by Juliana Maio
Mickey took him by the arm and sat him down. He kept quiet, waiting for Kirk to find the strength to go on.
“She was getting ready for Saturday night’s ball. She’d laid out her clothes for the evening,” Kirk explained. “They found curlers scattered everywhere …” He swallowed hard and resumed. “I tried to reach her yesterday morning. She hadn’t called, and I was worried she might be sick, but I had to leave for Alexandria on a hospital tour and didn’t return until very late. I should have tried again last night.” His voice was riddled with guilt.
Mickey put a hand on Kirk’s shoulder. “It wouldn’t have done any good. She was already dead.”
“I told her she should live in a building with a doorman, but she liked this place’s charm. And the oak tree out front,” Kirk sighed. “The back door was unlocked. The killer must have opened it with a blade, that’s easy enough to do, and caught her by surprise …” His voice cracked and he fought to compose himself. “I found her tied to that chair.” He pointed to a chair tucked against the small dining room table in an alcove. “Her ankles were bound and her arms were tied behind her. Her neck was broken,” he choked.
Mickey winced, but his throat was too constricted for any words to come out.
Except for the sounds of the police photographer’s camera and some movement upstairs, the room had now fallen silent. Mickey stood up and walked around aimlessly as the reality of Dorothy’s murder fully sank in. His chest ached from the pain. He stroked the back of the chair she had sat on, trying to feel her one last time. His eye caught her gold watch on the dining table. He picked it up and recoiled—it was still ticking.
“She was tortured,” Kirk said, his voice shaky. “My poor little girl was tortured. The tips of her fingers were burned and her nails were scorched. Her face was covered with blood and bruises. She was hit hard.”
Tortured? Mickey held his head in his hands as he tried to fully digest the word in his brain. He kneeled in front of Kirk.
“What kind of information could someone have expected to get out of her?”
Kirk shook his head, more and more rapidly, his face pained as he wrestled with his thoughts. “She was privy to all kinds of top-secret information,” he muttered. He passed a heavy hand through his hair and winced as some new realization came to light. He turned to the marines. “Would you please wait outside?” he asked them.
Mickey frowned, his heart beating. He sensed that Kirk was about to reveal something important.
When the marines were gone and the Egyptian police were out of earshot, Kirk spoke softly. “Blumenthal’s new photo. You know she went to fetch it at the library. Did she give it to you?”
“No, she told me she would be bringing it to the ball,” Mickey responded, scratching his head. “Why?”
Kirk just kept looking at Mickey, his expression inscrutable, but Mickey understood that Blumenthal’s photo might have something to do with Dorothy’s death. Mickey jumped to his feet and rushed to the spot on the floor where the contents of Dorothy’s purse had been dumped. He furiously sifted through them. No photo there. He sprinted upstairs. As Kirk had said, her clothes were all laid out on her bed—dress, girdle, stockings. She’d even put aside a black lacy brassiere. Mickey surveyed the bedroom. There, on the dresser, was a beaded, golden clutch.
“La-eh. No,” one of the policemen stepped in front of him, wagging a finger in his face. “No touching, sir.”
Mickey ignored him and opened the purse anyway. There wasn’t room for much. A lipstick, a miniature comb, a perfume vial, a handkerchief, and the invitation to the ball. It was obviously the bag she had intended to take to the ball.
“Ambassador,” he shouted as he charged down the stairs. “I found her evening bag. No photo.”
Kirk’s eyes widened.
“Sir, I need the truth,” Mickey demanded. “Just who is Erik Blumenthal?”
They waited while the police wrapped up their search of the house. Mickey could barely contain himself. He needed answers now. He was pacing the room, his hands in his pockets, his mind racing a mile a minute. They had not told him the whole story about the scientist. Why had Dorothy pressed him so forcefully to get off the case? And why did she want him to carry a gun?
“We’ll be back tomorrow,” the police captain told Kirk in a quiet, respectful tone.
