The Hidden

by Jo Chumas

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  In a secret, darkened room, at the back of the Sultan Hassan Mosque, lit by a single desk lamp, the HQ chiefs of Security Operations, Hilali and Gamal, sat hunched over a pile of telegrams. Their most skilled code-cracker, a young Oxford graduate, James Lambert, sat with them.

  Gamal spoke first.

  “There are three here that have been sent from a kilim shop in Bab al-Luq to the Café Malta in Garden City on three consecutive days,” he said. “We’re looking for a synchronicity, evidence of a plan, a link that spells out the X’s next move.”

  Lambert held a magnifying glass up to his eyes and ran it back and forth over each telegram. While he examined them, Gamal said authoritatively, “Have the Café Malta telephone tapped straight away, Lambert.”

  Hilali pointed at the words on the telegram and said, “Can you see the symmetry between the dates?”

  Lambert bit his lip. “Carpet order processed. Consignment due in four days. Esteemed thanks sent.”

  Gamal leaned over him and read. “Carpet order shipment problems. New order required. Delays expected. Esteemed thanks sent.”

  Hilali pointed at the third. “Carpet order problems rectified. On target. Esteemed thanks sent.”

  The three men stared at one another.

  “The Carpet Seller,” Lambert said, his hand outstretched. “The dossier, please, Gamal.”

  Gamal flicked through a pile of cream-coloured folders and dug one out. He opened it and pulled out the contents. It contained newspaper clippings, reports, and fake rubber-stamped identity cards but no photographs.

  “Carpet Seller. Code name Thunderbolt, code name Centurion, code name Smith: a man of many disguises and hundreds of aliases. But we don’t know what he looks like. No one has ever managed to take a photograph of him.”

  Lambert took off his horn-rimmed glasses, blew on the lenses, retrieved a handkerchief, and wiped them clean. “I’m sure Centurion is probably the code name of three different ringleaders,” he said. “They use the same name to confuse us.”

  Hilali picked up the telephone and dialled a number. “I’ll send a message to Ringwood at HQ,” Hilali said. “We have something for him. Tell him to prepare the troops. I think we finally have something we can work on.”

  “The Café Malta is a popular hangout with soldiers, isn’t it?” Gamal said.

  “We’ve been watching that place for weeks and seen nothing at all,” Lambert said. “It all makes sense. The X move around a lot. They are deliberately evasive. This is the first coding consistency—the use of three linked words—we have seen in a long time. When Lambert here cracks this code, we’ll see we were right.”

  Gamal stood up and started pacing around the room. “We don’t have long, Hilali,” he said. “We should put Operation X into action right now.”

  “Relax,” Hilali smiled. “We have to have a strategy. Lambert’s report will tell us what we need to know and enable us to target our efforts more intelligently. Then we can draw our networks together. I want Operation X to start at eighteen hundred hours on the night of the celebrations at the palace. If we bide our time, we can round up most of them before there’s any real chance of trouble.”

  “You’re quite confident, aren’t you,” Lambert said.

  Gamal checked his watch. “There’s a weakness in the chain. Lambert has discovered it. They’re slipping up, using their code too casually, and this proves they’re not invincible. Their stomping ground is the Muski district. All Intelligence reports point to the Café Malta being one of the X’s headquarters. It makes the most sense to start there. In the Muski they can recruit more sector members.”

  “We don’t want to alarm any civilians,” Gamal said. “That’s why we must be careful, do our work invisibly. Tell headquarters to send in their plainclothes men to scour the Muski district. Lambert had resumed his work on the telegrams. “Ah,” Lambert said excitedly. Hilali and Gamal abruptly stopped talking and looked over his shoulder.

  “Yes. Yes. I was right all along.”

  “Well?” the two other men asked impatiently. “What is it?”

  Lambert didn’t answer. He kept referring back to his codebook, smiling. He did this for more than five minutes while the two others waited.

  “There’s a date here.”

  “Well?” Hilali shouted.

