by Maha Akhtar
“Phew!” Salah wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Who is upstairs?” Lawrence asked, sitting down on a small bench.
“Rabih Farhat,” Salah said, “my old colleague.”
“When did he get here?”
“I don’t know. He was in Rania’s cellar. Speaking of Rania’s cellar, I think I am going to enjoy a glass of whiskey.”
“I thought you were a Muslim.”
“Only when it suits me.”
“Why does Rania keep whiskey in her cellar?” Lawrence remarked, astonished.
“Well,” Salah took a bottle out from behind the bar, “she inherited it from her husband’s uncle. I think he was a smuggler of some kind.”
“I see,” Lawrence said, as Salah took a bottle out from under the bar.
“You sure you don’t want just a sip?” Salah held up a bottle of single malt.
“I suppose I could …”
“Just to calm the nerves.”
“Salah!” Rania called out. “We need you up here, please.”
“Would you excuse me, please?” Salah said to Lawrence.
“Of course.” Lawrence smiled, raising his glass.
“Fatmeh is going to try and extract the bullet from Rabih’s leg,” Lawrence heard Rania tell Salah when he reached the top of the stairs. “You’re going to have to hold him.”
Lawrence stared into his whiskey. I should have stuck to archaeology and history and not gotten involved in the war business. A loud shriek of pain filled the house, followed by grunts, undoubtedly Salah’s, as he tried to hold his friend down. Oh Lord help him! Lawrence thought. Another scream echoed from above. This is unbearable. Lawrence gulped down the last of his whiskey and reached for what was left of Salah’s. I should be used to this by now. Shaking his head, he walked through the kitchen to the café in the front. He peeked through a sliver of an opening between the curtains on the door and saw the two Turks who had been following them walking by. He immediately crouched down on the floor and slowly came back up, looking through the same sliver with one eye.
“Where the hell did they go?” he heard one of them say.
“Isn’t this the same café that we went into looking for Farhat?” the other said.
“I don’t know,” the other said in an annoyed voice. “All these goddamned coffee houses and lanes look the same.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll get them.”
“The big one was Masri, I am sure of it. But who was he with?”
“I couldn’t tell, Sir, except that he was short.”
“We’re not going to find them now. It’s getting too dark.”
“Why don’t we ask around, Sir … just in case?”
“I don’t think we’ll get anywhere … it seems as if they’re all protecting him. But why?”
“Perhaps he’s paying them, Sir?”
“Don’t be stupid! How can he be paying the whole bloody souk?”
“Perhaps we should just look inside this café, Sir?”
Bloody hell! Lawrence crouched back down.
When he didn’t hear anyone at the door, he looked back out and saw the Turks walk to the next alleyway, looking into all the open shops along the way, occasionally saying something to the shop owners, almost all of whom shook their heads and shrugged.
Suddenly, Lawrence had an idea. He tried the front door. It was locked. Unwilling to disturb Salah or Rania, he looked at the windows that gave onto the street. They were a bit small, but if he held his breath, he’d be able to squeeze through. Slipping through, he walked quickly up the street. He planned to catch up to the Turks and follow them. He was positive they would lead him to their hideout, which is where they were probably holding Nassim.
Lawrence drew his headscarf across his face to cover everything but his eyes and drew his cloak around him to hide his British military uniform. He walked quickly to keep up with the Turks, ducking into a fabric shop when he saw them fifty yards ahead.
“Ahlan!” the shopkeeper smiled broadly when he saw the Englishman enter.
Lawrence, who was keeping a close eye on the Turks, didn’t reply at first.
“May I help you?” The man approached Lawrence.
“Shoo?” Lawrence turned, suddenly realizing the shopkeeper was addressing him.
“What can I do for you today?” the shopkeeper rubbed his hands together excitedly at the prospect of a sale.
“Ana… uh … ,” Lawrence muttered, one leg outside the shop, his eyes on the Turks up ahead.
