City of the Sun

by Juliana Maio

  “Bloody women! Is that all you think about?” Ali grumbled.

  “Be patient,” Mickey said. “When the war is over, Egypt will have its day. Sooner or later you will get your independence.”

  “But when?” Ali shot back. “Just like in America, it will take a revolution. Thousands of men will die.”

  “Maybe not,” Mickey said.

  Ali locked eyes with Mickey, evaluating him for an instant. “Have you heard about your president’s Atlantic Charter with Churchill?” he asked.

  “Sure did,” Mickey responded.

  “What do you think about it? Is it just words?” Ali asked.

  “Just words?” Mickey said. “Remember, you’re talking to a newspaper man.”

  Ali laughed. “I like your friend,” he announced. “What should we order for lunch?” He reached for the menu as a young man in tennis attire appeared at the table. He looked familiar to Mickey.

  “I’m Fernando Lagnado.” He extended his hand to Mickey. “We met on the king’s yacht. I’m a friend of Maya’s cousin Lili.”

  Mickey’s throat tightened at the mention of Maya’s name. “Sure, I remember.”

  “Are you coming to the premiere of Gone with the Wind tomorrow night? Maya will be chaperoning us.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Kesner radioed Tripoli.

  All plans have been made for the capture of Erik Blumenthal. Will hold him in safe house until further advised. Schwarze Hund.

  He signed off feeling satisfied with himself. In spite of losing his convenient meeting place at Dr. Massoud’s, he was doing very well. The Americans were about to deliver the scientist right into his hands.

  As he splashed cold water on his face in preparation for his day, he heard the five o’clock call of the muezzin and checked his wristwatch. Right on time. He saluted himself in the mirror. The telephone rang upstairs, jolting him.

  “Abdoul, my friend, calm down,” Kesner sighed into the receiver.

  “They arrested Samina last night.” The poor man was beside himself. “They grabbed her backstage after her performance. They’re going to make her talk. She knows I’m working with you. I’m finished.”

  “This is not good news, I agree, but get ahold of yourself. She can say anything she wants, but she doesn’t have any evidence against you.”

  “I’m finished,” Abdoul wailed again. “With the Italians arrested and Samina under interrogation, I am in grave danger.”

  “What do you plan to do? Disappear?” Kesner sneered. “You must stand your ground. The king will not allow—”

  “I will not meet you at Café Riche later. It’s too dangerous.” The Egyptian hung up the phone before Kesner could respond, infuriating him.

  He should never have given the fool his number, but at least Abdoul didn’t know where he lived. He picked up an ashtray and threw it against the wall. “May Samina rot in hell!” He summoned up the teachings of Sun Tzu, reminding himself to keep a cool head. He would deal with Abdoul later. Today he had an important mission, perhaps the most important of his life.

  Parked behind a huge ficus benjamina three houses down from the American Embassy, Kesner waited for the car carrying the Blumenthals to emerge from the garage and take them to the Heliopolis airport for their seven o’clock flight to Lisbon. Kesner had the ambush all figured out. Hassan al-Banna had generously made his best men available for the mission, and they were already in place, ready to pounce. The only complication was that there were two routes to the airport, and Kesner had no way of knowing which one the American car would take until it reached Sharia Kasr el-Aini, near the Semiramis Hotel. So he would have to follow the car up to that point and telephone his fellow conspirators, advising them of the route chosen. Men had been placed on both routes to cover either eventuality.

  Sitting in the back of a taxi driven by Rafat, one of the sheik’s most trusted lieutenants, whose fourteen-year-old son sat at his side, Kesner tapped his front teeth with his fingernails, his eyes locked on the garage, his stomach in a knot. He was wearing a brown galabeya, which he kept twisting.

  “There it is!” Rafat’s son suddenly warned.

  An official black car with the American flag on its fender, its curtains drawn, drove out of the garage.

  Kesner checked his watch: 6:10. “That must be him. Perfect. No escort, just as I suspected.” His eyes were transfixed. “Yalla! Let’s go,” he ordered, feeling euphoric.

  “With the help of Allah, we will be successful today,” Rafat said softly as he made a U-turn and started to tail the American sedan.