  “If I’m right, we’re…” Lambert took a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair. Each telegram had been placed side by side. His eyes darted euphorically from one telegram to the other.

  “What, man?” Gamal was getting impatient.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” he gasped. “This is sophisticated, this one. They’ve made these telegrams look so damn innocent, but wait a minute—” Lambert sucked in a breath and screwed up his eyes.

  “We’re not out of the woods yet. Every letter has been triple-coded. This will take longer than I thought, but I think we’ve broken through. I think—”

  The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

  Cairo, August 23, 1919

  Picture the scene. I wait for the depths of the night to come. I sit here alone in my room on my favourite gold cushions, waiting for Tindoui to fetch me in secret and take me to the stables. I am concealed behind the mashrabiyya in a little alcove. Then I lie down on the floor, on my cushions, my face pressed into the silky fabric. I breathe hard, trying to steady myself. It is very dark, very hot. I am writing by the light of a little candle. The harem is asleep, and I am trembling with excitement. I can hardly hold my pens, and I am sure I will smudge the ink. I want to summon Anisah, to get me a drink of sherbet to calm me, but I am scared to move towards the bell rope. I feel there is someone watching me, someone lurking in the shadows.

  I want to get out into the air while I wait for Tindoui to come and get me. Perhaps I should sit on the balcony for a while, but I mustn’t do so for too long because it isn’t proper to be seen out on the balcony in the depths of the night. I swear I will die from this heat. There is no air. I can see Uluk asleep in the old rattan chair in the garden. Little patches of perspiration on his forehead are glimmering in the moonlight. His tunic is stretched tight around his fat waist. He looks so uncomfortable. It has been said that he doesn’t feel safe with Papa away. This is why he sleeps in the garden. He is nervous about the Nationalist rioting in the streets, and he wants to be able to call the servants to order quickly if needed.

  My hair is wet. It feels sticky and tangled. Anisah prepared my hair when I went to bed, tying it in a thick roll with calico ribbons, but now it is coming loose and feels hot around my neck. Little streams of perspiration trickle down my back.

  Perhaps I have Maman’s infection. Perhaps this is further punishment. I am afraid. The evil jinn is here to claim me. The jinn reads your thoughts. The jinn knows of the shame and longing in my heart. At last, I can hear heavy footsteps outside my rooms and Tindoui quietly opens the door.

  “Here you are,” he says. He carries a thick, dark cloak and hidden within its folds, a rough soldier’s uniform. In the other hand, he carries a tall yellow candle.

  He puts the candle on one of the small tables and looks at me.

  “I am afraid for you, Hezba,” he says. “You are taking too many risks. I shall never forgive myself if something happens to you.”

  “I will be fine,” I say.

  “Don’t fool yourself, Hezba. If you are found out, you will be sent away forever. You are close to being found out. I am just warning you.”

  “Look at the streets,” I say. “They are full of foreigners, women, young girls my age, living their lives while we are caged like little golden birds. I must go to him.”

  “But Hezba,” he says softly, “your husband is your master, not this man, Monsieur Alexandre.”

  “No man is my master,” I say. “You least of all. You are my servant. You speak too freely.”

  Tindoui stares at me with his wide, black eyes. He is trying to distract me from what I am about to do. />
  “Take me to the stables immediately,” I say.

  He bows, but his eyes quiver with concern.

  I change quickly, and we creep quietly through the harem and out to the stables. I breathe in the night air, trying hard not to think about what I am doing. The night guard is asleep and we creep slowly past him. My heart beats so loudly, I think I am going to faint. My narrow slippers do not give me good protection against the hard stones in the courtyard leading to the stables at the back of the palace.

