Palace Circle (35 page)

It was a valid point, and Darius knew it. Constantin's network of informers—barmen, waiters, shoeshine boys, and prostitutes—were organized to help Berlin. Darius had once thought that was in Egypt's best interest. Now he wasn't so sure.

Davina stirred beside him. “Is it five o'clock yet, darling?” she murmured, her eyes still closed. “I should go.”

She was temporarily assigned to a clinic in the north of the
city and at that time of the day the roads—and especially the Bulaq Bridge—were choked with traffic.

“No,” he said gently. “We have another hour.”

He lowered his head and kissed her. Her lips were like the petals of a flower and he felt himself tremble. That he cared for her so deeply always amazed him. He didn't care for anyone else deeply—not even Fawzia. As for his parents—he'd been fond of his mother and intensely sorry when, sixteen years ago, she had died. For his pro-British father he had only contempt.

At the touch of his mouth Davina's eyes opened. They were an unusual gray with the merest hint of blue. Many years ago, he'd heard her father liken the color to English bluebells just before they opened. Darius had never seen English bluebells, but he'd always remembered the description.

Everything about her entranced him. Unlike Fawzia and her Egyptian girlfriends, Davina's beauty wasn't obvious and was never used as a bargaining chip to get what she wanted. And not only was she different from the Egyptian girls he knew, she was also different from the other English girls. She never strove to look glamorous. He couldn't even begin to imagine Petra without Hollywood-style glossy red lips and long lacquered nails.

Davina seldom wore makeup and when she did it was little more than a touch of powder on her flawless skin and a muted pink lipstick. She never dressed provocatively. Though he was not Muslim, he disliked the clothes the fishing-fleet girls wore. Davina's dress was always understated. Today when she had arrived at the houseboat she had been wearing her nurse's uniform, but if it hadn't been a working day he knew she would have been wearing a simple cotton dress, her only jewelry her wristwatch.

As time ran out he watched her dress, his hands behind his head.

“I can get a taxi back to the clinic if you don't want to face the early-evening traffic,” she said as he made no effort to reach for his shirt or trousers.

“Then how would I know you'd got back safely?” he said, swinging his legs from the bed.

She laughed, bending down to ease her feet into wedge-heeled sandals, her pale-blond hair falling forward like skeins of silk. “I walk Cairo from end to end unescorted and well you know it.”

He knew it, and he didn't like it, not when the city was choked with Tommies. He didn't say so, though. Davina had made Cairo her own over the years. Her work at the Old War Horse Memorial Hospital, which she still continued despite her full-time nursing work, often took her into parts of the city even he would be loath to enter.

He tucked his white silk shirt into lizard-skin-belted trousers, picked up his jacket, and, his arm around her shoulder, walked her across the houseboat's gangplank to where his car was parked, pondering yet again how Egypt could rid itself of the British.

In April, as the Nazis occupied Denmark and Norway, it looked as if Germany was winning the war. A month later they had invaded France, Belgium, Luxembourg, and the Netherlands. In June Italy declared itself to be at war with the Allies.

A few days later Constantin said, “The head of the Italian legation has been asked to leave, though whether King Farouk's Italian friends will be interned remains to be seen. Personally, I think the King will protect them.”

Darius agreed. Ever since King Fuad's day, a large number of the palace servants had been Italian. Farouk had grown up with them and trusted them. If he insisted on their staying it would be a source of great irritation to the British.

To Darius's great delight, Farouk did insist, and to his even greater delight, did so by taking advantage of the British ambassador's Achilles heel. Sir Miles Lampson's wife was Italian, and the whole of Cairo was soon laughing at the King's riposte to the embassy's demand that the palace Italians be interned. “When Lampson gets rid of his Italian,” Farouk was reported as saying, “I'll get rid of mine.”

Two weeks later, France fell.

“It's unbelievable,” Petra said when she joined Darius and Davina for drinks at Shepheard's. “Nazi flags flying the full length of the Champs-Elysees! Swastikas on the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe!”

