Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Giza was alive with tourists, no matter the season.
But now that winter had arrived, the area was particularly crowded.
Eager faces of nurses leaned out of carts, veils flapping in the wind.
And there was a sea of khaki uniforms everywhere too—soldiers didn’t come to Cairo without checking off a visit to the famous pyramids.
Ginger remembered her first visit to the Great Pyramid. Even now it still took her breath away. The stones used to build the monuments were enormous. The first time she’d come, she’d stared at them in amazement, unable to comprehend how they’d been moved in ancient times.
As the driver of her hired carriage pulled to a stop, Ginger looked at the long line of motorcars, carriages, and other forms of transportation gathered near the pyramids.
The address for Paul Hanover was located just past the Khedive Abbas Bridge on the banks of the Nile. But when Ginger had called there, servants had directed her to the Pyramid of Menkaure, the smallest of the three Queen’s pyramids fronting the Great Pyramid.
Ginger paid the driver of the carriage and stepped out onto the open area of the desert, in front of the pyramids. Besides the tourists and dragoman guides, the area also boasted a few tents for archeologists on digs. One was set up near the Pyramid of Menkaure.
Ginger approached it hesitantly. She adjusted the hat she wore, squinting at the tent. As she did, a woman strode from the tent, wearing trousers and a simple cotton blouse. She was young, not much older than Ginger, and her long blonde hair was tied back with a ribbon.
“Excuse me.” Ginger stepped toward her to get her attention. She shaded her eyes. “I’m looking for Paul Hanover.”
The woman stopped and gave Ginger a puzzled look. Then she raised one eyebrow. “You and me both, lady,” she said, her American accent strong. She continued past Ginger, heading toward an area of excavation near the base of the pyramid.
Ginger’s jaw dropped. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had talked to her like that.
But … it also meant the woman had heard of him. Ginger followed behind her. “Sorry, do you know Mr. Hanover?”
The woman looked over her shoulder at Ginger, studying her. Her mouth twisted. “Let me guess. He owes you money?”
“No.” Ginger laughed. The woman’s exasperated expression made it clear she wasn’t overly enthusiastic about Mr. Hanover.
The woman cocked her head. “Got you pregnant?”
“I beg your pardon!” Who was this woman?
She shrugged unapologetically. “Well, that’s why the last two women came around asking about him.
” She sighed and rolled her sleeves, exposing well-tanned, freckled skin.
“I’ll tell you the same thing I told them.
I haven’t seen him since May. And good riddance too.
He can stay wherever the hell he went. Because if he shows up here again, I’ll kill him. ”
With that, the woman lifted a Fedora that hung down her back and placed it on her head. She turned to go.
“Wait!” Ginger hardly could get the words out, still flabbergasted. The news that the woman didn’t know where Paul Hanover was hardly registered compared to the way she’d delivered it. “Who are you?”
The woman turned and laughed. Then she held out her hand for a shake. “Sarah Hanover. I’m Paul’s wife.”
Ginger stared at her proffered hand, stunned. His wife?
Paul Hanover was quite a liar, wasn’t he? Sarah didn’t seem fazed by the idea that her husband was a philanderer though. Did she not care or was she simply beleaguered?
Sarah dropped her hand to her side, then smiled. “And you are?”
Her mind raced to catch up. “Lady Virginia Whitman. I—my father was acquainted with your husband.”
Something in Sarah’s demeanor shifted, her eyes more distrusting. “What was your father’s name?”
“Edmund Whitman, Earl of Braddock.”
A hint of recognition showed in Sarah’s face. She straightened, then blinked. Looking back at the tent where Ginger had originally found her, Sarah hesitated. “Why don’t we go back over to my tent? It’s not a hell of a lot more private, but something is better than nothing.”
Ginger followed her. Sarah was a strange woman, to be sure, but her behavior also had an unburdened freedom to it that Ginger found intriguing. She dressed like a man and talked like a man and, from her appearance, she appeared to be an archeologist working in the field like a man.
Inside the tent the air was cooler, and a rug on the sand provided a place to sit along with two folding chairs made of wood frames with leather slings.
“Can I get you tea?” Sarah peeked out the opening of the tent.
“I can have my man get some. I’m sorry, I’m not really set up to host. I don’t entertain a lot of society ladies here.
” Sarah scratched an exposed area of skin at the base of her throat, leaving a red mark.
