The Hidden (36 page)

I am led out the door by two armed guards. As I walk through a corridor, people stand aside to let me through. Suddenly, a stone hits me on the head, and people begin laughing and calling out my name.

“Murderer,” they say. “Shame,” they shout.

My hand flies to my head to soothe the pain inflicted by the stone, and I bend closer to the armed guards and hurry with them to the waiting carriage. Stones and pebbles rattle against the roof of the carriage as we drive off. My relief at the prospect of seeing Virginie vanishes. This is the beginning, I say to myself, the beginning of the end.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Tashi knew that this was the culmination of his life’s work. The next few hours would be history in the making. This time tomorrow he would be able to stand with his head held high and take his place as one of the new leaders of the country.

Tashi walked quickly and quietly to an impressive-looking building belonging to one of the richer members. The house, code-named “camel holding,” was just off Sharia Abdin. Discreetly hidden in a garage at the back of the property was the bulletproof Daimler, donated by the same Sayyid, an al-Azhar intellectual.

Tashi waved away a group of children who tried to engage him in a game of stick throwing as he passed. It was twenty past seven. Night had blanketed the city in a light-spangled indigo haze, releasing the streets from the suffocating heat of the day. The usual pungent smell of earth and drains, spice and camel dung hit his nostrils. Though he had smelt it a million times before, tonight it was as though for the first time. The energy and the feeling of power coursing through his body made every sense hyperalert.

As he arrived, he looked at his wristwatch for the umpteenth time. There was just enough time to change, check the car, and arm himself with the bomb, the trophy that would hold it, and the detonation device. Masquerading as Suleyman Orhan, the secretary to the Turkish ambassador, Tashi was ready to enter the Abdin Palace
just behind Issawi, and hand him the “gift.” Last-minute checks had confirmed that the sector men masquerading as security personnel at the palace gates were ready. He put on his evening shirt and black tie, and he ran a comb through his hair. He looked at himself in the mirror, satisfied with the handsome reflection that stared back at him. He looked surprisingly like the Turkish ambassador. The plot was faultless. Hamid and Hossein, with al-Dyn’s help, had constructed the bomb cleverly. An almost-imperceptible plate of powerful dynamite was rigged up with detonation wires: minimum packaging, maximum power. The trophy, in which the bomb was to be placed, looked good. It was to be given to Issawi as a thank-you for his latest business venture, a joint venture between the Turkish ambassador, the now-dead Orhan Suleyman, and Issawi. The chief advisor had so many business deals going on, he would be temporarily floored by this little gesture of thanks from Suleyman and would be off guard for a few seconds. He would take the trophy when it was handed to him; of that Tashi was sure.

Hamid arrived in his chauffeur’s uniform with his hat under his arm.

“Hurry up,” he said.

Tashi adjusted his bow tie and cuff links and patted his breast pocket. In it were his fake papers and the invitation to the palace ball.

“Yallah,” he said.

The men walked quickly to the car. Hamid got into the driver’s seat. Tashi sat behind him. The brand-new black Daimler looked like embassy material, and its sleek exterior drew envious glances from the crowds as Hamid drove carefully towards the palace. He swallowed nervous breaths. Issawi and the king’s hours were numbered.

At last, the outline of the palace was visible ahead. Keep cool, he told himself. Keep cool. His job was simple. He was Suleyman
Orhan Pasha, secretary to the Turkish ambassador. His car would be checked like the others, but the security men were X sector members, so their passage through security with the bomb was assured.

He shot Hamid a look.

“Inshallah,” he said. “May Allah protect you.”

Hamid nodded and murmured the same. Then Tashi stared nervously, peering into the darkness.

“We must wait, wait for the torch signal.”

Hamid said, “There it is,” and he pointed up to the third-floor window of the building opposite the palace. Tashi searched the windows. He looked at his watch. Eight
P.M
. exactly. He saw three faint flashes. Torchlight against the ceiling of a darkened room. Message received. Issawi’s car was on its way. The information had been radioed down through the sector networks.

