Chapter 20 #2
Would Masry recognize him? The last time he’d seen his uncle, he’d thrown Noah from his doorstep and spat in his face.
Noah had come to Egypt to learn about the family he’d never met.
The few things Noah’s mother had told him, he’d kept close to his heart, repeating names and phrases.
But the aunt that had raised him—his father’s sister—had done her best to encourage him to forget it.
“Tell no one your mother was Egyptian. They’ll hate you for it.”
Noah’s brother didn’t have the same interest in knowing. He’d been five when their parents died. Neal couldn’t remember their mother. Didn’t retain any of the Arabic she’d taught them as children.
But Noah had. He’d studied it in secret.
Learned to read and write it. His aunt and uncle had a servant who spoke it.
He’d taught Noah what he could, along with Farsi.
Noah had soaked up every word thrown at him.
And when his aunt had discovered it, she sent him to learn the languages “that mattered”—German, French, Spanish, and Italian.
But his longing to learn more of his roots had continued. And as an ignorant boy who thought he was a man, he’d set out to Egypt to find his family.
As the men in the basement discussed the Sykes-Picot Agreement, Noah edged closer to the door he’d come from. If Masry recognized him, he’d need to flee.
However, the chances of that happening were remote. After all, it’d been ten years. And they’d only met that once. Noah resembled his father—but who knew how well Masry had known him. His aunt had claimed he sometimes looked like his mother, but Noah had only one picture to compare himself to.
“The British have no intention of leaving us to govern ourselves …” Masry spoke in Arabic. Noah focused his thoughts away from the glowing embers of the past. Their discussion needed his full attention. Victoria’s life could depend on it.
“They lied to Sherif Hussein. They lied to us. We all saw it coming,” another man said. Murmurs broke out among the group.
Masry put both his hands out. “They ridicule us …”
The men vocalized their agreement.
“ … call us weak and spineless …”
The murmurs grew louder. Noah shifted so that his face was further in shadow. The air in the basement was stale, dry. Body odor and breath permeated the room, and it had grown unexpectedly hot.
“ … conscript our men, steal from our farmers. Steal the treasures of our people. We are not given the right to our own newspapers. They are no better than the Turks they replaced.”
The rhetoric went on for some time. Despite speaking of methods of raising funds to arm their cause, no mention of something as obvious as a ransom arose.
Though, perhaps, if they held Victoria, they wouldn’t want to tell everyone of it. There was a risk in doing so.
As the meeting wound to a conclusion, Masry said, “We have need for volunteers for an opportunity—one that has recently presented itself to us. We have little time to waste.”
Noah leaned forward with interest. Could this have to do with Victoria?
Either way, getting closer to the inner ranks of Masry’s organization could be beneficial. The more they trusted him, the more likely it was he could learn where they were keeping her. Noah stepped forward to volunteer as Masry’s gaze swept the room.
Then his eyes landed on Noah. His gaze narrowed.
Noah’s heart slammed hard against his ribs. He’d developed the skill of slowing his heart rate to have better accuracy when firing a pistol. Right now, the tricks he used evaded him.
Masry waved him forward. “Newcomer?”
The tight cords of Noah’s neck released. Masry didn’t appear to recognize him.
“We will put you to the test. Come.”
Test? Any relief he felt at Masry’s apparent lack of recognition faded.
He’d spent enough time with men like this to know that tests of loyalty could be violent.
Masry put a hand on Noah’s shoulder, leading him back out the door through which he’d come in.
Three more men came with them. They eyed each other with suspicion.
“What is your name?” Masry asked.
“Karim Sayed,” Noah said. Despite the alias having been compromised with Abdullah and Stephen, it was also one of his better ones in Egypt. The chance of Masry knowing what had happened to Karim Sayed in Jerusalem also seemed slim.
The area outside the door was dark, but they reached another doorway, which opened to reveal a tunnel. Noah gave an impressed look. “I didn’t know there were tunnels to Café Riche,” he said.
Masry smiled. He had straight white teeth. If Noah was honest, he could see a flash of resemblance to himself in the man, a fact that brought him no pride. “These lands once belonged to a palace. Then again, there are undiscovered tunnels all over Egypt, no?”
A couple of inches over six feet, Noah hunched as he walked, the ceiling of the tunnel at his height. Noah smirked, noticing that Masry had to do the same. Noah’s father had been tall, but apparently he’d received that attribute from both sides of his lineage.
“Do you have any experience with weapons, Karim?” Masry asked.
“Some.”
“Good, that is useful. We need soldiers. You look like a soldier.” Masry said nothing more for some time. Their footsteps and quiet breathing were the only sounds. Calmer now, Noah felt disoriented in the tunnel, not knowing where he was heading. Let alone for what purpose.
Minutes later they stopped before a ladder.
They took turns climbing it, to what appeared to be a drain cover, which was pushed back.
As Noah climbed out, a dog slinked past him.
Noah gave it berth, wanting to avoid the fleas that clung to it.
He turned, blinking in the moon’s light, trying to see where he was.
A boulevard flanked by trees was on the opposite side of a traffic circle across from where they stood, which was a vacant lot. They were in Ismailia Square. The CID would be fascinated to know about this tunnel.
He dusted his hands from the climb up the ladder, wishing for his boots instead of sandals. His feet weren’t as tanned as his arms and face, but the disguise Alastair had given him included sandals. He only hoped Masry wouldn’t notice his feet.
