City of the Sun

by Juliana Maio

  “They are,” Maya said, choking back her tears. “I’m your daughter.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Vater!” Limping, Erik arrived along with Joe. “We’ve looked everywhere for you. Why did you do this?”

  Maya took her brother’s hand, filled with tender feelings toward him, and gestured to her father to come down. “He’s your child, too,” she said. “His name is—”

  “Erik, would you help me get down, please,” Vati implored, reaching out to him.

  “Let’s go home,” Joe said, giving his hand to Vati.

  “Erik!” Maya scolded. “Help your father.”

  Erik complied and raised both arms to help Vati down.

  “You’re a good son,” Vati said as he climbed down and rested on the bench, exhausted from the effort.

  CHAPTER 35

  By the time Mickey arrived at the embassy, Kirk and Donovan were waiting for him on the roof of the building, watching the sun as it rose over the Nile.

  “You’ve done a tremendous job,” Donovan said as he embraced Mickey like a long-lost friend. “I am terribly sorry about the death of Miss Calley.” He looked tired and seemed to have gained some weight. The button on his suit jacket was ready to pop.

  Kirk, on the other hand, had shed a few pounds, which made his cheekbones more prominent. He looked solemn. Mickey guessed that he had news and it was not good.

  “I transmitted a false message about an ammunition depot at a location outside of Alexandria. It was bombed,” Kirk said, pursing his lips.

  “You were right, my friend,” Donovan said, tapping him on the shoulder. “The Nazis have deciphered our code.” He sat on a bench.

  “The Brits took it rather stoically when I broke the news to them. Lampson did not even bat an eye, but these people are trained to show impossible sangfroid in the face of the worst circumstances.” Kirk settled on a black iron chair opposite the bench.

  Mickey shook his head as he took a seat next to Donovan.

  “Frankly, even though MI5 is closer to catching the German spy …” Donovan started to say.

  “They’ve identified a doctor’s office he’s been using for meetings,” Kirk clarified. “Two Italian spies blew his cover. He is a chameleon, a master of disguise, who speaks fluent Arabic. He sometimes goes by the name of Nader Barudi.”

  “That explains a lot,” Mickey said, realizing that the man at the library and the man who’d returned Dorothy’s purse must have been the same man.

  “But the fact that the Nazis broke our code is a blessing in disguise,” Donovan said. “It now gives MI5 a real shot at getting him. They’ve set up a trap for him tomorrow.”

  “They’re sure not wasting any time,” Mickey said.

  “They made it clear they don’t want any of us involved,” Kirk added. “They’ve even dictated the wording of the radio transmission I’ve had to send to ensnare him, as if I were a moron, claiming that they had more experience in these matters.”

  “Don’t take it personally, Alexander,” Donovan said. “You are not to blame here.”

  Kirk shrugged and handed Mickey a piece of paper. “The communiqué I sent. MI5 felt that only bare-bones information should be fed, just enough for the spy to make sense of it, or he’d see through the ploy.”

  Finally located the scientist and keeping him secure at the embassy until Friday. Please inform our agents in Lisbon to meet his flight departing 7:05 and arriving at 9:05 AM and make arrangements for immediate transport to New York.

  Mickey read the note and then turned, incredulous, to Kirk. “You told the Brits about Blumenthal?” he asked.

  “Had to,” Donovan answered. “MI5 will be coordinating with us and the State Department in investigating the possible involvement of major Zionist figures in Palestine, but they insist that we leave everything else about the Blumenthal case to them.”

  “Fine,” Mickey said.

  “You’ll never guess where Wild Bill has just come from,” Kirk said, rubbing his hands, his eyes lighting up, eager to share the news, but he gestured to Donovan, inviting him to speak.

  “I was in the middle of the North Atlantic, in Placentia Bay, off Newfoundland, with President Roosevelt,” Donovan responded.

  “You must have heard rumors about the president’s disappearance over the last ten days?” Kirk added.

  “The New York Times wrote that his polio was acting up and he’d flown to his vacation cottage near the hot springs of Pine Mountain.”