They were sitting around one of the small tables in the Moorish Hall. Petra was wearing a gold lame cocktail dress with a slashed neckline that left one golden-skinned shoulder completely exposed and Darius was aware that their table was the focus of much male attention. Sholto was supposed to join them before he and Petra continued on to a party at the Spanish legation, but there was no sign of him and Darius noticed that when Petra's hand wasn't holding her champagne glass, it was constantly fiddling with her wedding ring.

“Mummy's hardly spoken to anyone since she heard.” Davina's voice was bleak. “The only ray of light she can see is that Winston is now prime minister. It's something she says should have happened months ago.”

It was the kind of insight into British military morale that always intrigued Darius.

“Poor Delia,” Petra said without too much real sympathy. “One minute she was over the moon at Winston becoming PM, the next she was devastated when he interned that creep Sir Oswald Mosley.”

Darius's interest was caught. “Why was she devastated? Mosley is a Fascist, isn't he?”

“He is now, but he used to be a quite respectable MP and he was on very friendly terms with Delia. His late wife was the daughter of Lord Curzon, an old family friend. My mother doesn't believe he would be disloyal—he was decorated for bravery in the Great War.” Her eyes flicked to Davina. “What do you think, Davvy? You've met him. I haven't.”

Davina thought of the effect the demon king had had on the thousands of people at Olympia. “I think he might do anything,” she said quietly. “I think Winston was probably right to put him out of harm's way.”

Every table around them was crowded and people constantly traversed the hall on their way to the Long Bar.

A member of the diplomatic corps spotted them and strolled across.

“If you are waiting for your husband, Mrs. Monck,” he said genially, “you may be waiting for some time. I've just left him at the Muhammad Ali Club and he's deep in a hand of chemin de fer. The King is gambling at an adjoining table and it's doubtful which of them is playing for the higher stakes. I'll say this for your old man—when it comes to cards he has nerves of steel!”

With good-natured laughter he left them, heading a little drunkenly in the direction of the terrace.

With a strained smile Petra rose to her feet. “No use my hanging around here if Sholto isn't going to show,” she said, her voice studiedly casual. “I think I'll give Kate a ring and see if she'd like to party with the Spaniards this evening.”

Darius smiled as if he thought there was nothing odd about her husband failing to meet her, wondering about her carefree friendship with Kate Gunn when he knew that she was well aware of Kate's relationship with their father.

Whether either Davina or Petra was aware of their mother's relationship with Jerome Bazeljette was something he'd never attempted to discover. Petra, though, was far more worldly
than Davina and it was just possible that she knew and was protecting Davina by not telling her.

In August the Italians attacked British Somaliland from Ethiopia. With the war now very firmly taking place much nearer to them, tensions in Cairo increased. They increased even further when Italian troops crossed the border from Libya and established a base in the Egyptian desert.

Talk as to the number of German troops with the Italians was rife, but rumor wasn't hard-core information about British tank numbers and battle plans, and it was these Constantin was hungry to get his hands on.

“And I will,” Constantin said optimistically as he sat across from Darius at one of the city's most popular nightclubs. “I'm in contact with a big fish now, Darius. A truly big fish.”

“Someone in the British military?”

“No, the diplomatic corps.”

For once Darius was staggered. Keeping his voice low, he said, “And how much German gold did that take?”

“I don't know. I didn't do the bribing. He's someone who has been on the Nazi payroll for years and he contacted me. Whatever his payoff, I assume the money is on par with what was paid the prime minister.”

Rumors that the prime minister was being bribed with German gold were rampant. The only thing that surprised Darius was that the Germans thought a bribe necessary, for though the King abided by the Anglo-Egyptian Treaty and went through the motions of being pro-British, the widespread belief that Berlin would support Egyptian independence after a German victory ensured that the reality was far different.

Every Egyptian he knew was certain that Egypt would be better off if the Axis forces in the desert chased the British army into the sea.

The difficulty, of course, was in knowing just how many British forces were in the desert. The general consensus was that the British were heavily outnumbered.

Unable to see Davina, who was working a night shift, Darius left Constantin ogling his belly dancer and strolled down Soliman Pasha Street to a more elite nightclub.

Within minutes of his arrival, the King made an entrance. Slickly suited and wearing dark glasses, he was accompanied by a couple of people Darius didn't recognize and half a dozen muscular bodyguards.