“I’ll lock the place up when I leave,” Kirk said. “Please tell the marines to go.”
Kirk listened to the sounds of the police car and Jeep driving off before turning to Mickey. “I’ll try to answer your questions as best I can. But first things first. I need a drink.”
As he headed to the bar, Mickey spun one of the dining room chairs around and straddled the seat, waiting. The ambassador poured himself a generous glass of scotch and downed it. He refilled his glass and headed for the sofa.
“Dorothy wanted to warn you that someone else had come looking for Erik Blumenthal,” he began. “She received a call a week ago from a fellow you met at the Jewish community center, Jacques Antebie. Apparently a Westerner with an indistinct accent was also looking for our man. Dorothy went down to the community center to check for herself and learned that the man was in his early thirties and was wearing a tweed suit. He left no name or address.”
“Why didn’t she tell me?” Mickey asked.
“Ambassador Lampson alerted us that there is a master German spy operating in Cairo,” Kirk responded. “She thought this might be the guy and she wanted to take you off the case and out of harm’s way.”
“Why would the Germans want Blumenthal? I thought the Nazis rejected ‘Jew science’ and expelled their Jewish scientists from their country.”
“Perhaps what Blumenthal knows now has become of interest to them.”
“Like what?”
Kirk crossed one leg over the other and downed his drink. His eyes revealed his inner conflict about saying more.
“Please,” Mickey asked. “I’m up to my neck in this, too. I deserve to know the truth.”
“Erik Blumenthal’s research with Niels Bohr had something to do with atomic energy,” Kirk finally admitted. “In France, he had been actively working with the French team on using nuclear fission to produce a weapon, an atomic bomb of unimaginable power, equal to thousands of tons of TNT.”
“Is that really possible?” Mickey asked.
“We believe it is, and Roosevelt has given the project a green light. Enrico Fermi, our lead scientist, is going full throttle, in complete secrecy, of course. Even the English don’t know. That’s why we can’t get them involved, although this will soon change.”
“The Germans must be working on an atomic bomb, too,” Mickey deduced.
“Yes. Einstein warned Roosevelt about their potential to build such a bomb two years ago, but we didn’t know the status of their program.”
“And now you do?”
“A week ago we learned that Hitler bought all of Norway’s heavy water, one of the key components.”
The information was spinning around in Mickey’s head like a tornado. Whoever got the bomb first was going to win the war. “How far away are we?”
“Nobody knows. A year? Five years? We’re well into it.”
“Why is Blumenthal so important?”
“He wrote a paper on a new approach to nuclear fission. The paper interested Fermi, a lot. The president wants Blumenthal on our team.”
“Can another scientist from his French team continue his work?”
“Not really. None of them have Blumenthal’s expertise in this new area and would need a lot of time to catch up. Nothing has progressed since they arrived in England. The British, who are taking a different approach to starting a chain reaction, have not been funding their research.”
“I see,” Mickey said. “So the British would have no interest in Blumenthal?”
Kirk shook his head. “They don’t believe in the heavy water approach. They think that fast, unmoderated neutrons would work best.” He sighed. “I’ve alread
y told you more than I should. Dorothy is dead. Your life may already be in danger. Perhaps you should be leaving town.”
“I’ll take responsibility for my own life.” Mickey stood up and paced. “I’d like to talk to Donovan.”
“He won’t be available for ten days.”
“Ten days! I’d think this would be a top priority for him.”
“I’ve told you all I can, Mickey. We’re going to take it from here.”
“Well, I work for Donovan, and until he fires me, I’m not quitting,” Mickey said flatly. “Dorothy died because I lost that picture, and I’m going to find the son of a bitch who killed her.”
“I sent her to get the photo, so we can share the blame,” Kirk said, biting his lower lip.
“What I want to know is how in the world that bastard knew that Dorothy had Blumenthal’s picture.” He walked back to Kirk. “I need a gun, a Jeep, and more cash. And I want my press badge back.”
