They drove slowly to the elegant residential quarter known as Garden City, eventually reaching a sprawling mansion known as “Stella Maris” because of it’s proximity to the Nile and the spectacular view that it offered. The house had been built in the 1800’s. It had five stories, only two of which were used by Yacouta, whose suite consisted of the first floor with two guest suites above and a small villa outside used by Ahmed. The three remaining floors, she explained to Emily on the way home, were leased out to employees of the British Embassy which itself was in what she called the nouveau Garden City. The vast Garden City complex was actually a maze inside a hexagon. The properties were stylish and elitist, the most predominant owners being the Vatican and the American and British Embassies. It was not only luxurious and attractive but the center of international politics in Egypt. Yacouta and her late French husband Jean-Paul D’Aboville had been the ultimate society couple, both rich and influential. Since her husband’s death, Yacouta had become the hostess who was the unofficial go-between from one embassy to another. Her home was neutral territory, fun and well placed. Everyone congregated there knowing that they were safe from prying eyes.
Emily was used to comfort, but she had seen nothing to compare with opulence of this scale. The majestic black cast iron gate opened to a lush garden filled with olive and citrus trees and a rose garden filled with every variation of color from cream, yellow and orange to vivid crimson. Colors that would look totally out of place in her parent’s very English garden blossomed vividly here and their perfume, rich and sultry was magnificent. A huge mango tree stood beneath the white second floor balcony.
“They are your rooms above the mango tree, Emily. Your father planted that when he was a boy. It’s over fifty years old.” A white chaise lounge sat on the balcony beside urns filled with more orange climbing roses, this time with purple clematis intertwined. This was paradise, thought Emily, feeling good to be alive.
“We are, my child, expecting another guest in a few days. I was called by the British Ambassador and a linguist named Wilfred de Crecy is on his way here. He will be working on some sort of archeological translation program in conjunction with the Vatican and the Embassy. Strange, yes? I mean Emily, what could the Vatican and the British have in common that they need a professional translator?”
“Who is he? He must be a big shot, Aunty, with a name like de Crecy. They’re an old family. I went to school with someone named Marianne de Crecy, and her family came over with William the Conqueror.
“Mais oui, I have heard of them. I don’t know why he is here but they did ask if I could let him have a suite at the house for a few months or at least until the project is complete. I thought it might be nice for you to have someone your own age here and so I agreed.”
Ahmed had readied her rooms and signaled for her to inspect them. Emily was enchanted. The rooms were large and spacious with a steady stream of sunlight. They were filled with French provincial furniture. The bed however was large and brass with a white spiral of maize material around it. It was perfect, with cream colored Egyptian cotton bed linen with broderie anglais around the hem. The room seemed to be completely filled with sunlight complementing everything inside of it. Oh yes, Emily said to herself, this was the right place to be.
She decided to rest for a few hours before joining her aunt for dinner. Ahmed had given instructions for the cook to prepare the finest Egyptian and Mediterranean foods. And so it was that Emily, momentarily forgetting why she had come to Egypt in the first place, spent her first night in the pleasant company of the aunt who adored her. Peacefully sitting on the terrace of her aunt’s beautiful house, she watched the sun set over the River Nile for the first time in her adult life. They feasted on kobeiba, a dish made from cracked wheat mixed with beef, dolmas which in Egyptian were called wrak ‘enab, and sambusaks, a pastry filled with several cheeses, together with rich, thick coffee in tiny demitasse cups and a glass of luscious merlot that her aunt insisted was both good for Emily’s heart and would not harm her child. When the meal was finished, Yacouta greatly surprised Emily by asking her to turn over her empty coffee cup and to drain the liquid, leaving only the muddy grinds behind. She would, Yacouta told Emily, interpret the patterns and symbols.
“When I was a child, your grandmother did this all the time. She was known as a woman of great wisdom. All sorts of people, even very rich ones came to her for herbal medicine when they were sick and advice when they were troubled. We all have the gift; it is passed from generation to generation.”
Following her aunt’s instructions, she swished the ground coffee remains around and turned the cup over into the saucer. Her aunt picked it up and began to speak. “There is travel, always travel, and great danger ahead. There are two children, a boy and a girl. Three men are always in your life. Two are dark and one is fair. You will marry several times I fear. There is a change of heart and a journey, crossing an ocean far from your home to a place where you will live out your life. You are truly blessed. Your children will be scattered all over the world. Use this gift and let it serve you.”
“Oh Christ, Aunt Jack” Emily said using the Anglicised short form of her Aunt’s Arabic name, “That’s bloody great, that is! One man is bad enough, and as for a pre-cognitive ability, the whole bloody family is like that. My parents finish off my sentences; my dad looks at me and always knows what I’m thinking. So what else is new? Tell me about the three men, that sounds really interesting.”
“No my child, that is enough. It is not good to know everything, as it denies us our choices. Let’s take a walk around the gardens and admire my new roses. It is I believe far safer.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Several days passed before Emily received word from England. Mrs. Offlands rang her with news that the person sought in the murder of Sammi Farouq was someone of East Indian or Arabic descent, according to the description that had appeared on television. The newspapers, she said, seemed to be playing it down considerably, which was odd as there simply weren’t many murders occurring in Britain and as a result such crimes usually received full public attention.
