Palace Circle (33 page)

“I don't know why a registry office, darling, except that Fawzia is a Copt and Jack isn't. And I don't know why London, either, except that while Zubair Pasha likes Jack—and has enormous respect for Jerome—it probably isn't
quite
the marriage he would have wanted for his daughter. He probably hoped that she would catch Farouk's eye and become Queen of Egypt. Instead of which Farouk is marrying Safinaz Zulflkar in January—though according to your father she won't be known as Queen Safinaz but as Queen Farida. Farouk has the same quirk about names beginning with
F
as his father. He believes it's lucky. Which means that if Fawzia had remained in Cairo, she might have been in with a chance.”

“She's too old. She's twenty-three. Farouk is still a month short of his eighteenth birthday and Safinaz is just fifteen.”

“Sixteen,” her mother corrected.

“Fifteen,” Davina repeated. “The official announcement that she is sixteen is only a sop to the British.”

Her mother's presence in Cairo ensured that her father stiffly requested that Davina be at Nile House for Christmas. Knowing that he hated their estrangement as much as she did, she did as he asked. He did not invite Darius, but that hadn't mattered because he wouldn't have accepted.

At a Christmas Eve party at the American legation, Davina watched as her mother told Petra about Jack's impending wedding.

Petra, wearing a halter-necked backless gown of emerald-green lame, her thick mane of hair coiled into a sleek chignon, had been laughing at something someone had said. She looked sophisticated and
soignée
—and as if she was trying far too hard to enjoy herself.

It was not a new impression.

As their mother approached, radiant in a mauve gown shimmering with crystal beads, Davina had a sense of deep foreboding. Perhaps her mother was right to be apprehensive. Perhaps there was far more to Petra's breakup with Jack than Davina had realized.

Delia touched Petra's elbow in order to gain her attention. Petra turned and flashed their mother a wide smile. As her mother spoke, Petra's smile vanished.

The blood drained from her face.

The glass of champagne in her hand fell, spraying her gown and splintering into shards on the floor.

Sholto, who had been at the far side of the room chatting
with a young diplomat from the Argentine legation, excused himself and began making his way to her.

Davina crossed the room toward her and as she did so, Petra turned on her heel and ran out.

It was an exit that Davina knew would be the talk of Cairo for weeks to come.

It was quite obvious that her mother was also well aware of this. She was saying loudly, “Poor gal. News of the death of a dear friend in London. I'm afraid I chose a bad moment to break the news.”

Sholto, deceived, said merely, “Then she probably wants to be alone for a while,” and made his way unhurriedly back to the Argentinean diplomat.

Her mother said softly, “Please don't go after Petra, Davina. Sholto is right. She'll want to be by herself for a while.”

Because Davina always trusted her mother's judgment she did as Delia asked, but it was hard—and it was even harder realizing that her mother knew something about Jack and Petra's breakup that she didn't.

Next morning, straight after breakfast, she left Nile House for Petra's villa.

Petra was sitting on the terrace, an untouched breakfast on a cane table before her. She was still in her dressing gown, her hair unbrushed.

“Don't ask, Davvy,” she said wearily before Davina even spoke to her. “It was a bad time of the month. The news was unexpected and I reacted to it badly. The coffee is still hot. Why don't you have a cup and tell me what you are wearing to Farouk's wedding?”

As Petra so obviously didn't want to confide in her, Davina reluctantly went along with the abrupt change of subject; but she hated knowing there were secrets between them and desperately hoped that Petra would eventually open her heart to her.

She didn't do so.

Petra never spoke about her reaction to the news of Jack's wedding, but that summer, when Jack and Fawzia came to visit Fawzia's family, she acted as if she was happy for the two of them. Jack seemed completely at ease. The only person who behaved with slight reservation was Sholto.

“And that's probably because he's jealous,” her father said when Davina mentioned it. “Jack's been moved into MI6. With war on the horizon, I rather think Sholto fancies himself as an intelligence officer and doesn't like the fact that Jack has pipped him to it.”

Her father's prediction that war was imminent proved correct. On September 3, 1939, Prime Minister Chamberlain announced in the House of Commons that, as from noon that day, Britain was at war with Germany.

“And Egypt?” Ivor said grimly. “Who will Egypt support? Germany? Or us?”

1940–1941

Darius preferred the Groppi's nearer to the Opera House. He liked its garden better than the more famous one on Soliman Pasha Square. It was small and intimate and much less crowded. Here, white jasmine and purple bougainvillea climbed the trellised walls and provided a feeling of secluded intimacy. He was early for his meeting, but he didn't mind. He had a lot to ponder and couldn't think of a better way of doing it than over thick Turkish coffee and pastries drizzled with rose water and honey.

The Egyptian government was outwardly complying with the Anglo-Egyptian Treaty of Friendship and Alliance. Martial law had been established. Known Nazis in the city—and there were a lot—had been interned in the Italian School in Alexandria. The railways and aerodromes had been put at Britain's disposal. To all intents and purposes Egypt was supporting Britain, but the government had not declared war on Germany. And it would not, Darius thought grimly.

