by Jo Chumas
I feel I can talk to him. I ask him to sit down at the table. I move the water jug and sit on the bed near him. He puts his briefcase on the table and extracts a folder.
He searches for something in the folder, smiling at me occasionally as he shuffles through his papers.
“I want you to tell me exactly what happened,” he says.
I flinch when he says this. How can I tell him what happened? I can hardly even bear to think of it myself.
He watches me for a moment, as though he wants to see through my veil to the face behind it, the real me, then he sits back and says kindly, “You had been married a long time?”
“Six years,” I tell him.
“You have no children?”
“I had a son, but he died at birth. A little boy I called Ibrahim.”
Mustafa Tora nods and writes this down.
“Did your husband ever threaten you?” he asks.
I nod. A cold ache washes over me. It is the ache of misery and regret—regret that I was ever born a girl.
“Did he beat you?”
“Yes, often when we were first married. Then after my son died, he abandoned me for four years. After that time, he demanded that I go back to live with him, but I was allowed to stay in my home because I was considered mentally unwell. Eventually he threatened me with Bait al-Taa.”
“And you were sent to live with him recently, is that correct?”
“Yes, I went to live with him at his palace in Minya.”
“Did he ever force you to have sexual intercourse with him?”
I feel tears burning my eyes. “Of course, but the courts don’t care about that. That is not illegal. It is a man’s right to do as he pleases.”
Mustafa Tora shakes his head. “I know, but I want to make a case that your husband, al-Shezira, was a violent man and had a history of violence and that he did not treat his other wives in the same way. I am an expert in Qur’anic law, in the Sharias. I believe there are a few suras on which we can draw. You were provoked. Your actions were the consequence of years of emotional and physical abuse.”
“I have not admitted to anything.”
The lawyer sits back in his chair and strokes his moustache.
“I think you should know that it would be in your best interest to admit to the murder, Sayyida. The qadi has informed me that there is a witness, a young Minya eunuch who saw you that night with a revolver in your hand, standing over al-Shezira. The boy—who will be questioned—saw you pull the trigger and saw the bullets enter your husband’s body.”
I shake my head in horror. “No, no.”
“Where is the revolver?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
My head swims, and I begin swaying on the bed. I try to stand up, but my legs buckle underneath me. I can’t breathe. I try to walk towards the window, but I fall back against the wall. Mustafa Tora jumps up to help me. He lifts me up and helps me to the bed.
“Are you all right, Sayyida? Can I help you with anything?”
He hands me a drink of water and I press it gratefully to my lips.
“What sort of sentence do you think will be passed?” I ask him feebly.
Mustafa Tora looks at me as he takes the glass from my hand.
“Because of your condition and your status in Egyptian society, your father, and your distressed state of mind, I will try my utmost to get you a shortened sentence at a psychiatric institution.”
“You say you will try. What is the worst that could happen to me, Sayyid Tora?”
Mustafa Tora stares at the ground for a moment.
“The Sharia states that a death must be repaid by a death. But there are other factors to take into consideration. And there is always money—a large sum could grant you a reprieve. But—”
“But, Sayyid?”
Mustafa Tora looks at me directly.
“But you are a woman,” he says, “and your husband was well-known in public life. I believe that it is possible that Cairo will want to see you made an example of. Al-Shezira’s brothers-in-law are demanding the highest penalty in the land.”
The room seems to darken. The face of the man in front of me fades away. I do not say anything for a long time. God, then, has answered my prayers. I have nothing left to lose. Alexandre’s way is the only way.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Tashi felt paralysed with fear. Where were the sector men who were supposed to be masquerading as palace security personnel? Something was wrong. He waited for the new security guard to finish his telephone conversation. The security guard glanced at Tashi, then nodded. He replaced the receiver and walked back to the car. His face gave nothing away. He opened the door of the car and leaned in. The trophy with the bomb inside it lay innocently on the seat next to Tashi.