Stranger still, Emily thought, was that Sammi Farouq’s murder made the “Daily Telegraph’s” overseas edition as well as “The Cairo Times”. The story was then picked up by “The Al-Ahram”, a daily newspaper published in Arabic. As Emily read the Egyptian edition, she noticed that Sammi’s death was viewed as a murder-robbery because of the position of the body and some unidentified missing items. The situation of the body was described in grisly detail. Emily had been outside and while she had not seen the body she had heard the comments of the people who found him, and they said he had not, despite what the newspapers implied been stabbed repeatedly. Nor had there been any mention of a struggle or missing items from either the store or the rooms above. The Al-Ahram article inferred Sammi had been murdered by Mossad because he was a wealthy Arab businessman with connections and Emily pondered this. Why, she had wondered to herself, would anyone kill Sammi? He had seemed harmless enough, but there were rumors that he was involved in underground politics, particularly those of the Middle East and the political climate was never good for Arabs in England, particularly after the 1967 war against Israel. She remembered the sniggering that had gone on in upscale pubs during that period, particularly from people in the legal profession over the capture of the entire Egyptian Third Army by a small group of Israelis. No surprise, she mused, as most in the English legal profession were Jewish anyway. She recalled being disappointed in their bigotry and their pro-Israel stance but Emily had observed that the separation of support and its direction seemed based on their level of income. The wealthy supported Israel while the working class seemed pro-Arab. Her father, she remembered, had felt the support for Israel was solely because the British didn’t want another Jewish Diaspora, particularly with them on the receiving end.
What, Emily pondered, if Sammi had really been killed by Mossad? Mossad, or “The Institute” as it translated to in H
ebrew, always settled scores. It was an agency which was formed in 1951 by David ben Gurion, who later became the Israeli Prime Minister and its directive was simple, “For our state, which since its creation has been under siege by its enemies, intelligence,” ben Gurion had said, “constitutes the first line of defense and we must learn well how to recognize what is going on around us.” It focused on intelligence collection, covert action, and terrorism or in their terms, counter-terrorism. For Arab nationals worldwide and the organizations they represented or supported, Mossad was a threat which spread like a cancer, particularly as the agency was also responsible for monitoring the movement, preferably covertly, of Jewish refugees in any area of danger. Their goals as always were the protection and defense of Israel and the survival of “God’s chosen people”, regardless of where they may be.
During dinner that evening Emily queried Aunt Jack about Mossad and what she’d heard on the lunch circuit. Egyptian women, like their Hebrew counterparts were politically active but were not as subservient as many of their Islamic sisters in the Middle East. Cairo’s fashionable and elitist circles were led by a politically astute group of women highly regarded because they made good hostesses for their Egyptian businessmen husbands, who valued political connection. To be part of that particular inner sanctum was an intelligence analyst’s dream.
“What do you want to know about Mossad, other than more reasons to stay out of their way? They’re active everywhere outside of Israel. They have to be, or there would be no Israel. If you want first hand experience, come with me this evening to a cocktail party at the British Embassy. I will guarantee you it will be crawling with Israeli provocateurs.”
Emily accepted Yacouta D’Aboville’s invitation, more out of boredom that anything else. At her aunt’s insistence she donned an intricately embroidered black kaftan with onyx jewelry and “picked” out her hair in the style of the Afro-American revolutionaries of the day. She rejoiced in her own rebelliousness. Conversely, Aunt Yacouta, wearing a singular “little black dress” and the standard string of pearls commented that her niece bore a strong resemblance to the American comic Harpo Marx, of whom she was particularly fond.
Emily’s retaliatory banter was not wasted on her aunt, who always gave back what she received. There was no doubt that there was much affection between them. Apart from the difference in skin tone and hair color they could pass for mother and daughter. Both were intelligent, practical, totally fearless and more than ready to set the night on fire when they got into the Benz driven by Ahmed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The British Embassy unofficially housed the “Cairo station” of the government’s intelligence service. It was located on the fashionable Ahmed Rahgeb Street and supported the interests of British intelligence as well as security for British companies working in Egypt while promoting trade and investments in both directions. It was also the cultural center point of the ten thousand or so British subjects living in Egypt, as well as the covert refuge for those located in other Middle Eastern countries without the protection of the British Ambassador. From time to time they mediated for the United States Embassy located not too far away, sharing information it deemed of interest to their transatlantic cousins. Under the category of politics the Embassy worked with Egyptian authorities to promote regional peace and stability and to encourage social reform. In short, the British Embassy with the full knowledge that each action was carefully scrutinized by Israel’s Central Institute for Coordination and the Central Institute for Intelligence and Security otherwise known as Mossad kept doing what it did best.