He wondered if Sir Miles Lampson, no longer a high commissioner but, since the signing of the Anglo-Egyptian Treaty, an ambassador, was taken in by the dutiful actions of Ali Matter, the prime minister. Darius doubted it. Lampson was too smart. And Germany was well aware that Egypt would give no real help to a country it wished so heartily to be rid of.

He ordered another coffee and wondered what would happen to the mighty British Empire when she lost the war. She would no longer be an imperial power—and that would end the British presence in Egypt. It was reason enough for not wanting to see Britain emerge victorious. Someone else who didn't want to see Britain emerge victorious was a Romanian he had become friendly with. Constantin Antonescu was a diplomat at the Romanian legation, and it was Constantin he had arranged to meet.

At a nearby table an elderly businessman in a tarboosh and Savile Row suit was sharing what Darius judged to be a few stolen moments with a beautiful girl young enough to be his granddaughter. At a farther table two Egyptian matriarchs were making great inroads into cream-filled cakes piled high on a glass cake stand. No one was paying any attention to him.

He looked at his watch, not because Constantin was late— he wasn't—but to envisage where Davina would be and what she would be doing. It was nearly five o'clock and as it was a Wednesday, he knew she would be at the Old War Horse Memorial Hospital, putting her skills as a nurse to veterinary use.

A shadow fell across the table. “I see we have the garden more or less to ourselves,” Constantin said as the two matriarchs heaved themselves to their feet, leaving an empty cake stand behind them. He glanced over toward the businessman and his companion, adding, “I think we had better wait until we are completely alone before I tell you my plans. If they are successful, Germany will win the war.”

That evening he and Davina went to the Continental Hotel for dinner. Opposite Ezbekiya Gardens, the Continental boasted a rooftop restaurant with a small dance floor that they were particularly fond of.

As they walked through the crowded public rooms they
passed the entrance to the bar and spotted Sholto at the center of a noisy group of people. He shot Davina a quick glance to see if she had noticed him. Seeing the way she was avoiding eye contact, he guessed that she had.

“You don't like him, do you?” Darius said matter-of-factly as they took the caged lift to the restaurant.

“No. Not much. He's not making Petra very happy.”

“Because of his drinking?” he asked when they were seated. “Or because of his gambling?”

“I don't think she
likes
the fact that he spends more time propping up the bar here or at Shepheard's than he does with her, but his drinking is something Petra would take in her stride if everything else was all right.”

Davina didn't say anything about the gambling, but there was a frown on her face and Darius knew she was deciding whether to divulge something Petra would rather he didn't know.

At last, toying with her champagne glass, she said, “Sholto's background isn't all he's claimed. His having lied about it has shaken her trust in him.”

“And in this background was there another woman?”

“No. Sex doesn't come into it at all.”

She looked across to the small band. They were playing Cole Porter's “Night and Day” but no one was dancing. It was too early.

Darius didn't say anything, just looked at her.

Her fair hair was held away from her face with ivory combs and fell satin-smooth to her shoulders. Her evening dress was the same shimmering color as her eyes. Her fingernails were painted silver and instead of her mouth being a fashionable crimson red, her lipstick was a pale rosy pink. He thought she looked like an ancient Egyptian moon goddess and it was a look that aroused him far more than Petra's obvious glamour, or the hard sophistication of the fishing fleet.

Still looking toward the band, she said, “Sholto lied to Petra—and to everyone else—about being Anglo-Irish. He's simply Irish.”

“And there's a difference?”

“There is where class is concerned. The Anglo-Irish are the landed elite.”

“And so an Anglo-Irish son-in-law would have been acceptable to your father while a merely Irish one wouldn't have been?”

She nodded.

“Then it's quite obvious why he practiced a little deceit.”

“But not why he lied to Petra.” Davina took a sip of champagne and finally looked away from the dance band and toward him. “It's also a question of money. Sholto always gave the impression that he had family money and that he would inherit considerably more, but in reality there isn't any family to speak of and there isn't any money, though he behaves as if there were. Petra's terrified of what will happen when his bluff is called.”

“Your father will shore him up,” Darius said, rising to his feet and leading her out onto the still-empty dance floor. “And I'm not surprised Petra is terrified. At the thought of breaking such news to your father, I'd be terrified too.”

After that conversation Darius found himself watching Sholto Monck more closely. And on Constantin's advice, he began to play down his fierce anti-Britishness.

“You have social access to people very few Egyptians have,” said Constantin. “It is something that could be very useful to your fellow nationalists. Think of it, Darius. In the home of a man such as Lord Conisborough you will be at the heart of the British government in Cairo!”

Darius had seen the sense of the advice. Within a few months he had managed to once again be on social terms with Davina's father. Constantin's belief that Nile House was virtually the center of British government in Cairo had, though, proved optimistic.

Although for many years Lord Conisborough had enjoyed the confidence of King Fuad, primarily as his adviser, his position had become defunct when Farouk became king. The sheer length of time he had known Farouk—which was for most of Farouk's boyhood—ensured that he was still welcome at Abdin Palace, but the days when Farouk could be influenced by a man who had been his father's friend were long gone. Darius knew this from his own father, whose role at the palace had also come to an end.

“The problem is that the King is too young for his position,” his father had said on one of the rare occasions when they had spoken on almost friendly terms. “He thinks more about his cars than he does about politics. Getting him to take the present situation seriously is almost impossible.”