  “Not true,” Donovan said. “The president was meeting with Winston Churchill on board the battleship HMS Prince of Wales. With the dangers posed by U-boats, this had to be done in complete secrecy.”

  Kirk checked his watch. “In a few hours the news will be reported to the world.”

  “They shook hands over a joint vision of the world after the war,” Donovan resumed. “I’ll be flying back to London to work on the language. We expect most governments to go along with it. Basically the charter will call for an end to colonialism as we know it. It will affirm a nation’s right to self-determination. All very important precepts to Roosevelt, as you know.”

  “Churchill agreed to it?” Mickey asked, surprised.

  “He didn’t have a choice. He knows that without America the empire won’t stand,” Donovan said. “I was there when the prime minister conceded that the mantle of leadership was slipping from Britain’s shoulders to America’s. It almost moved me to tears. America is dictating the terms of peace. We are the new leaders of the world.”

  Mickey mulled over what was being said. “Does this mean we’re entering the war?” he ventured, barely breathing. “Forming a military alliance with the Brits?”

  “Not quite, but you can bet your bottom dollar that we will be supporting their efforts in a very big way. Roosevelt has promised to send them 150 of our newest Grant tanks equipped with 75 mm guns immediately.”

  Mickey shook his head, overwhelmed by what he was hearing.

  Donovan leaned back to get a better view of Mickey and exchanged quick looks with Kirk. “Do you ever wonder what happened to the article you tried to smuggle out of the country?”

  “Well, yes, sure.”

  “I think you should know that it was not written in vain,” Kirk said.

  “Miss Calley sent it via diplomatic pouch to someone she knew—a member of Roosevelt’s cabinet. The president had your article in his dossier when he met with Churchill,” Donovan said.

  His words hung in the air while Mickey tried to grasp the enormity of what Donovan had told him. A wave of emotion welled up inside him. Embarrassed, he leaned forward, his hand blocking his face as he fought mightily to hold back his tears.

  “She thought you were right on the money,” Donovan said, putting a fatherly arm around him.

  “She was very fond of you,” Kirk added. “Though she did think that your sense of color coordination was beyond redemption.”

  Mickey shook his head and laughed. “Hey! I thought I was doing great!” He stood up and showed off his suit. “Even got the handkerchief right.”

  “You look very debonair to me,” Donovan approved. “Cairo suits you well.”

  “It’s been quite a journey since our first meeting on this very roof, sir,” Mickey said as he sat back down.

  “We really appreciate all you’ve done, but at this point you’re officially relieved of your duties. We don’t want you to be in danger any longer. I’ve talked about you to a friend of mine, the editor-in-chief of the Washington Post, and he’s very interested in meeting you.”

  Mickey slowly nodded. Somehow he felt deflated. The adventure, the sense of urgency and responsibility, were now over for him, but funnily enough, he did not feel relieved. “I just hope they catch the spy. At least Dorothy will not have died for nothing.”

  With Maya gone and MI5 taking over the Blumenthal case, there wasn’t any point in staying in Cairo, Mickey thought as he drove to the Gezira Sporting Club to have lunch with Hugh. He had asked h
is friend to find out through his black market sources how one would go about obtaining papers for Palestine, knowing everything could be gotten for a price in Cairo. But now it was moot—the Brits were in charge. Maybe they had more experience in intelligence matters, but Mickey had every intention of secretly watching tomorrow’s ambush. He’d been too deeply involved to miss it, and he couldn’t return to the States without getting a shot at blowing the spy’s head off if things went that way.

  He checked his rearview mirror to see if he was being followed and made a series of sharp turns just in case. With the change in military command, the continuous air-raid threats to Heliopolis, the mass exodus of refugees out of Alexandria and Cairo, and no good news coming out of El Alamein, people’s nerves were frayed. It seemed that pedestrians walked faster and drivers never stopped honking and cutting one another off in their cars. Even donkeys, laden with the belongings of fellahin fleeing for calmer surroundings, seemed to be jittery. The flow of refugees had put a heavy burden on buses, and traffic was abominable. Mickey turned on the radio to get his mind off the chaos of the city and smiled when President Roosevelt’s voice came over the airwaves to announce his pact with Churchill.