“Please proceed, Orhan Sayyid,” he said solemnly. “Sorry for the delay, but you do understand we must take every precaution. You are free to go in. Have a good evening, sir.”
Tashi nodded and discreetly swallowed back a gulp of relief, a flush of heat pulsing through him. Hamid started the engine and drove through the palace gates to the main entry. He saw Issawi’s car stopping before a platform at the foot of the stone steps leading into the palace. Men in tuxedos and women in evening gowns were walking up a red carpet towards the huge palace entrance. Guards with rifles slung over their shoulders were parading up and down near the parking area. Another stab of panic jabbed at him. There was no margin of error in this operation. The absence of the sector members at the security gates meant trouble. Issawi’s chauffeur was letting him out at the red carpet. He needed to attract Issawi’s attention, engage him in conversation, give him the trophy inside the palace’s grand entry hall, as planned, and then rejoin Hamid in the car and leave.
“Hamid,” Tashi said, “make sure the car is positioned for a quick getaway. Let me out here, and I’ll follow Issawi in.”
Hamid nodded. “I’ll pull the car around and have it facing the exit,” he said. “Here’s to the revolution, my friend. Long live Egypt!”
Tashi pulled at the lapels of his tuxedo and grabbed the trophy. His heart was hammering in his chest. He thought of his wife and his child. He said a quick prayer and opened the car door. Issawi was walking up the palace steps to the main entry, laughing, with two men and a girl in a red dress. Issawi was holding the girl’s arm. He saw that her face was etched with fear. For a split second he bitterly regretted the position of responsibility and glory Littoni had placed on him. He suddenly feared that he would never see his wife, Meryiam, and his baby girl again. What if he wasn’t able to leave the palace grounds in time? What if Littoni’s plan failed and the bomb was not detonated correctly? But he was prepared to die for his God if he had to. That was the correct voice inside him talking. He would not die a coward. He was not a child. He was a grown man, working to bring about a better future for his country. And he was prepared to pay the price.
He saw Issawi pulling at his bow tie in exasperation, talking to one of his men, one hand possessively on the beautiful, slender, dark-haired girl. Two heavy-looking youths, obviously bodyguards, stood on either side of Issawi and the girl. Tashi slid his hand in his pocket and fingered the tiny handgun hidden there. He looked back and saw that Hamid had positioned their Daimler strategically for a smooth exit. Tashi moved forward up the steps, trophy in hand. The trophy felt heavy. The bomb had been skillfully made by a group of sector members. He had been part of this group and knew everything there was to know about these time bombs. They were small but deadly, and destruction was guaranteed. But, a seed of doubt suddenly played with Tashi’s mind, and he wondered whether Issawi would suspect anything from the weight of the trophy. But he squashed his fears. Issawi was a narcissist. This was his big night. He was to be honoured by the king of Egypt for his work, and his thoughts would be entirely focused on the great leader that he considered himself to be.
Tashi examined the scene in front of him. He followed Issawi up the palace steps and then cal
led out to him. “Issawi Pasha.”
Issawi turned around. He looked surprised, and Tashi read contempt and irritation on his face.
“Who are you?” Issawi asked angrily.
“Forgive me, sir,” Tashi said, approaching him slyly. “My name is Suleyman Orhan. I’m the newly appointed secretary to the Turkish ambassador. I’m a great admirer of yours, sir. We met a few weeks ago at a dinner in Alexandria. I knew I was going to see you tonight, and I wanted to give you this small token of my estimation. I am a partner in the Alexandria trans-Mediterranean packing consortium, the joint venture you have invested in.”
Issawi sized him up suspiciously. “Sir, this is neither the time nor the place,” he said. “The king is waiting.”
Tashi eyed him hatefully. He looked searchingly into his eyes, watching for a sign of recognition. Tashi’s heart pounded in his throat, but he felt euphoric.
“Issawi Pasha,” Tashi replied. “I have a gift for you. I had my assistant choose it specially for you. It’s made of gold, you see, and has both our names on it. It’s a gesture of thanks. We are going to be partners and are going to make a lot of money together.”