“Be careful, Mickey. Who knows what Dorothy might have revealed under duress,” he choked out before resuming in a more even tone. “You should assume that the spy already knows about you and is on your trail. And it may not just be your own life you’re putting in danger, but possibly those around you as well. You’ve seen how he operates.”
A chilling thought immediately occurred to Mickey: Would he be endangering Maya by seeing her again?
CHAPTER 30
It must have been the tenth outfit she’d tried on in the last two days in preparation for her date with Mickey on Wednesday. All that he had said was that it was a surprise and to meet him at the entrance to the Museum of Antiquities, next to the Khedive Ismail Bridge. She had no idea where he would be taking her and she was going crazy trying to be ready for anything. Lili had been an angel, coming up with all kinds of makeshift outfits from her own wardrobe and sewing up a storm. Maya finally settled on a blue skirt with polka dots and a white blouse, which she would wear with a white belt and high-heeled shoes if they were going to a nice restaurant, or without a belt and flats if they were going on a picnic. She’d take a large bag to carry the extra choices. In both cases she would wear the scarf she’d worn on their first date, which had been a big hit with him.
She and Lili had hatched their cover story, telling Allegra that they were going on an outing with the Judeo-Spanish club here in Heliopolis. They’d planned to go to downtown Cairo together and then split up. Lili would join Fernando at the cinema while Maya went off with Mickey.
She sat on Lili’s bed, trying to collect herself. In a few minutes they would be out of the house. Her mind had been continuously buzzing since that magical night on the yacht, savoring and replaying every word, touch, kiss, look, and declaration they’d exchanged. It was rare for a man to openly discuss his feelings, and she was glad that he trusted her enough to talk about his ex-girlfriend. He had dared to let her glimpse the man inside, and she saw behind those lion eyes, the eyes of a child, curious and vulnerable. And playful, too. She loved the way he teased her. Here she was telling Lili not to trust love at first sight and that relationships took time to develop, yet she thought she was already in love herself.
But where was all this going? Where could it go? The timing couldn’t be worse. In a few weeks, she and her family would be in Palestine. And then what? She thought of all those romantic poets she’d read, from Goethe to Baudelaire, who glorified the pain of impossible love. Was that going to be her fate too? Once she would have reveled in the twisted pleasure of being a tortured soul, but she’d known suffering, and now she just wanted plain, simple happiness. But was it in the cards for her? She cracked her knuckles. She was nervous. Call her pessimistic, but she’d had a premonition all day that bad things might be in the offing.
It had started in the morning when she awoke to an unfamiliar, pungent odor and was greeted with thick, foul-smelling smoke in the hallway. She’d followed the fumes toward the living room, where she found Allegra and Sayeda swinging braziers of burning coal as they circled the furniture, chanting in Arabic. They looked like witches.
“That’s the bokour,” Lili had explained later. “It’s used to cast the evil eye out of the house.” What evil had befallen the house, Maya wondered. Is it us? She could not get any further explanation from Lili, but later Allegra locked herself in her room for the rest of the morning, complaining of a splitting headache. She had rudely declined Maya’s offer to bring her a cup of tea. Perhaps Allegra was still angry with Vati for reprimanding Soussou so sharply the day before when he’d found the boy playing with Mutter’s violin. He had nearly brought the child to tears, but Vati later apologized and helped him with his clarinet. Nevertheless, it was clear that something was going on when Joe, who had left the house hurriedly after an agitated phone call early in the morning, had not returned home for lunch as he always did. All the while, the hot desert winds of the khamseen were blowing hard, which was unusual for this time of year.
If this weren’t unsettling enough, Maya had only been able to reach Mickey once in three days, and they’d only spoken briefly as she’d caught him dashing out the door.