  The Gezira Sporting Club, the quintessential symbol of British imperialism, was the most exclusive sports club in Cairo, and it required its members to sign in any guests who would be joining them at the Lido, the club’s dining room. Mickey was therefore surprised that a golf caddy was waiting for him at the entrance instead of Hugh. Wearing a blue galabeya, a white hat, and a red belt, the young, slender Egyptian explained in perfect English that Hugh had gotten drafted into a polo match and asked that Mickey be brought up to the field. They traversed the club, which with its many gardens, polo fields, golf course, racetrack, cricket pitches, croquet lawns, and tennis and squash courts, must have been among the most lavish sporting grounds anywhere in the world.

  When they reached the polo field, a game was on, and they stood on the sidelines behind a white wooden fence surrounded by an enthusiastic crowd. “There’s Mr. Charlesworth,” the boy said, pointing to Hugh, the number three player on the red team.

  Mickey proudly watched Hugh’s horse roughly bump a member of the opposing team. “That’s my guy!” But his attention quickly turned to another member of the red team, number seven, who came racing down the pitch in full gallop, the ground shaking under the thunderous hooves of his magnificent thoroughbred. In one swift move, he stole the ball from the blue team and started pushing it toward the goal.

  “Cover him!” yelled a spectator next to them, tensely holding his binoculars.

  Too late. The player had smashed the ball into the goal. The crowd in the stands went wild. The red team whooped in triumph, but not their victorious teammate, who trotted away alone.

  “Who is number seven?” Mickey asked.

  The caddie shrugged. He didn’t know.

  “It’s Ali Rashad. Who else?” the man with binoculars barked.

  “Ali! I should have known,” the boy exclaimed and clapped his hands above his head. “He is the best player in the club. He has eyes in the back of his head.”

  “I thought only players from British regiments were allowed to play here,” Mickey said.

  “Except when their fathers own half the horses in the stables,” the caddie responded. “Ali is a captain in the Egyptian cavalry. I have to get back, sir. The game is almost over.”

  Mickey reached into his pocket to tip the boy.

  “That’s quite all right, sir,” the caddie stopped him. “Mr. Charlesworth takes very good care of me.” He pulled a round red box from the pocket of his robe. It was British shoe polish, which was very difficult to find.

  Mickey watched him go and leaned against the fence as the arbiter yelled the score: 9–8 Blue. When play resumed, number seven immediately charged, galloping with ferocious determination. In a whirlwind of energy, he beat every trick thrown at him by the Blues, scoring two more points and leading his team to victory. The crowd stood on its feet and cheered. Polo was a rich man’s sport, so Mickey didn’t know much about it, but he could tell a good player when he saw one, and Ali was superb. But he was also reserved, shaking hands formally with the other players when the grooms took his horse away. Hugh was the only one he embraced warmly. The two were clearly good friends.

  Mickey whistled to catch Hugh’s attention.

  “Hey!” Hugh brightened when he spotted him, and with his arm around Ali’s shoulder, he strolled toward Mickey.

  “That was one hell of a game. Well done.” Mickey patted Hugh’s back in congratulations. “And you, sir, were terrific,” he told Ali, who was removing his helmet. The dark-skinned Egyptian was tall and well proportioned, and like most cavalry officers he boasted a thick mustache. Mickey thought he cut a dashing figure.

  “This is my Yankee friend, Mickey Connolly,” Hugh said by way of introduction, wiping his sweaty, dust-caked forehead. “I’ve told you about Ali Rashad. We trained together at Sandhurst. He’s the reason I’m in Egypt in the first place.”

  “Yes, of course. Hugh told me how wonderful you and your family have been to him.” Mickey recalled Hugh’s stories about Ali’s father, one of the wealthiest cotton magnates in the country, who was such an Anglophile that he demanded that his children speak English at home and hung a picture of Queen Victoria in his study.

  “Hugh has told me about you as well,” Ali replied, shaking Mickey’s hand firmly. “You’re the journalist from America.”

