Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
On al-Maghrabi Street, Noah inspected the bustling pavement packed with tables, cane-woven wooden chairs, and soldiers. Maison Groppi was a popular patisserie and deli with the troops, but Noah considered it a tourist trap, preferring to patronize some of the small cafés in Old Cairo.
He found who he was looking for, mostly because Captain Alastair Taylor refused to wear his uniform.
Slender with lanky limbs, Alastair wore a tweed jacket with khaki trousers, a navy-blue bowtie, and his favored straw Panama hat over dark curly hair.
He smoked a pipe as he sat reading his newspaper, fully absorbed.
Noah made his way to the table and sat. Alastair didn’t look up. “Did you see the headlines today?” Alastair’s voice was dry.
“Yes.” Noah unbuttoned his military jacket, feeling more restricted in it since the young nurse from the clinic had applied a thick dressing over his shoulder. As though he needed that much padding on his arm. He had half a mind to remove the dressing while he sat there.
Alastair folded the newspaper, taking a pull of his pipe. He held the smoke in his mouth momentarily, then released it. “Damned fools. I always worried about the Russians.” The streets crawled thick with carts and motorcars. “Mark my words, there will be riots today. Tea?”
“Coffee, preferably.” The locals who worked at Groppi’s weren’t likely to be the best gauge of the feelings of the native population.
They were too accustomed to the treatment of the colonials—and their patronage.
But Noah agreed with Alastair. Since the Bolsheviks had overthrown the Russian government weeks earlier, he’d worried what might come of it politically.
Now, a group of the Russian Communists had discovered the details of Sir Mark Sykes’ ill-advised agreement with Georges Picot, the French diplomat.
As the best of former allies turned enemies did, the Russians had turned around and published the details of the agreement in the newspapers.
The whole of the Arab policy seemed to flounder.
A few seemed to understand it better than others—T.
E. Lawrence and Gertrude Bell came to mind—but even they were short-sighted with their beliefs on what would be “best” for the locals.
“Sykes was the damned fool if we’re honest about it.
Giving the French all of Syria. Major parts of the Transjordan.
Worse still, divvying up the spoils of war when they haven’t the foggiest how to handle the locals.
As though they can simply throw the Shias and Sunnis together and make a nation of them.
” Noah cracked his knuckles, impatient and angry.
“Or any other of the warring tribes.” Alastair motioned toward the waiter. “Bring my friend your best cup of ahwa and something delicious. Surprise him. He’s not picky.” Alastair wagged a finger. “ … except with his ahwa. Make it the best.”
“I can’t stay long.” Noah’s eyes followed the receding form of the waiter. He pulled out the knife he’d taken from the assailant at Ezbekieh the previous evening. After unwrapping it from the handkerchief, he handed it to Alastair. “Do you think you might find its owner?”
Alastair turned the knife over in his hands. “The blade is ordinary, though straight, which eliminates several local forges. But what a unique handle. Ivory, is it?”
“It looks like bone to me.” Noah flicked away a fly that landed on the table. “The carvings are hieroglyphs, but crude. I believe they mean brotherhood of burj Aleaqrab.”
“Brotherhood of the scorpion? I believe you’re right.” A divot showed between Alastair’s dark brows. “Interesting.” He folded the knife in the handkerchief once again. “I shall endeavor to learn the origin and report back to you with the results. Now, about the other matter—”
The waiter had reappeared with steaming coffee and a pastry filled with Chantilly crème.
Noah thanked him as he set it in front of him.
He hadn’t intended to eat but the smell of the coffee changed his mind.
When he’d come to Egypt years before, the very first sip of the brew had made him abandon tea permanently.
Alastair leaned forward in his seat as the waiter left. “I have heard nothing definitive, but you’re right—Darby wasn’t killed at Ta’amira. My contact in Jerusalem saw him.”
Noah sank back in his chair, bowing his head. “Thank God.” His relief was mixed with guilt. He never should have left him. Damn Fisher.
“He has been captured, but as of the last sighting he was still alive and taken back to Jerusalem. But with the army at the gates of Jaffa, it’s likely he’ll have been taken on the road to Nablus.”
“To Aleppo, you think?” Noah sipped the coffee. Any satisfaction he gained from knowing Jack was alive was replaced by worry. They would torture Jack. He had to leave to go back out there. Immediately.
“I’m not sure. Damascus is more likely. The retreating Turkish Army has better things to do than transport their prisoners. But, then again, Jack Darby isn’t an ordinary prisoner.” Alastair lifted his pipe once more.
“Try reminding Lord Helton of that fact.” Noah bit into the pastry, which was cloyingly sweet. “His chief concern is to learn what secrets Fisher kept.”