“No, thank you.” Ginger inspected the area as Sarah sat in a chair. “And this is perfect, thank you.” She took the chair opposite her. “You haven’t seen your husband since May? And you haven’t tried to learn where he is since then?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.” Sarah uncapped a canteen and swigged. “We came out here seven years ago for a life of adventure. No plans. I would have followed him to the great unknown.” She gave a tight-lipped smile. “That didn’t work out quite the way I expected.”
Ginger should have expected the disappointment welling within her.
For once, she’d felt like she might finally be moving in the right direction.
She’d found the answer to the clue Osborne had given her, and once again she’d hit another obstacle.
She struggled for words. “Then I suppose you don’t know where your husband went in May? ”
Sarah replaced the cap on her canteen. Her eyes were lively. “I didn’t say that, did I? In fact, I know what you’re looking for.”
Could it be possible? Ginger sat straighter. “I’m sorry—I thought—”
“Lady Whitman—is that right? I never quite know how you Brits handle those titles.” Laughing lightly, Sarah leaned forward.
“Please. Call me Ginger.”
Sarah smiled, displaying straight white teeth.
“I know what you probably think of me. Paul was a terrible husband. He would come back here, drunk and begging for forgiveness, but he never once lied to me. He’d tell me every damn thing he did, whether I wanted to know about it or not.
And, believe me, after a while I hated him for it. ”
With a sigh, Sarah continued, “So, yes. I know about the oil company. And I know where he was heading when he left—to Malta.”
Malta? Ginger’s lips parted.
Her father had a house in Malta.
It must be.
“What do you mean ‘the oil company’?”
“The Arab Anglo Oil Company, of course.” Sarah gave her a doubtful expression. “I thought—” She broke off, then tilted her head. “You don’t know?”
“I barely know about the concession,” Ginger admitted, feeling foolish.
Sarah chewed on her lower lip as though she wondered what she should tell Ginger. “Paul met your father in 1911 in England. He’d gone there to speak to the British Museum about some archeological …”
She shook her head. “Never mind, it’s not important.
At any rate, your father learned Paul was a geologist. And he asked him about his opinion on which parts of Arabia showed the most promise for oil exploration.
Together they negotiated a concession with Ibn Saud and formed the Arab Anglo Oil Company.
Your father had a majority share as he invested most of the funds.
Twenty thousand pounds, I believe. Paul was given a five percent share of the company, and Ibn Saud retained twenty percent of future royalties. ”
The news was shocking.
It also meant the government had no business trying to take her father’s company and concession. Her father must have spent every penny he had on the concession.
Her heart fell.
This is how her father lost his fortune.
Why hadn’t her father attempted to do anything with the concession and the oil company? “Then why is the company not on record? Did Mr. Hanover ever do oil exploration?”
Sarah shifted. “Well, that’s the problem.
Your father didn’t want to formalize the company in his own name.
He asked Paul to register it in America.
He’d been following the way the British government had handled the Persians and Mr. D’Arcy’s concession, and he was worried, especially once the war began.
Ibn Saud also asked him for another twenty thousand pounds in the concession to begin the oil exploration, which your father needed to get from an investor. ”
An investor like Stephen Fisher. The pieces were coming together.
Ginger could no longer remain seated, her nerves were firing in a way that made her want to go for a brisk walk. “Mrs. Hanover, do you think you could come back with me to Cairo and make an official statement about what you’ve just told me?”
Sarah combed her fingers through her hair, then pushed it over one shoulder. “I can do that if it helps you. But I’m guessing it won’t help unless you find Paul, will it?”
“No, you’re right.” Some of the hopeful feeling fizzled. “Without your husband, my family has nothing. My father entrusted your husband with the concession documents before my father’s untimely death last May. Then your husband was never seen again.”
“More than likely he left them on the island of Malta. It makes sense that he would have hidden them there.” Sarah’s tough exterior faded, her expression faltering.
“Before he left, Paul told me he wanted a divorce. He had a woman in Cairo—the affair had been going on for some time. When the woman tried to end it, he, uh”—she swallowed hard—“he told me he realized she was the one he really loved.” Sarah moistened her dry lips, then met Ginger’s eyes.
“Her name is Olivia Hendricks. He’s probably with her.
But if he is, he’s using the name Freddy Mortimer. ”