While Her Majesty’s Government managed an effective program of defense in cooperation with her Egyptian government counterparts it maintained, rather as an afterthought, a subtle relationship with what was widely held as the most proficient intelligence organization in the world,Mossad, now under the carefully scrutiny of the woman known as “Aunty Goldie”. Prime Minister Golda Meir, who succeeded the late Levi Eshkol earlier that year was born in Kiev in economic hardship, emigrated with her family to Milwaukee, faced prejudice all her life and fought, scratched and clawed her way to her promised land. She was fiercely devoted to her people and their land. Golda Meir would stop at nothing to defend Israel from enemies within and outside its borders and it was duly noted by all who knew her that she was no great fan of the British.
Both sides however, were completely aware that Mrs. Meir was the both the Bouddica and Judith of her time and no one knew this better than her close friend and frequent confidante Mme. Yacouta D’Aboville. When information was to be passed to Prime Minister Meir outside of normal channels, Madame D’Aboville was contacted. The two women, while completely dissimilar in manner and dress were both of the opinion that their countries must coexist and respect each other’s boundaries culturally and geographically. The pair would often joke about Israel being the only place in the Middle East without oil but when their moods became more serious they would discuss their mutual commitment to bringing about a safe and productive existence for all who lived there. Mrs. Meir and Mme. D’Aboville had little tolerance for waste and had met years earlier while working together on agricultural and urban planning programs between Israel and Africa. Yacouta, unlike many of her peers truly believed that The State of Israel had an undisputed right to exist but she believed that it was only with appropriate leadership that Israel could survive. Israel’s new Prime Minister had always reminded Yacouta of an old lioness, battle scarred, yet ready to fight again to feed and protect her young. In Yacouta D’Aboville’s estimation, Golda Meir was an exceptional leader, but above all she was a woman capable of great passion and feeling, making her an adversary of great worth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Churchill Room proved to be a most intimate setting for an embassy cocktail party. The walls were covered in gold brocade, concealing hidden cameras and microphones. The furniture consisted of comfortable overstuffed couches and chairs of velvet in varied shades of rich plum and gold, tufted in deepest green. Hanging on the wall was a massive portrait of Britain’s most revered statesman in his latter years resplendent in velvet and ermine, staring down at the small group of guests from above the ornate gilded fireplace. Winston Spencer Churchill in his infinite wisdom would no doubt have given his full approval of the up to the minute surveillance equipment strategically placed literally and without apology within its sturdy frame.
Drinks were served by members of the embassy catering staff, decked in their maroon and black uniforms. Trays of hors d’ouvres were offered to the thirty or so guests. Ornately carved oak tables held platters of imported Scottish poached salmon, ginger prawns in lime juice, tiny portions of skewered chicken with pineapples and cherries, mini lamb kebabs, dates wrapped in bacon, and lamb stuffed cucumber cups, all ready to be passed around to guests who would try to maintain sufficient decorum not to devour them immediately on sight.
Accepting a small sherry, Emily mingled with the various groups around the room after her aunt was collared by the Regional Attaché and ushered discretely from the room. “Business as usual,” she muttered to herself before settling in to a large Georgian chair. An attractive dark haired young man holding two cocktail plates full of canapés and assorted hors d’ouvres, which he placed on the table beside her, sat down in the chair next to Emily.
“Now if you would just guard these with your life before this crowd scoffs the lot, I’ll get some refills on this lovely tawny and we can get acquainted.”
In a few minutes he returned with the sherry and introduced himself as Wils de Crecy. “I’m doing some research on the Nag Hammadi Scrolls,” he began.
“Yes, I am familiar with the Nag Hammadi find. How absolutely fascinating,” she replied, genuinely interested in the Gnostic codices that had caused such furor in theological circles since their discovery in the forties. “Are you an archeologist or theologian?”
“Neither, actually. I’m a linguist and a translator, but I’m somewhat of an expert
in Aramaic and ancient Greek and I’ve been asked to review a small part work of the work. Rather clandestinely, so I’m told.”
“It’s incredible that they survived thousands of years in an urn and narrowly escaped being put on a fire to keep someone warm. It’s bloody amazing that they survived at all. More than amazing, it’s a miracle. I can’t wait until the codices are published. I’ve read a lot about them. In fact, it’s one of my favorite subjects. I considered Archeology as a career but I settled for Art History and Antiquities. I also have bit of a a flair for languages, I suppose, though my best skills are truly purist research and analysis. I mean the old digging through records stuff, not just data processing. After my baby is born I’m going to change my field of expertise completely. Sorry,” she said, stretching out her hand, “I’m Emily Desai Ansari. That’s my Aunt Yacouta D’Aboville over there.”
“Oh wait a minute, aren’t you related to Ibrahim Desai of Desai Fine Arts and Antiques in Chester?”
“Yes, I’m his daughter”
“Good grief. What a coincidence! My parents use him all the time. We have country house in Shropshire and all the period pieces there were found by your mother I believe. She’s a Davenport, isn’t she?”
“Yes, that’s right. They met here when my grandfather was assigned to the Embassy.”
“Bit of a bore isn’t it, this family thing? Very closed circles, older British families, don’t you think? Need’s new blood from time to time.”
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