“A turban, perhaps?” the shopkeeper pointed to the oversized turbans that were in fashion. “A tarbush?” he said, grabbing a few in different colors and showing them proudly to Lawrence.
“No … really,” Lawrence muttered, his attention elsewhere.
“Come on, brother!” the shopkeeper continued. “Or this beautiful cloth for your wife?”
“No … I’m not married.”
“Ah! Then your mother! I’m sure your mother would appreciate it.”
“Uh, no … thank you,” Lawrence replied, still watching the Turks who had stopped up ahead and were talking animatedly among themselves.
“Perhaps for your sister?” the shopkeeper opened another bolt of fabric.
“Perhaps another time?”
“This turban is perfect for you, brother,” The shopkeeper plonked a large white one on Lawrence’s head. But it was too small. The shopkeeper looked puzzled and tried to pull it down further.
“My head is larger than you think,” Lawrence said, a bit embarrassed.
“This is the next size.” The shopkeeper put it on Lawrence’s head.
“Look … I’m really not looking for anything.”
“Then why did you come into my shop?” the shopkeeper asked, annoyed.
Lawrence looked at him and let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine! How much is this?”
“For you, a special price … one pound.” The shopkeeper grinned, knowing he had a buyer.
“What?” Lawrence cried.
“Fifty piastres.” The shopkeeper bobbed his head, his hands together in hope.
Just then the Turks started to move. Lawrence quickly reached into his pocket and handed the man a coin.
“Shukran, brother! Shukran!”
“Yes, yes … ,” Lawrence muttered, settling the turban properly on his head.
As he approached the open square in front of the Al-Hussein Mosque, Lawrence was grateful for the turban, which allowed him to blend in completely with the rest of the men milling around. He continued trailing the Turks past the mosque and was careful not to lose them in the lanes around the Al-Azhar University. Just past the university, the two men turned into a small compound. Lawrence made a mental note of the address and the lush mango tree in the driveway that led up to the main door. Luckily there were lots of bushes and trees, allowing Lawrence to carefully approach the house without being seen. Tip-toeing around the back of the house, he saw a light in the basement. He got down on all fours and crawled on his belly to the narrow window, which was slightly ajar to let in some air.
“On your feet, boy!” Lawrence heard a male voice. “Hold him up, Celik!”
“Yes, Sir.”
Lawrence heard someone whimper. That’s Nassim. It must be.
He heard the click of the safety switch of a gun. “Why the hell are you so loyal to him? What has he ever done for you?” he heard someone say.
“Sir,” another male voice said. “What if we use this boy as bait and lure Masri out?”
“That is what we are doing, you idiot.”
“Sorry, Sir.”
“Are our boys keeping a close eye on the café and the woman?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And they haven’t seen Masri in there or Rabih?”
“No.”
“And what about the woman? Has she gone out?”
“Only to do her shopping at the market.”
“Rabih is in there, Celik. And Masri too. I am sure of it. Goddamn it.”<
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“We need to storm the café, Sir.”
“We can’t do that. The British cannot know we’re here. If the woman calls the police, we’re done for. We’re not supposed to even be in Egypt.”
“But, Sir …”
“Celik … we are Turks operating in a British protectorate. Do I need to remind you that our government is at war with theirs? They’ll throw us straight in jail. Actually worse … as military men, we’ll be prisoners of war. No. We have to be smarter.”
Lawrence had heard enough. He had to move quickly.
Slowly Rabih opened one eye. The other one remained closed under a swathe of soft cotton wool. He looked up at the ceiling. The whitewash looked dull and the plaster needed repair. From the periphery, he could see Rania sitting on a chair next to him, her arms crossed across her middle, her head lolling on her chest. She looked as though she was asleep. He turned his head to look at her and a bolt of pain shot through his head. He winced, whimpering, the pain so sharp that he had to close his one eye again until it passed. When he opened it again, she wasn’t there. He stared back up at the ceiling. His entire body ached. He was cold, but could feel himself sweating at the same time. His thigh throbbed, his rib cage pounded dully, and his head felt like it had been hit with a hammer. His tongue felt as dry as the desert. There was a jug of water and a glass sitting on a small stool next to him. He tried to sit up to reach it, but he couldn’t lift himself. He stretched out his arm, but couldn’t hold the jug properly. Exhausted with the effort, he lay back and closed his eye.