Tashi pushed the trophy against Issawi’s torso and the man clutched at it frowning. Tashi saw him look down at the trophy disdainfully, fingering it. He flashed a look at the girl next to him, then at Tashi, and then at the trophy. The sectors, Tashi thought desperately, they must have activated the detonator by now.
Issawi weighed the trophy in his fat hand and laughed. He held it and admired it and continued to laugh. “I do not accept gifts from secretaries of ambassadors,” Issawi said, slamming the trophy back against Tashi’s chest. He turned to walk away, grabbing the girl by the arm as he went.
Tashi was holding the trophy now. He froze, his eyes wide, knowing the seconds were counting down and the timer must have been activated. The bastard had humiliated him, had dared to walk away, dared to treat him as though he were nothing. He would show him. The Group of the X would destroy him. At that moment Tashi wanted to kill him with a single gunshot to the head, but he held the trophy with both hands and called out to him.
“You want the Group of the X, Issawi Pasha?”
Issawi swung round on his heels. “What did you say?”
“I can give you all the information you need. I’ve come here to warn you not to enter the palace tonight.”
“Just who are you, sir?” he asked. “What do you know?”
Tashi had only minutes. “I came here to give you this gift, Issawi Pasha,” he said. “You chose not to accept it. That was not wise.”
Tashi saw Issawi swallow nervously. The seconds ticked by.
“What do you know about this Group?” he said.
“I know everything there is to know. I know that you should not go into the palace tonight.”
Issawi stood rigid. Tashi could see black fear in his eyes. He felt victorious.
“Tell me what you know, Sayyid,” Issawi shouted, “or I’ll have you arrested on the spot.”
Tashi slipped his hand in his pocket and pulled out his gun.
“That would not be a good idea, Issawi Pasha. You and your bodyguards and this pretty Sayyida are perfect target practice for my men,” Tashi said. “Move one inch and my men will fire.”
“Who are your men? Damn you!” Issawi shouted, holding back his heavies.
“Sectors five through ten,” Tashi said.
“The X.” Issawi choked, reaching into his own pocket for his revolver.
Tashi dropped the trophy and backed down the steps, pointing his gun at Issawi’s face. He backed up towards the waiting Daimler and got in.
“Open fire,” Issawi screamed to the security guards.
A storm of bullets hailed down on Hamid and Tashi’s car as Hamid screeched up to the security gate, smashing into the white Ford blocking the way.
The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,
Cairo, October 1919
Tonight Alexandre and his men will come for me, God willing, but right now I am dressing for court. I smooth my short hair behind my eyes and adjust my beloved journal under my robes. I make sure it is flush against my stomach in its secret little pouch.
I put on my overdress, then my floor-length chador, and I wait to be called. A moment later, the door opens and the guards enter, escorting me down the stairs to the carriage that is waiting outside to take me to the courthouse.
Please God, let me hear news of Virginie. I am sure my lawyer, Mustafa Tora, will be able to tell me something. When I arrive at the courthouse, I am confronted by a sea of faces standing on the steps. Soldiers are pushing people back, forming a corridor for me to walk through. I suddenly feel very afraid, but I decide that I must not let myself be crushed by fear. I must walk tall, for my papa, for Rachid, for Alexandre, for Virginie, for myself and my child.
A hush descends on the crowd as I get out of the carriage. The heat is unbearable, and I am perspiring in my chador. The men gape as I am escorted up the steps to the main entrance.
One by one they start hurling abuse at me until the noise rises to a cacophony, like a swarm of bees ready to sting. Take no notice, I repeat to myself, over and over, hardening myself to what is to come.
I walk into the courtroom. There are almost as many men seated there. I go over to a stand and look at the qadi. He introduces himself to me. I do not hear his name because I have started to shake with apprehension. After taking my oath, I am told to sit in the chair provided for me, which is permitted since I have a child in my belly. I sit down on it.