Near the palace, they let a sleek black Daimler like their own overtake them. Tashi and Hamid saw Issawi’s face through the window, his white balding dome, his thick neck rolled with fat, the smug grin on his face. He sat in the rear of the car with three men and a woman, dressed in red.

The car slowed to a stop, and the chauffeur got out to speak to the security guards. One of them opened the door and peered in. He smiled as he took their papers; another shone a torch under the chassis, kneeling down to take a good look.

The security guard examining the papers handed them back to man on Issawi’s left, nodded, smiled once more, and shut the door. The other security guard examining the undercarriage of the car nodded too, and the car was waved on.

Tashi gulped back a nervous breath and whispered, “The security men, they’re not our sector men. What’s going on? Oh God!”

But there was no turning back now. Hamid drove the Daimler towards the palace gates. Tashi sat back regally in his seat, breathing
hard. The gates to the palace loomed larger. Hamid stopped the car at the security checkpoint and got out.

“Welcome,” said one of the guards.

“You have an invitation to tonight’s celebrations?”

Hamid handed him the official paperwork with the royal stamp. Papadopolous had done an excellent job. The security guard unfurled the paperwork and studied it for a minute.

Then he opened the door and shone his torchlight on Tashi’s face. The trophy, with the bomb inside it, lay on the seat next to him.

“Orhan Sayyid?” he said, checking the photographic identification against Tashi’s face.

“Yes?” Tashi said.

“We must check the vehicle before it is given clearance.”

Tashi nodded, but inside his body was pulsing with anticipation. “Please,” Tashi ventured. “You must take all the necessary precautions.”

The security guard nodded to the other guard who knelt down and shone his torch under the car. He then got up and walked around the car a few times. Hamid was holding his breath. Seconds dragged by, then minutes.

The security guard got up and pulled the other aside. What were they doing? What were they talking about? Tashi tried to catch Hamid’s eyes, but his face appeared placid, unaffected by the delay. Tashi did not dare get out of the car. That would arouse suspicion. He simply had to wait. The two security guards glanced at him. Then one of them went into the gatehouse booth and picked up the telephone.

The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,

Cairo, late September 1919

When I arrive at Virginie’s house, I am shocked to see armed soldiers lined up outside. I long to see Alexandre but know it is impossible. He is in a prison somewhere. I fear we will never see each other again. I am distraught inside.

The door is opened. An austere official-looking Bey, an Egyptian civil servant, wearing a red tarboush, stands at the door and stares at me. The guards who escort me from the carriage pinch my arms as they walk me up the stairs. I am taken without a word to a first-floor sitting room that has been stripped of furniture except for a low bed, a small table, a jug, and a bowl. The floors are bare. No kilims or decorations remain. I am pushed inside, and the door is locked behind me.

I unravel my robe, remove my veil, and go to sit on the bed. I put my face in my hands. My baby is kicking again, and I can tell she is getting stronger. Despite all the adversity, she will not be broken. As I think of her, the fire inside me starts to rage once more.

I have heard nothing of the arrest of the men who murdered my poor papa. It is they who should pay for their crimes, not I.

And what of al-Shezira? The man who ruined so many—including my dear Rachid? Does the truth of his actions not deserve to be revealed? Don’t his victims deserve to have their suffering acknowledged? I look around the room, searching for anything that might help me escape. The walls have been stripped of paintings, the window frames of their drapes, the ceiling of its chandelier.

So this is how I am supposed to endure my days until they announce my guilt to the world and pass my sentence? My guilt to them is as certain as the sun in the sky. In the eyes of the qadi and Muslim law, I am a woman who has committed the worst crime imaginable. I am no longer fit to live.

But I will not give up yet. I will not crumble because of the qadi’s interpretation of the Sharia. I will seek justice. I remember the words of the Qur’an. There must be a sura, a verse in the Qur’an that will save
me. I begin to recite the suras, searching for help from my God, but my recitations come to nothing. I can find no answer.