Enough, enough, enough! Maya had to control this nonstop worrying mind of hers. All was well, she assured herself. To make herself cheerful, she started humming the French song Mickey had sung on the yacht. She went to the dresser and was putting some perfume on when the door opened and Lili appeared, frazzled and wild-eyed.
“You’d better go to the living room,” she said. “Your brother and my father are having a big fight.”
“Your father? He’s here?” Maya repeated, her heart sinking. This could spoil her plans for the afternoon. “What are they fighting about?” she asked.
“Palestine,” Lili said in a hushed voice. “They kicked me out of the room.”
Maya’s heart sank. The subject seemed to be a taboo in this house, with Joe and Allegra always avoiding it. She feared that Erik had exhausted his patience and was going to confront their hosts about what was going on with their papers. She shared his frustration, but did not want to rock the boat. It had been such a long ordeal getting here, and she felt very vulnerable. They were stateless, with only temporary visitors’ papers, and were very frightened by the rapid German advance toward Cairo. Making matters worse, there seemed to be no place in the world that would accept Jewish refugees. Perhaps Erik’s colleagues in England could help them again as they had with Turkey, but the visa process would take months with no assurance as to the outcome. The Jewish Agency in Istanbul had tried to get them visas for Palestine, but they were told there would be no exceptions to the British freeze on immigration.
But while their efforts at the Jewish Agency had failed to win a visa, they had won them an ally. A woman who worked there had taken notice of them and, impressed with Erik’s credentials, had clandestinely sought them out. “How badly do you want to go to Palestine?” she’d asked. Erik, who had been voraciously reading Zionist literature, answered without hesitation—very badly. He was convinced that assimilation would not succeed anywhere in the world, and that a Jewish homeland in Palestine was the only solution. The woman had been pleased with his response. She could make no guarantees but said that she was connected to a “highly reliable and effective” network of Zionists in Egypt. There would be risks involved, and they would surely be interned by the British if caught, but Erik had wanted to take the gamble. He did not feel secure at all in so-called neutral Turkey, because of its uncomfortable amount of “friendly” communication with Germany. He had feared a Vichy-type regime would emerge there too. Yes, their best hope would be illegal immigration to Palestine—Aliyah Bet. But now they were faced with this inexplicable delay.
Maya wiped off some of her lipstick with a handkerchief and headed for the living room.
Joe, who usually spoke with great equanimity, could be heard through the closed doors, and when she entered, he was visibly emotional. “Are the Jews a tribe? A people? Yes. Do they need a homeland? Probably yes. But does it have to be in Palestine? No.�
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“Palestine is the homeland of many—the Christians, the Muslims, the Jews …” Allegra said, holding her belly. “It does not really belong to any one people—it belongs to everyone.”
“The English made a promise to us,” Erik replied, “and they were the rightful governors of the land.” He was sitting on the edge of the settee, Vati next to him.
“Yes, the Balfour Declaration, but they made that very same promise to the Arabs!” Joe countered.
“Forget the English. It has always been our land,” Vati shouted, the veins in his temples throbbing.
“That was long ago,” Joe retorted. “Let’s talk about the realities of today. We’ve had nothing but trouble with the Arabs there. How much more blood must be spilled?”
Just then, the laughter of the children was heard in the hallway as they returned from school with Sayeda.
“Shh,” Allegra hissed. “Quiet, please. I don’t want the children to hear this.”
“Why not?” Vati exclaimed. “Your children should know where they come from and they should learn to be proud of it,” Vati continued, his voice less strident. “Why not, when German children are taught about their Aryan superiority in kindergarten? Perhaps none of this is what you want to hear, but where will your family go when the Germans invade Egypt?”
Allegra’s face flushed. “The Germans are not going to invade Egypt, monsieur. The English will stop them. We understand you, but Egypt is our home and we will never leave. We have no problems with the Egyptians.”
“What about the looting of your stores and the burning of your synagogues, madame?” Erik interjected. “I see how you ignore it, like my parents did when it happened in my country.” His words cut the tension in the room like a knife.