  “I told him what a bore you were,” Hugh interjected. “Always babbling about politics, censorship, and the unfairness of the world.”

  “Better a bore than a drunk!” Mickey joked.

  “How about we all have lunch together?” Hugh suggested.

  “I don’t have much time,” Ali apologized.

  “Rubbish!” Hugh said. “We’ll join you at the Lido after we shower. Get us a table with a good view of the girls at the pool.” He winked at Mickey and grabbed Ali’s elbow, steering him away.

  The Lido terrace was flanked by two wings jutting out of the white and red clubhouse, the hub of the sporting facilities. Mickey was lucky to be seated at a prime table with a bird’s-eye view of the swimsuit-clad women who lazily flicked through magazines while lounging on deckchairs below. Hugh would be happy. Nearby children frolicked while their governesses watched and gossiped. On the terrace, except for a few well-to-do Westernized Egyptian families, the clientele was mostly British, military as well as well-dressed expats. Alone at a table sat a Scottish officer wearing a kilt, with a bagpipe by his side. What on earth did the locals make of these men?

  Mickey ordered lemonade and picked up the menu.

  “Don’t despair, I’m here!” Hugh sidled up next to him, a martini already in his hand. “You know, you don’t look good—at all. Lost weight or what?”

  Mickey shrugged it off. “Just not sleeping so well these days. Where’s Ali?”

  “Still in the changing room,” Hugh replied as he grabbed the menu away from Mickey. “He’s listening to some new announcement on the radio.” He waved to a lovely girl in a strapless bathing suit, who blew back a kiss.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Ali’s sister. If it weren’t for my friendship with Ali, I’d go full steam for her.” Hugh elbowed Mickey conspiratorially. “Come to think of it, I could use a little hanky-panky, as you say in America. But business first. Regarding your inquiry, I didn’t forget about you, mate, but they sent me to Suez for a week to clean up mines that had been dropped all over the canal. Anyhow, my Greek fence can get you anything you want: perfect invoices, checks, receipts, tax returns, you name it. He can get you papers for anywhere on earth—but not Palestine.”

  “Why not?”

  “Apparently visas to Palestine are printed on special paper. Forgeries have to be made from valid, existing passports purchased from immigrants who have entered the country legally, and these have become impossible to come by. Why are you so interested?”
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  “It’s important for my article.”

  “Hmmm … still working on that story.” Hugh took a generous sip of his martini, but from his look he didn’t seem too convinced.

  The waiter arrived with his note pad, ready to take their order.

  “Give us a minute,” Hugh asked. “We’re expecting one more.” He turned to Mickey and said, “If he ever shows up.”

  “Why, what’s wrong?”

  “He’s been brooding for weeks over his army’s humiliation at having their weapons taken away from them at Mersa Matruh. He’s ashamed of himself for having handed over his pistol. You have to understand, this lad lives and breathes his love of Egypt. It’s not for prestige that he went into the military.”

  “He had no choice. The order came from General Neguib.”

  “I’m surprised that for a newspaper man you’re that naïve,” Ali said as he arrived and sat down. “The order came from London.”

  “I’m sorry about what happened,” Mickey said. “I know it’s a terrible insult.”

  Ali shook his head and put his white cloth napkin on his lap. “They treated us like dogs. After months of breaking our backs, cutting trenches into what turned out to be solid rock under two feet of sand, we’re told to pack up and hand over our weapons within the hour. And now we’ve been reduced to filling sandbags in the desert. You should write about this!”

  “Good Lord, Ali, you should be relieved to be away from the front. I don’t know why you’re in such a damn hurry to get your legs blown off,” Hugh interjected.

  “Don’t tell me how I should feel,” Ali lashed out. “This is my career, and every day I have to look my men in the face and pretend that it’s all right to be pissed on.”

  “Don’t be angry with me. I’m with you, mate,” Hugh said, patting Ali on the back to assuage him. “You’ve always defended the English, and now they’ve betrayed you. But hey, don’t turn your head,” he whispered in the same breath, throwing sidelong glances at a nearby table. “I think that blonde bombshell is looking at you!”