  “Mustafa, find me some boots, before we mount, will you,” I order one of the palace’s horsemen. He appears with a pair that looks suitable for the ride into the desert. I put on the boots and throw on the thick cloak to hide my gear. I suddenly feel ready for anything. My hair is plaited in a single braid down my back. I put on the peaked cap and pull it down over my eyes, straightening myself against the rough uniform chafing my skin. I feel every inch the Australian lieutenant, and with thick boots and a rough satchel attached to my horse, I am transformed—no longer an Egyptian. I am a man, free at last.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  While Aimee was at the el-G, one of Littoni’s head sector men, Mohommad al-Dyn, was staking out Issawi’s club, the Oxford. He loved his job, loved acting the part of waiter. It had been his secret desire as a young boy to work on the stage, but his parents had disapproved. No matter, he thought sinisterly, he had become an actor of sorts anyway, working for the X, playing whatever part was assigned to him by the Group of the X. Tonight, Issawi was scheduled to make his first appearance at the Oxford since his widely reported return from meetings in Luxor.

  Al-Dyn’s job as a waiter at the club gave him access to a great deal of information. He was on good terms with the doorman, Hagar, who had told him excitedly the night before that Haran Issawi was back. His eyes had glittered hopefully as he delivered the news.

  “We’re in for some big baksheesh. The pasha loves to throw his money around. He can’t have the faintest idea of what anything’s worth. He just spends and spends and spends. I know the government gives him a blank cheque and he certainly uses his position to maximum advantage. If I were that rich and powerful—well, it’s good for us, is it not?”

  Al-Dyn had smiled passively at this. The doormen at the Oxford ingratiated themselves with their clients, as they relied on big tips to support their families. His job as waiter, however, was as far down the scale as one could go, right next to the kitchen hands. He stood to gain little from Issawi’s generosity as a big tipper, but he didn’t care—it wasn’t Issawi’s money he was interested in. The X looked after him in that respect. Their coffers—it was rumoured—were kept full by wealthy sponsors and supporters.

  Tonight al-Dyn was in a good mood. With Issawi due any moment, he felt in control, on top of things, and useful to the X’s cause. It felt wildly exciting to be at the forefront of the mission, and he enjoyed working at the gentleman’s club. Located on Gezira Island, the Oxford was a far less stuffy and sultry environment than the cloistered confines of the old city.

  A deliciously cool Nile breeze fanned the faces of the men as they stepped out of their cars. Inside the club, al-Dyn stood by his group of tables in the large dining room, ready to take orders. His mind was racing. He had casually asked the doorman what time Issawi was expected.

  “I like to see the big grin on your face, Hagar,” al-Dyn said. “It makes me happy to see you smile like that.”

  Hagar had thumped al-Dyn affectionately on the back, and, peering at the large leather diary on the reception desk, told him, “Nine o’clock, my friend. I’ll be richer and happier.” Then he’d pressed his finger to his mouth, emitting a soft chuckle, as though a thought had flashed through his mind. Al-Dyn wondered if Hagar was already planning what he was going to spend his tips on.

  “Will we be seeing much of our rich friend?” Al-Dyn went on, “Because if we do, I can expect you, Hagar, to be permanently rich and permanently happy.”

  Hagar cocked his head knowingly.

  “He’s missed us. He’s been very busy. The life of a chief advisor is all work and no play. He’s asked us to reserve a table for him every second night for the next two weeks. After that, we can expect to be poor again, because my dear rich friend has to leave Cairo on more political business.”

  “But at least we have him now.” Al-Dyn smiled, congratulating himself inwardly on his ability to put Hagar at his ease. It was so easy to fool these gullible, greedy imbeciles.

  At nine o’clock to the minute, a sleek chauffeur-driven Daimler drew up. Hagar opened the door and bowed at Issawi, who stepped out accompanied by two security men.

  Al-Dyn spotted him from the far side of the dining room—his great bulk, dressed in dinner jacket and black tie, waddling his way towards his table.

  His heart pumped wildly. He studied Issawi’s face and demeanour, trying to assess his mood. Littoni would want to know everything. The headwaiter showed Issawi to his seat, then unfolded a starched napkin and draped it over his lap. He snapped his fingers in al-Dyn’s direction. Perfect, al-Dyn thought. He longed for a close-up of the X’s latest project.