  With Friday morning prayers marking the beginning of the Egyptian weekend, most Arabs were still asleep and there was little traffic. They crossed Garden City and arrived downtown in no time. The city was just waking up as European café owners opened their doors and laid out tables on the sidewalks. They were now on Sharia Kasr el-Aini, and Kesner waited on pins and needles to see which turn the American car would make. It made a left turn just before reaching the Semiramis Hotel, and Kesner let out an excited cry.

  “They’re taking the Salah al-Din route!” Kesner said.

  Rafat jerked the car to a halt. He took his boy’s head between his hands and kissed it. “Dying in the way of Allah is our highest hope, my son.”

  The boy thrust the door open and shot from the car like a bullet, vanishing around the corner to alert the Brothers of the route the embassy car was taking.

  The Salah al-Din route was by far the most desirable. The embassy car would be going through a large intersection in front of the Citadel with arms that reached out like an octopus, feeding many of the city’s main arteries. That was where Kesner had planned to ambush the car after blocking it with the Brotherhood’s vehicles that would converge on it from all directions. They would pull Blumenthal out and drag him to Kesner, who would be waiting in his taxi between two monumental mosques that stood side by side across from the Citadel. Blumenthal’s father and sister would also be taken, but only if the task proved easy. Should anything go wrong, there were many escape routes into the city or out into the desert behind the Citadel.

  A soldier of Allah, Rafat pushed down on the gas pedal, his eyes fixed, his ears closed to unwanted distractions, and took a shortcut through the City of the Dead, which he knew well. The roof of the taxi had been painted white so it would be easily recognized from above, and as they reached the back of the Citadel, Kesner and Rafat looked up and saw a man waving a small red flag at them.

  “It’s all good by the grace of God,” Rafat said.

  They had men posted on the roofs and minarets of the Citadel as well as the two mosques across from it, which made for easy signaling.

  The street was empty except for two large camel trucks heading toward them, both of which turned into the back entrance of the Citadel before passing the taxi.

  “The camel market is open on the Sabbath?” Kesner asked, finding it odd that the trucks would go inside the Citadel.

  “Every day. The market starts very early in the morning,” Rafat replied, then with his eyes on his rearview mirror, he calmly said, “Police behind us.”

  Kesner twisted around and saw the green and white Egyptian police car. “Let it pass,” he suggested, barely breathing.

  They drove around the Citadel and crossed the intersection, but as Rafat began to turn into the passageway between the two mosques, he had to brake suddenly to allow two farmers and their herd of sheep to pass.

  “Where did that imbecile come from?” Kesner fumed.

  Rafat didn’t say a word, his eyes darting in all directions, then relaxing, he stretched his arm around the back of the passenger seat and waited patiently for the animals to pass. But after the sheep came another farmer with a pack of goats.

  “Is this a joke?”

  Rafat didn’t budge.

  Kesner took a deep breath. Patience.

  Finally, the way was clear and Rafat drove into the alley between the two mosques. He turned the car around so that it faced the
intersection, ready to pounce like a tiger once the ambush was under way.

  Kesner’s attention turned to the two camel lorries, which were exiting from the front entrance of the Citadel. Camels were brought to Cairo from the Sudan after a long trek through the desert, and Kesner found the lorries surprisingly clean. He also found it odd that the driver was not the usual black Nubian, but an Arab.

  Something was not right.

  He jumped out of the taxi and slammed the door over Rafat’s protests. He scanned the premises. Nothing unusual. There was nothing unusual either in front of the mosques, just a handful of faithful scattered about. Very few. Too few. He walked to the entrance of one of the mosques, where two men collected the shoes of worshipers in exchange for a small baksheesh.

  “Samaa Allah leman hamad (God listens to what one says),” Kesner greeted them.

  “Sobhan rabina el A’ la (God is high),” one of them responded, putting down the Qur’an he had been reading behind his pulpit.

  “Why so few faithful?”

  “Only the students of the madrasa next door are allowed in the morning. The rest not until the midday prayers.”