As a boy Darius had often accompanied his father to Abdin Palace and despite their difference in age the two boys had played together in the palace gardens.

Now, to his surprise, Farouk recognized him and flurried his entourage by not seating himself at the table permanently reserved for him, but by walking across to Darius.

“Good evening,” he said affably as Darius rose. “It is a long time since we have had the pleasure of seeing you.”

“Yes, sir. Several years.”

Farouk had been a handsome little boy and his good looks were still in evidence, though there was a chubbiness about his face that was beginning to blur them.

“Then let us make up for it,” he said, seating himself and leaving his companions standing a few feet away in awkward confusion.

Having no other option, Darius sat down again. Champagne speedily arrived. “You are a great friend of Lord Conisborough, I believe,” the King said.

Aware that this wasn't how Ivor would describe their relationship, he said evasively, “I've known Lord Conisborough's family for nearly twenty years, sir.”

“Yes. Quite so. And his daughters? We see Mrs. Monck at many events in Cairo. Like her American mother, she is a great beauty, is she not?”

“Yes, sir.” Darius wondered where this extraordinary conversation was leading. “Mrs. Monck is indeed very beautiful.”

He took a drink of champagne. Farouk—a Muslim— ignored his.

“We think Mrs. Monck looks like Rita Hayworth. We would like to see more of her,” Farouk said blandly. “Perhaps she would like to see the art treasures of the palace? Maybe you would like to invite her to do so?”

Darius nearly choked on his champagne, but recovered speedily and said with equal blandness, “I'm sure Mrs. Monck and her husband would be delighted by such an invitation.”

Farouk smiled and waved a finger in lazy admonishment. “We find that English gentlemen are not as interested in art as English ladies. It has been nice renewing our acquaintance. But no childish games next time we meet at Abdin. Only art and Mrs. Monck.” He rose to his feet and the singer on the stage came to a deferential halt as the King crossed to the table reserved for him.

A few minutes later Darius exited the club, a pulse pounding furiously at the corner of his jaw. Behind him, the club's entertainer resumed singing. Out on the pavement he sucked in a great breath of air, unable to get over the fact that his twenty-year-old king had asked him to pimp for him.

Farouk's unfaithfulness was legendary. There was widespread talk that many a court official was reluctant to attend court functions with his wife in case she attracted Farouk's attention. If she did, there was little the man could do about it. If the husband didn't comply with the King's command, his career would end. Darius, though he had little time for Farouk, had hoped the rumor was untrue.

Now he knew that it wasn't.

He lit a cigarette and began walking in the direction of the river. That Farouk would have the gall to approach one of Lord Conisborough's daughters was so outrageous he was
still dazed by it. There were European women in the city who would be flattered at the thought of intimacy with a king, but Petra certainly wasn't one of them.

When he thought of her reaction—if she were to know of it—the corners of his mouth twitched. Then, as he strolled past a couple of red-capped military policemen, he burst out laughing. The idea of Petra frolicking naked with Farouk among Abdin Palace's artworks was so surreal he almost wished he could share it.

That he couldn't went without saying.

But when he failed to escort Petra to Abdin, Farouk would take great umbrage. And when a king took umbrage, anything could happen.

A few days later, at the office, Darius had an unexpected visitor.

“Lady Conisborough would like five minutes of your time,” his secretary said. “Shall I tell her you'll see her?”

“Of course I'll see her,” he said, hiding his astonishment. “Have tea sent in. Earl Grey.”

He swept his papers into the top drawer of his desk and rose to his feet, wondering why on earth Delia wanted to see him. Even Davina never visited him at his chambers.

“So you really
are
a lawyer,” Delia said teasingly as she strode into the room, trimly dressed in a St. John Ambulance Brigade uniform.

The tailored black jacket and pencil-straight skirt emphasized her slim figure and her black peaked hat made her Titian-red hair seem more fiery than ever. The hat sported a jaunty striped cockade that he suspected was an honorary symbol of rank. It suited her outgoing personality, and not for the first time he found it remarkable that a woman in her mid-to late forties could still be so breathtakingly dazzling.