When he came to, Rania was sitting in the chair next to him. Seeing him awake, she immediately came to the bed and knelt by his side, sitting on her heels.
“Don’t try to move,” she told him. “Would you like some water?”
He nodded weakly.
Very gently, she placed her hand under his shoulders, cradling his head against her breast and brought the glass to his lips. Rabih could hear her heart beating faster.
“Now, you need to rest,” she said.
“Where is the nurse?” he asked weakly.
“Fatmeh? She’ll be here in just a while. It’s lunchtime now.”
“How long have I been asleep?”
“For many hours. But you need to rest more.”
Rabih looked at her. She was wearing another dress. This one had a pink and orange paisley pattern with ruffles along the neckline and the sleeves. Over it, she wore a white cotton crocheted shawl that she let fall over one shoulder, exposing her neck and décolleté. The dress suited her perfectly, he thought. It showed off her curvaceous figure. He noticed the swell of her breast, her small waist, and the way the dress clung to her hips, rustling seductively when she walked.
“You look very nice,” he remarked, his voice barely a whisper.
“Thank you.” She smiled graciously.
He smiled. His eyes closed again, his mind filled with Rania, the gentle touch of her hand, the scent of her skin, her plush hair, her eyes, her smile … he fell asleep.
Downstairs, Rania heard the back door open. She wrapped the shawl around her.
“Rania?” she heard Fatmeh’s soft voice.
“Marhaba, habibti!” Rania said, coming down the stairs.
Fatmeh turned and smiled. “You look lovely today.”
“Thank you,” Rania said. “I’m sure you too would look lovely in a dress and some kohl.”
“Perhaps one day.” Fatmeh smiled woefully. “But for the moment, I’m stuck in this.” She pointed to the abaya.
“I went to my father’s dispensary and got a few things.” Fatmeh opened her satchel and pulled out a bale of cotton wool, a large bottle of rubbing alcohol, proper linen bandages, and a few other implements.
“What are these for?” Rania picked up a small leather case filled with needles.
“He needs stitches, Rania,” Fatmeh said sympathetically as Rania visibly squirmed. “I was able to take the bullet out, because otherwise he would have lost his leg, but now I have to put him back together.”
Rania swallowed, hugging herself.
“And this, habibti, is rubbing alcohol.” Fatmeh laughed. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to drink gin again.”
“What do you mean, again?” Rania looked at her, shocked. “Have you ever drunk it?”
“I tried a little sip one day of Madame Yvonne’s lime juice,” Fatmeh admitted.
“Yallah! He’s asleep, so you can work on him.”
“I also have a tranquilizer that I will give him so he sleeps through the stitches.”
“You realize it is going to take him some time to heal,” Fatmeh whispered as they approached the bedroom.
“You’ll have to look after him, Rania,” she added. “I can’t be here all the time.”
Rania nodded, blushing. Fatmeh noticed immediately.
“But I’m not a nurse, like you,” Rania said quickly.
“No, but you’re kind and caring … and loving,” Fatmeh ventured, “and that’s all nursing is.”
Rania looked away.
“He’s very handsome.” She smiled and put her arm in Rania’s.
“Stop it!” Rania giggled. “I don’t even know him.”
“No, but sometimes you don’t have to,” she said. “Sometimes you just know.”
“Shhh!” Rania put her finger to her lips. “What if he’s awake and heard you?”
“Somehow I don’t think he would mind.”
“I must be mad!” Rania admitted.