  Kesner glanced into the dark, quiet recessed entrance. Nothing unusual. “Allah akbar (God is great),” he bid good-bye and strode away.

  He quickened his pace back to the taxi, his eyes darting right and left before resting on a street sweeper, whose broom barely touched the pavement as he stared at one of the mosque’s arched windows. Following his gaze Kesner could see the silhouette of a man in a khaki uniform. A soldier? The Brotherhood men were civilians. The street sweeper was awfully young and robust for a job normally held by stooped, old men. Kesner tried to quiet his suspicions, attributing them to his general edginess, but as he approached the taxi, he saw that the street behind the mosque complex was now clogged with camels, several of them just sitting in the road. He squinted. Then he saw it—a man in a white galabeya plunging a syringe into the hindquarters of one of the standing beasts. The animal’s leg buckled immediately and it collapsed to the ground.

  This was a trap. The plan had to be called off.

  His chest pounding, he continued toward the taxi, careful not to run and draw attention to himself. Anyone around him could be part of this trap. Then all hell broke loose as the embassy car reached the intersection and the Brotherhood’s cars converged on it, only to find themselves surrounded by police vehicles, which appeared out of nowhere. Kesner let out a cry when he saw the doors of the American sedan burst open, yielding not the Blumenthals but half a dozen heavily armed commandos. It was total chaos as cars screeched and gunfire echoed everywhere. Allied soldiers, many disguised in galabeyas, rushed out of the surrounding buildings, brandishing their weapons and shouting war cries.

  “Yalla! Come!” Rafat yelled.

  Frantic, Kesner glanced back at the square. Allied soldiers were streaming out of the camel trucks and rushing toward the trapped Brotherhood cars. Behind him, camels, goats, and sheep were blocking the back streets. They were surrounded. He pulled up his galabeya and started to sprint for his life.

  “There’s another bloke. Get him!” a soldier yelled in a Kiwi accent, chasing after him and alerting a small contingent of fellow soldiers, who followed suit.

  Racing toward one of the arched gateways, Kesner was near panic. Gunshots rang past him. He approached the gate, praying to God he would find it unguarded, when a man came out of a wooden shack behind the mosque, running toward him and cutting him off. Kesner swerved left, away from the gate.

  “I’ll get him,” the man yelled as he raced behind Kesner.

  Kesner climbed up a stairway as fast as he could and vaulted over a small wall onto a terrace. He stumbled over the planted shrubbery and flowerbed and ran toward a small mound of rubble. He couldn’t tell what was on the other side. In a desperate dash, he ascended the debris and leaped over, sliding on the other side and creating a small avalanche as he fought to retain his balance. Reaching the bottom, he found himself in a small open patch enclosed by a wooden fence. Below him, he could see merchants setting up their food stalls for the morning market. How far was the drop to the street below? Six feet? Eight feet? Sweating and gasping for air, he raced toward the fence, the sound of his shoes on the gravel resounding in his head as a spray of bullets exploded near him. He reached the edge and grimaced when he saw that the fence was a good ten feet from the ground. He looked back. Shit. His pursuer was none other than Mickey Connolly, the American spy with a gun in his hand, twenty feet away, with a pack of soldiers close behind him. The decision was obvious: Better to break an ankle than be dead. He jumped, landing hard on his feet, scaring the pigeons away. He wobbled for a moment, then hurled himself down the street without looking back.

  He heard a torrent of angry voices and curses echoing behind him, but clearly not aimed at him: “You idiot! He was heading right into our hands and you made us lose him!”

  CHAPTER 37

  Kesner sat in his communication room, his head slumped over his radio, waiting for his appointed airwaves rendezvous with the Abwehr agent in Tripoli. He felt nauseous, the bitter taste of defeat in his mouth, humiliated at having to admit that he’d failed at his mission. The Americans had tricked him. They obviously knew that the Germans had broken their code. He shut his eyes tight, swallowing hard to wash away the shame that stuck in his throat. The fantasy of his dream house on the Danube was crumbling. He felt alone and vulnerable. Many of his accomplices had been arrested, and even the pathetic Abdoul would not return his calls. For God’s sake, he had almost been caught himself. He had underestimated the American. Oh, the pleasure he would get out of snapping his neck! His watch said 5:00 PM. It was time. He’d prepared the text in advance and started to tap:

