Freddie, still holding the gun with one hand, poured himself another drink. He offered one to Kamela. She declined.

  “I thought you would want to ask me why I’ve got this gun. You don’t seem frightened, Miss El Farouk. Why’s that?”

  “I don’t think you intend to harm me, do you?”

  “N – no I don’t. I – I don’t want to harm anyone – I never wanted to. It was an a – accident.” He started crying again.

  “The watchman? You killed the watchman?”

  “He misunderstood what was going on. He thought I was stealing artefacts. I wasn’t. I was just packaging them up for shipment.”

  “Was Maddox there with you?”

  “Not then, no. But he came later. And stole the mask. When they took those children away. He came back and took the mask. It was there when the watchman came in and got the wrong end of the stick. I saw it there myself. Maddox swears blind he didn’t steal it, but he did.”

  “What about the watchman? What happened?”

  “It was an accident; I didn’t mean to.” He took a swig of whisky.

  “But you did, didn’t you? You left Chirac’s earlier than you said you did. And went to the dig when you thought no one was there. Then you killed Mohammed and his dog when they found you.”

  “I told you. I didn’t mean to.” He took another gulp from his glass then stared at her, bleary eyed. “H – how did you know about Chirac?”

  “I know everything Freddie, everything.” She said the last with such venom it surprised her. Years of hurt, anger, and injustice welled up inside her. She had a fleeting thought of going to the police, but then recalled the way she and her brother had been treated. No, the police were not the answer. There was no justice, only what she herself would make.

  “You were about to shoot yourself, weren’t you? When I came in? That’s why you have the gun.”

  Freddie was now sobbing. “I was, yes, but now God has sent an angel to save me.”

  “Yes,” said Kamela, “I am an angel. The Angel of Death.” She wrapped her hands around his and held the gun to his temple.”

  “Do it,” she whispered. “Do it now.”

  And he did.

  CHAPTER 32

  LONDON, MONDAY 12 DECEMBER 1921

  As opening bids on the death mask of Nefertiti were called out, Poppy followed Kamela into the next gallery. The Egyptian woman had reached a dead end at the far end of the room, near a display of ancient weaponry. There was no thoroughfare through this gallery and the only way out was back the way she’d come.

  Albert Carnaby’s voice droned from the other room. “That’s two thousand pounds, ladies and gentlemen. Can I see three?”

  “The auction’s started, Kamela; you’ll miss it.”

  “Three thousand, thank you. Three thousand pounds with Dr Davies.”

  Kamela spun around, a look on her face that reminded Poppy of a hunted animal. “Oh, Poppy. I was looking for the lavatory. Couldn’t hold it in any longer.”

  Poppy gestured over her shoulder. The nearest ones are back through there, near the museum entrance. I know, it’s a bit of a maze in here. Dr Mortimer gave me the tour last week.”

  Kamela smiled tightly.

  “Is that four thousand? Yes? Four thousand pounds with Herr Stein.”

  “Will Faizal be putting in a bid?”

  Kamela was edging around the room, holding something behind her back. “On something that already belongs to us? No.” Her voice was hard. This was not the charming young woman Poppy had spent time with over the weekend.

  Poppy’s mind was spinning. What should she do? Kamela was trapped in here and the only way out was past her. Poppy had no doubt that Kamela was trying to get out. And the reason was not the lavatory.

  “Five thousand pounds! Thank you, Dr Mortimer. The British Museum must be feeling flush.”

  Kamela continued to edge towards the entrance. Poppy wondered how long it would take for someone to notice they were gone. Had anyone else seen them slip out? And if so, would they too assume it was something as benign as a trip to the lavatory? Kamela would have to stay here or go back in. She would never make it through the next gallery and
past the police. There was no way to escape.

  “Six thousand pounds? Is that six thousand, Herr Stein? Ja!”

  Kamela edged closer. There was a cold glint in her eyes. “Dr Osman was telling me you’ve been asking questions about last year in Cairo.”

  “Any advances on six thousand pounds? Come now, ladies and gentlemen, an artefact like this will have people queuing around the block to see it. And let’s not forget Sir James. He deserves more than that, surely?”

  Kamela’s lip curled.

  Poppy bit her own. “Did he Kamela? Did Sir James deserve more than that?”

  Kamela let out a growl. All pretence gone. “You’ll find he got exactly what he deserved, Poppy.”

  “Unlike your brother.”

  Kamela stopped edging and turned fully towards Poppy. “Exactly.” She whipped her hand from behind her back to reveal an ornate ceremonial dagger and pointed it towards Poppy’s throat. Poppy gasped. “What are you doing?”

  “You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?”

  Poppy swallowed, hard. “Most of it, yes. You switched the digitalis in Sir James’ medication, then planted it in the butler’s room. I’m not sure how you killed Waltaub, but I’m sure you did.”

  “Ten thousand pounds! That’s more like it, thank you Dr Davies. New York is calling!”

  Poppy sensed some movement behind her. But she dared not look. Had Kamela seen it?

  No, her dark eyes were glued on Poppy. “I did not kill either of them – technically – just like they did not kill my brother – technically – with their own hands. Waltaub pulled the trigger himself – I just helped him do it. And Maddox took his own poison. Both of them would have died anyway. Waltaub was about to commit suicide when I found him. Maddox’s heart was giving in. He wouldn’t have lived much longer.”

  “That was not for you to decide.” DCI Martin’s gruff voice sent a wave of relief through Poppy. “Now, put that knife down and let Miss Denby go.”