“You’re not mad at all, habibti … just smitten. And it was about time.”
Salah slipped into the El Fishawy café.
“Today’s newspaper, brother?” one of the waiters offered him.
“Thank you.” Salah took it.
Inside was a note:
Café being watched. Rania in danger. Get Rabih out immediately. Nassim found. Extraction set. Details shortly.
Lawrence had better hurry. I don’t want to hand Nassim’s body to his mother. Salah looked around quickly to make sure no one had seen anything. He left a few coins on the table and left.
Just as Salah turned the corner, he saw two men wearing red tarbushes walking down the lane. They stopped for a second when they saw him. Salah took off, zigzagging around the alleyways. Despite his size, he was moving quickly. At the end of the alleyway was the fruitsellers’ square. Salah quickly ducked behind Magdi’s stall. He crouched down. Seconds later, the two men appeared, breathless, looking around. They ran to one of the sellers at the far end and pulled the poor man off his stool, shouting at him and asking whether he had seen a large man come through the square. The fruitseller indignantly shook them off. As they turned their backs to walk away, he ran up behind them and pelted them with an overripe watermelon, cracking it open over their heads. All the fruitsellers began laughing. Salah chuckled and disappeared into the tunnel behind Magdi’s stand.
Rabih opened his eyes.
“Sabah al-khair,” Rania said softly.
“Good morning,” Rabih replied, turning his head to look directly at her.
“How are you feeling today?”
His eyes smiled with appreciation. “Much better.”
“Would you like some breakfast?”
“But don’t you have to open the café?” he asked.
“I have an hour or so.”
He remained silent, staring at her, drinking in how she always had to push back that one lock of rebellious hair. She tilted her head to one side and looked down, elongating the long, swan-like neck that he dreamed of caressing, kissing, and breathing in its scent, her scent.
“I don’t know how to repay your kindness, but I will.”
“It’s not necessary,” she said.
“Yes, it is,” he replied. “After all, who am I to you? A stranger who walked in the door.”
“First you get well,” she said, standing up, “then we will discuss it.”
He nodded in agreement.
“Now, what about your breakfas
t?”
Rania got up. He grabbed her hand. She drew in a quick, surprised breath and looked down at him, her eyes nervous.
“Will you at least eat with me?” he asked her.
Rania smiled. She pulled her hand from his. “I might,” she said and swung her hair around as she left the room.
As Rania busied herself preparing breakfast for Rabih, there was a soft knock on the back door. It was Salah.
“Where is Rabih?”
“Well good morning to you too!” Rania said.
“Rania, listen, I have to move Rabih.”
“What? What is going on?”
“I’ll explain later,” Salah promised. “But for now, I’ve got to get him out.”
“But, Salah,” Rania argued, “I don’t think he’s well enough … besides, Fatmeh is monitoring him.”
“Rania … please don’t argue. I have to get him to a safe place.”
Rania’s eyebrows knitted together in a frown.
“Look, instead of upstairs, why don’t I set up the cellar? You can help me put a mattress in there,” she suggested. “I’ll clean it up and we can move him there.”
Salah looked at her. They’ll both still be in danger, but it’s not a bad idea.
“All right, but we have to do it now. Before you open.”
“Give me half an hour.”
“And Rania, you have to be careful.”
Rania turned to look at him.
“What does that mean?”
“Rania, I swear to you that I will explain what is going on, but please, just keep your wits about you. Don’t go out, and if you have to go to the market, send Fatmeh.”
While Rania went upstairs to get some sheets and pillows, Salah walked into the main café. He peeked through the curtains. Across the way, he saw a couple of men idling, smoking. At the end of the lane, there was another one. The Turks were definitely here.
Chapter Eight
Omer Erdogan sat at his desk in his office, tapping his fingers in frustration.
Goddammit! Why is it so difficult to get Masri? How does he manage to give me the slip every time I get near him?
“Come in!” he said, responding to a knock on the door.