If only I could see Virginie. When will they let me see her? I go to the window and look out at the garden and the trees. Then I go to the balcony door and try and open it. I am surprised to find it is not locked. That gives me some hope.

I hear something, a woman’s voice, inside the house, shouting from down the hall. I swing back towards the door of the sitting room and listen hard. It’s Virginie. Her voice is raised in anger. I have never heard her raise her voice like that. It is almost as if she were talking for me, at me, to give me some comfort, to reassure me that she is there.

“What is your charge?” she shouts. “I am well connected here in Cairo, Monsieur. What you are suggesting is outrageous.”

I hear murmuring for a while. The Bey is talking, and I cannot hear his voice clearly. Then Virginie speaks again.

“No, I will answer no such questions. I demand to see my lawyer. My dear friend, Hezba al-Shezira is not the person you are after. I know of no such terrorist group. I have never been involved with any plot to murder anyone.”

For a moment I hear nothing, and then Virginie screams.

“Get your hands off me. You’ll pay for this, Monsieur. The sultan is dead, murdered by your own countrymen, and you have the audacity to accuse me of being an accomplice in the murder of Hezba’s husband? I was her tutor, damn you. That was all I ever was, her tutor.”

I hear a door open, and Virginie’s voice echoes through the corridors of the house.

“My brother has been arrested. I know he has never been involved with any underground rebel group, and I have never heard of the Rebel Corps. I shall consult my lawyer. I shall have you charged with wrongfully arresting us both.”

Her voice gets louder. “Let go of me, get your hands off me, don’t touch me,” she screams.

I hear the front door open and Virginie cursing the guards who are escorting her to the carriage that brought me here. I run to the balcony, but all I see is her hat and the sweep of her skirt as she slips into the carriage. I also see a flash of handcuffs and the slow, evil smile of the guard at her side.

I hear footsteps marching and growing louder. I cover my face with my chador and grip it tightly to me. My door is flung open. The Bey stands there with two armed guards. The Bey crosses his arms across his chest.

“The court doctor will come this afternoon to examine you,” he says.

“When will I see my lawyer?”

“Tomorrow,” he says. “The day after, you will appear in court before the Qadi.”

I walk towards him, but the guards step forward and raise their guns at me. I step back, humiliated and angry.

“Can you tell me news of the man who was arrested with me?”

The Bey juts his chin at me, his eyes lifeless, his mouth rigid.

“I cannot go into details about the man’s case. But he is currently in the el-Rizah jail in Shubra. He will appear at the courthouse on the same day as you, although you will both be tried separately.”

“Have they arrested the men who murdered my father?”

“Three men have been arrested, yes,” the Bey says.

“I want to see them tried and sentenced to death,” I say bitterly, tears welling up in my eyes. “I saw them assassinate him with my own eyes. I should be called as a chief witness. I will make a statement.”

The Bey shuffles uncomfortably. “That is not possible. The charge against you is very serious. Khalil al-Shezira was a prominent, well-respected businessman and figurehead within the upper echelons of
Cairene society. His death has shocked many. The entire city wants to see the person charged with his murder brought to justice.”

Losing my temper, I lunge forward and point my finger at the Bey. Again the guards step forward and raise their guns at me.

“My father was the sultan of Egypt and now he is dead. I am the primary witness to the killing, and you think finding the murderer of a ruthless rapist and corrupt tyrant is more important than seeking vengeance for the life of a great sultan?”

“Enough,” the Bey says, his eyes widening with surprise at hearing me speak so freely. “Calm yourself. The doctor will be here soon.”

He nods at his guards and leaves the room with them.

I throw myself on my bed and bury my face in the rough blanket that has been left for me. As I pound the mattress with my fists, biting back bitter tears of grief and rage, a thought occurs to me, like a soft dewy rain soothing me. I must do something—for my baby, for my papa, for Virginie, for Alexandre, for Rachid, for these people that I love so dearly.

There is always a way. My God wants me to be strong. He wants me to suffer first and then gain strength from my suffering. He wants me to show my love for my family. At last I realise why I am in hell.