Masry directed them to an awaiting motorcar. He gestured Noah to climb into the back seat, while one man who’d accompanied them took the driver’s seat. Then they were off, driving through the streets of the city.
Releasing a tense breath, Noah inhaled another and it was filled with the scent of petrol and cigarette smoke.
He was one of the few men he knew who didn’t care for cigarettes, but he accepted one from Masry.
He’d learned to smoke as part of his work.
He’d learned to do many things he didn’t care to do.
As the acrid taste filled his mouth and throat, he ground his teeth.
Whatever Masry expected of him would be just another thing he’d do for his job. Nothing more.
The drive was a short one, past the fish market of the Clot Bey end of Wagh El Birket Street—infamous for its association with prostitution.
The squalor of Clot Bey filled the car, the scents of rotting fish and refuse mixing with the petrol of the engine in a nauseating combination.
They passed through the district, the tires rumbling down the street that came alive this time of night.
When the driver stopped, they’d come closer toward the Ezbekieh end of the street, and the motorcar idled behind the back of the El Dorado, an Egyptian singing and dancing club.
Noah leaned back in the seat, peering out. “In a few minutes, a man will come from the back door,” Masry instructed them all, pointing with a squint. “And when he does, we’d like to teach him a lesson on manners.”
“What type of lesson?” one man asked.
Noah stared at the back door to the El Dorado, willing it not to open.
He wasn’t in the mood for assaulting someone this evening, let alone to humor the appetites of his uncle.
Since they’d parked behind the building, they were relatively isolated from the view of the main street.
No one lurked back here but rats and insects.
Masry shrugged his thick shoulders. “I leave that up to you. But the message must be clear. Fail me and the fellahin will find your body in the Nile tomorrow. There is no use for men who waste my time.”
Noah stared at the backs of his knuckles, rotating his wrist. After he’d punched Stephen, he’d been forced to ice it. The polo match hadn’t helped. “What has the man done?”
“He defiled an Egyptian singer. He claimed he paid her but she was no prostitute. The police turned a blind eye because she was Egyptian. She died giving birth to his bastard.”
The meaning of Masry’s words was clear. Whoever this man was, he was not an Egyptian. He was probably white and British.
Noah’s suspicions were confirmed by the opening of the back door. A British officer in uniform exited into the dim light of the alley.
Masry gave the men a nod. They stepped out into the filth and refuse that lined the streets in the Wazzir. Noah avoided the puddles, the stench stinging his nose.
The British officer who’d come out of the El Dorado lit a cigarette, then turned to walk down the alley, away from them.
Noah’s feet felt heavy as he pushed himself forward, toward the man.
If he’d done what Masry suggested, he deserved a beating—or far worse.
But not from these men. They were likely to kill him.
Still, he felt Masry’s eyes on him. The penalty for failure was his own death. His pulse throbbed in his neck. He could try to run. But if he left now, he risked the best opportunity he had to learn about Victoria.
Stay, and he’d have to participate in the assault of a fellow British officer. One whose guilt hadn’t been proven.
He couldn’t stop them from hurting the man. Not now. But could he help him in the long run?
They prowled behind the man. Separating himself from the other men, Noah closed the gap, reaching him first. Noah wrapped his arm around the man’s throat with a speed and efficiency that allowed him access to the man’s sidearm with his free hand.
The officer’s body went rigid against him as he put both hands up to grab Noah’s arm.
“Pretend to be unconsciousness quickly. I’ll help you if I can,” he whispered in the man’s ear.
Then the other men were at his side, and he couldn’t risk saying more.
Noah increased the pressure on the man’s throat and he gasped, sputtering. At last, the British officer found a weapon—the heel of his boot against Noah’s bare toes. A flash of pain traveled up Noah’s foot. Releasing him, Noah darted to the man’s side.
With a swipe of his leg, Noah knocked the man’s legs out from under him. The officer tumbled back, landing on the stones of the alleyway with a sickening thud. Dazed, the officer blinked, tilting his head against the stones. Noah loomed over him, willing him to pretend he was unconscious.
Damn it.
Noah’s jaw clenched as the officer stared up at him in fear, then wide-eyed recognition. All Noah could hear was his pulse pounding at his eardrums. Harold Young.
Please don’t say my name.
Harold had worked with Noah for two years at the CID. An awkward, nervous man—but no older than twenty-two.
He knew what Noah looked like in local street clothes, wig or not.
Could he have done what Masry accused him of?
Noah didn’t know him well enough for that. Not that it mattered now.
Masry’s men took advantage of Young being on the ground and began their own attack, kicking and beating him as he moaned.
Masry stood off to the side, watching him intently. If Noah backed away now, Masry would think him weak. Maybe even kill him.
He tried to think. Of how Victoria needed him.
Of how to help Young.
Masry lifted his hand. The other men stopped and Masry stepped forward, toward Young, who lay shaking and groaning with pain. Blood dripped from his mouth, and his face was disfigured with bruises. He pressed his arms into his stomach, his legs curling in.
Masry leaned down and said in accented but perfect English, “We remember the woman you defiled. We remember everything your people have done to us.” He spat on Young’s face, then stood. Sniffing, he nodded to the men. “Finish it.”
Noah could only pray that Young would survive long enough for him to take him to the hospital later. Maybe if he left Young unconscious, quickly, it might be enough that the others would stop their attack before they killed him.
Noah unleashed a savage punch.