  It is with abject mortification that I must report that the mission was a failure. I was fed misinformation by the Americans, who must have known that I was listening and that we had broken their code. I narrowly eluded capture, and our entire operation is now in jeopardy. I swear that I will strive to my last breath to complete my assignment. I already have some thoughts. I remain faithfully committed to the Reich, and …

  Kesner suddenly stopped, realizing he’d been transmitting for too long a stretch, creating a risk by staying on the air for so long. He could not allow himself to get sloppy. Short bursts only. He sat back and waited a few minutes before resuming, but as he leaned forward again, he felt his boat rock slightly. He jerked upright. A passing vessel? All ears, he waited. Nothing. But then came the sound of muffled footsteps overhead, echoing off the water. It couldn’t be his servant; he’d gone home already. His neighbor? But the man always whistled when he wanted to see him. He started up the ladder and felt the boat sway again as the sounds of footsteps got louder. There was more than one man up there.

  “Open up,” a voice ordered. “Police. We know you’re in there.”

  Kesner bolted back down. He was trapped. It was impossible for the radio scanners to have picked up his transmissions and tracked him down so quickly … unless they had already been on the quay. His mind raced. Stay calm, he told himself, his legs shaking as he reached the bottom. He had prepared for this eventuality and started to count silently in an effort to keep his wits about him. Eins, zwei, drei.

  The men above were shouting, pounding on the door.

  Shoes first, Kesner reminded himself, trying his mightiest to control the trembling of his hands as he removed them. He had a full set of dry clothing in the watertight bag he kept along with his diving gear inside his escape chamber in the cramped communication room. He opened the chamber, which was the size of a phone booth, and pulled out the rubber suit. He put it on over his trousers and shirt and zipped it up to his neck. It was too tight. He removed his belt. He put on his fins. It all seemed unreal. Stay calm. Eins, zwei, drei. He heard a shot, then a loud kick—the door upstairs burst open. The police threatened to shoot on sight if he did not surrender.

  Eins, zwei, drei. It had all been carefully worked out.
The booby trap he’d made was in place. The stairway was wired with a fishing line connected to the gas burner in the kitchen, which was right above the communication room. All he had to do was pull the trip wire to activate the trap and then flip on the incendiary line. The gas burner would ignite when the police tripped the stairway wire and the blast would destroy the radio and create a fire that would sink the boat in minutes. He hoped the cash he’d put in the dry bag along with passports and other important papers would be adequate.

  He heard another door smash open. Eins, zwei, drei. He put on the rebreather diving unit, the vest first, making sure its valves were tightly connected to the hoses in the mask. Then, after taking one last deep breath, he pulled on the mask and adjusted the straps around his head. There were more shouts upstairs as the boat rocked violently. He had to hurry. Within seconds they would be coming down the stairs. He stepped inside the chamber and closed the door. He activated the wire trip, then with one hand on the incendiary line switch, and the other on the hatch, he opened the hatch ever so slowly so that water would not come rushing in and pulled the switch. He grabbed the dry bag and crawled out.

  Seconds later a massive explosion shook the boat, but Kesner was already safely on his way.

  He could stay under water for thirty to forty minutes, but with all the attention on the quay being paid to the boat in flames, Kesner didn’t need much time before resurfacing. He reemerged ten minutes later in a marshy area, hoping it was under the Zamalek Bridge. His calculations turned out to be fairly accurate, but when he removed his mask and looked up, he saw red lights blinking and police lorries parked on the bridge above. He quickly dove back under and swam downstream, where he reemerged on a secluded bank covered with reeds. He hastened to get rid of his diving gear, shoveling it all into his dry bag. He loaded the bag with rocks and threw the damn thing into the water, where it dropped to the bottom. He was now close to Dokki, and he walked across the English Bridge to Gezira Island, where he grabbed a taxi to Café Riche. He stored his clothing disguises there, and, since the loss of Dr. Massoud’s office, he had been using the café as a message drop as well.