  He moved forward to take his order.

  “Sir?” he said with a servile smile. “A drink?”

  Al-Dyn sneered secretly at Issawi’s bloodshot eyes, his huge jowls gathering pools of perspiration, his pregnant belly, which wobbled as he wheezed.

  “A whisky,” Issawi spat huskily without even looking up. “No, make that a double.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Al-Dyn placed the order and returned with the drink.

  Another man had joined him, someone younger, his junior assistant perhaps? His two security guards sat at a table nearby. As he walked towards him to place the whisky on the table, the young man spoke.

  “I think you’ll approve of the speech, sir,” he said. “I am still waiting for the latest figures to come in, but the gist of it leaves no doubt that you were completely blameless in all this. I have written it to absolve you of any involvement, and I am prepared to take responsibility for the mistake myself, sir.”

  “You certainly will,” Issawi snorted, raising his eyes to the ceiling. Then, seeing al-Dyn approaching, he put his hand on the young man’s arm to silence him.

  “A drink, sir?” al-Dyn asked the younger man.

  “Another double whisky,” Issawi answered for him. “Leave us alone for ten minutes. You’ll be called when we are ready to order our food.”

  Al-Dyn went to stand by his station and began polishing cutlery, flashing quick looks at the two men from time to time. If he moved closer, he was sure he’d be able to overhear their conversation. Strangely, the dining room wasn’t that crowded, although he expected a big crowd later. During the summer months, people dined late at the club. Al-Dyn took a tray of silver goblets, cutlery, and bread plates over to a closer table and replaced one of the settings, keeping his head down as he worked.

  “I’ve ordered four more security men for you, sir,” the younger man said.

  “You were wise to do that,” Issawi said, rimming his glass with fingers. “Your job’s on the line as it is.”

  “We can never be too careful,” his assistant went on dully, without flinching.

  “No,” Issawi said with a laugh, “It’s you who can never be too careful. Do you know who I am? Do you have any idea how powerful I am, how I can crush you between my fingers and make your life a living hell. How would you support your family, eh, Salamah, once I spread the word that you are an incompetent nobody incapable of holding his own even in the most menial of government positions?”

  Salamah nodded humbly. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I’m at your service, sir.”

  Issawi drank some more whisky.

  “The men have been thoroughly checked out,” Salamah went on. “There can be no doubt as to their record. They’re clean, humble men from poor backgrounds with absolutely no links to any group or organisation.”

  “Good.”

 
“You leave for Alexandria in two weeks,” Salamah said. “Your train will have the fully armed patrol you require and will be thoroughly checked from top to bottom before you leave. I have cancelled most of your engagements for the next week, except for the king’s birthday celebrations at the palace. I think it’s wise that you changed your mind about your engagements. Hilali and Gamal have told me everything.”

  “I didn’t ask your advice,” Issawi snapped. “You want me to fire you? Remember who you are talking to, you useless idiot.”

  This time, al-Dyn saw the young secretary’s face harden in humiliated shame. He decided to move away. It would be dangerous to hover around too much. He risked one last look before he slid through the double doors to the kitchen. Issawi was throwing back the dregs of his whisky. A few moments later, al-Dyn was called back to take their order. He took the younger man’s first.

  “Very good, sir,” he said. And then he leaned subserviently towards Issawi.

  “Very good, sir,” he said once more.

  Littoni could not fault his acting tonight.

  The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

  Cairo, August 23, 1919

  I am ready to ride out to the desert. Not for the first time I thank God for my pale complexion, unblemished by sunlight. With my hair tucked under my hat, it is easy to pass as a young officer of the Australian Light Horse Brigade, out on a midnight excursion to visit the family of a new friend—an opportunity to experience true Arab hospitality, perhaps to witness a zikr, something to write home about.

  Mustafa is sedately dressed in his servant’s garb, a blue turban, and a dark cloak. As we prepare to leave, I order Tindoui to go back to the palace, but he refuses to leave. He stands to one side, looking sullen and anxious.