Alastair clamped the end of his pipe in his teeth.
“He’s in a position where that, unfortunately, makes sense.
Do try to see the logic in it. Not that it gives me any pleasure in telling you that.
I’m as worried about Jack as you are. And as soon as I have even the slightest information on where he is, I’ll send word directly.
But, until then, be cautious. It won’t do any good for you to risk your life when he could be anywhere. ”
If anyone else had said it, Noah would have waved them off.
But Alastair’s contacts throughout the Arab world were unparalleled.
Between that and the safe houses he operated, Alastair could do whatever he wanted in the eyes of the government.
He considered his rank and title ceremonial.
The War Office went to him when they needed information, but he did not work for them.
Noah sighed. “How’s Khalib?”
Alastair’s face lit up. “He’s my best tutee. Hardly surprising. He already learned so much from you.”
Smiling faintly, Noah felt relief in knowing Khalib was safe now.
He’d rescued the orphaned Bedouin boy years earlier, and Khalib had repaid him with unwavering loyalty.
Noah pulled out an envelope from his jacket pocket, which he handed to Alastair.
“Here’s the money for his quarterly expenses.
Let me know if he needs anything, of course.
I’m basing it off what we last discussed. Is he managing with the prosthesis?”
“Yes, though he’s growing so fast he’ll likely need another soon.” Alastair set the envelope down without looking through it. “I know he’ll be pleased to see you soon though. He misses you terribly.”
Noah’s guilt at having ever allowed the boy to accompany him on his dangerous missions in the field had never diminished. Khalib had paid too high a price—Stephen had tortured him and severed his hand. Noah would live with that regret for life.
“Tell him I will be by to see him as soon as I can.” Noah finished his pastry with a few bites. “I have another favor to ask you, about someone else.”
A gleam came to Alastair’s eye. “La belle femme?”
Noah pursed his lips to keep the laughter at bay.
Trust Alastair to have his own nickname for Ginger.
“Fiancée, wife, love of my life that will send me to my deathbed.” He motioned toward the knife.
“With Fisher’s return, there seem to be several odd things happening at once. I need someone to monitor her.”
“What a romantic you’ve become.” Alastair sniggered. “Just eyes? Or someone who can handle an attack?”
“The latter.” He should probably tell Ginger that he planned to keep a guard on her, but it would defeat the purpose. If Alastair had a man for the job, that man would be nearly invisible. Ginger knowing might only draw awareness to him.
“I have just the man. We can go and speak to him after this. But it will be rather costly. How long?”
“Only for the next few weeks, I imagine.” The tops of the acacia trees across the street stood still, giving Noah a rather ominous feeling.
As though the city held its breath, waiting.
The headlines from the morning were influencing his reactions.
“I doubt Fisher will wait too long to strike. Not after that attack last night in Ezbekieh.”
The sweet scent of pipe tobacco drifted from Alastair’s side of the table. “Don’t underestimate him, Noah. The man is capable of infinite patience if necessary.”
“Not that I underestimate him. It’s that he’s already waited for a while to strike.
Six months is long enough for him to put together a sound plan.
” Noah drained his coffee cup. “And he has more than enough friends here in Cairo. I should have left him for the vultures in the Judean Hills when I had a chance.”
“You should have. But that’s what makes you different from Fisher. You’re a decent man with a conscience. He’s a scoundrel without a moral bone in his body.” Alastair winked. “Also, presumably, why la belle femme chose you instead of him.”
Noah chuckled, then leaned back in his chair. “Should we move on from here?”
A crash boomed through the air. Then, the crackle of gunfire, distant. Both men looked up, then were on their feet. “Wazzir?” Alastair asked, taking out a few coins to settle the bill. He pressed them into the hands of the passing waiter.
This had to be about the headlines in the newspaper.
The infamous red-light district of Cairo would be the most likely place for conflict. It was also situated just a few blocks away.
More pops of gunfire. Noah listened intently. It did sound as though it came from Wazzir. A confrontation between the troops and the locals? “I think so.”
Alastair sighed wearily. “You’re going to want to go there, aren’t you?”
“I work for the CID. Whether or not I’m on leave.
If gunfire erupts in the city and I don’t go and ask questions before witnesses make themselves scarce, the police will bungle the whole affair.
” Noah gave his friend a wry glance. “And you’re coming with me.
Wouldn’t you rather have your own eyes on the scene? ”
Alastair put his fingers over the bowl of his pipe and extinguished it. “Lead the way, Se-Osiris. It’s a beautiful day for an adventure with bullets whizzing past my head.”