The qadi runs through a seemingly endless list of questions that warrant a simple “yes” answer. Then he says, “You are the only daughter of the marriage of Ali Sultan Pasha to Zehra, his concubine, are you not?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“But you have a brother. Tell us his name and where he is at the moment.”
“His name is Omar Sultan, and he is studying at Oxford University in England.”
“You were married when you were eleven years old,” he says, knowing perfectly well that I was.
“Yes.”
“How did you feel about your parents’ choice of husband?”
“I am a loyal daughter. I had no feeling whatsoever.”
“Is it true that you started to hate your husband, from the moment you were married to him?”
I fall silent. There is no way to answer that question, except honestly. “My husband hated me. I was the thorn in his side.”
“You did not answer my question,” he says. “Did you hate your husband?”
I hesitate, then eventually I say, “Yes, yes I did.”
The hush in the courtroom is broken. The crowd murmurs its disgust.
“Enough to murder him?”
The crowd holds its breath. I hesitate, then say, “My husband was an evil man. I was beaten and raped by him.”
The qadi smiles mockingly. “So, I repeat, you felt strongly enough about your husband to take his life,” he says.
I hesitate, perspiring hot and cold beneath my chador. The courtroom is deathly still.
“It is a simple yes or no answer,” the qadi says.
“Yes,” I say.
The crowd roars with victory. The qadi silences them. Mustafa Tora gets up and walks towards him. The qadi gives him a stern look. Mustafa Tora plucks a Qur’an from his briefcase and opens it. As he reads the suras, I stare at the qadi, my heart beating so hard I feel I am being trampled to death by wild horses. I have neither the strength nor the courage to face this. The qadi will find me guilty. I have no doubt that Mustafa Tora will not be able to convince him otherwise.
I must preserve my strength for tonight. Alexandre and his men will come for me. I have to believe this, and then I will be free. But I am too choked up to stop myself from passing out, to stop the room from fading away to black.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Hidden in a haret off Sharia Abdin, Farouk had seen Issawi’s Daimler pull up. Wa
tching in horror, he’d seen Aimee, dressed in her floor-sweeping crimson, being manhandled by Issawi and his cronies as she got out of the car, her face ashen with fear.
He wanted to blow Issawi’s brains out, but he was too far away. He would have to get closer. His body trembled so violently that he could hardly hold his binoculars still. The pain in his chest rode him like a demon. He spat out short breaths, trying to regain control of himself. The bomb would be on the shortest possible detonation time, and, with so many VIPs milling in front of the palace and the king on his way from the grand hall to meet them, the scene would, at any moment, become one of mass human destruction. Aimee had so little time left.
Breathlessly studying the scene unfolding in front of him, he knew Tashi’s game. Keep Issawi preoccupied while the seconds ticked away. He had to act quickly, get Aimee away from there. He didn’t care what happened to him anymore. He was finished—deep down he knew that—but he had to save the girl.
He ran through the crowds, got in his car, and floored it up Sharia Abdin, screeching to a stop just as Tashi and Hamid tried to exit the gates.
He jumped out of the car, clutching his gun in both hands, and pointed it at Hamid and Tashi, then at Issawi and his bodyguards.
“There’s a bomb,” he yelled at the top of his voice.
The crowds started screaming. Farouk fired some shots in the air.
“Stop!” he yelled. “I know where the bomb is.”
The crowds halted and listened. A woman began sobbing nearby, and the men’s faces were contorted as the government elite was rendered powerless. Issawi’s enormous body spasmed and his face caved in, in horror. The security guards at the gate stood stonily still, waiting for what was going to happen next. The armed guards who’d been patrolling the area raised their rifles, ready to shoot. His eyes strained to take it all in, and perspiration ran down his face, soaking his clothes.
“No!” he screamed at the guards. “Don’t shoot. I’m the only one who knows where the bomb is. If you shoot me, you’re all lost. It’s powerful. It will kill us all.”