City of the Sun Read online

  Praise for Juliana Maio’s City of the Sun

  “Juliana Maio’s City of the Sun belongs in the ‘1 percent’ of new novels, not only because of the way she weaves suspense to keep you turning pages, but because she has married it all to a fascinating point in World War II history with descriptions of the Middle East that will have you swearing you’ve been there. The kind of book that turns non-readers into obsessive ones.”

  —Andrew Neiderman, author of The Devil’s Advocate

  “… A marvelous romantic spy thriller set in one of the most cosmopolitan yet exotic cities of its time—Cairo… [T]he novel is impeccably researched in both military matters and the details of day-to-day life, allowing us to meet as if in person characters who heretofore have appeared only in history books. A fantastic read from beginning to end—you won’t be able to put it down!”

  —Professor Marianne Sanua Dalin, Florida Atlantic University, Department of History

  “… A vivid novel of Cairo during the early days of the war in North Africa where café society was all but invented. This is a romantic adventure, rich with spies, Nazis, ever-changing power, and international refugees. The reckless events of the story are a distant mirror for the desperate troubles of the Middle East of today. A sexy and dangerous book.”

  —David Freeman, author of One of Us, the adventures of an Englishman in pre war Egypt

  “Juliana Maio artfully brings to life a very rich and crucial period in Egyptian history. Her scenes evoke intense emotions about the fragility of love and the cruelty of war, as well as the tragedies of religious persecution. Meticulously researched, this is a beautiful novel full of life that will stay with you long after you’ve read it. In her first foray into writing Maio proves that she has what it takes to be a great novelist.”

  —Alaa al Aswany, author of the international bestseller The Yacoubian Building

  “You feel the sweat on your forehead and smell the scents of the marketplace as you walk the colorful streets of Cairo with Juliana Maio’s vividly-drawn characters … [Her] detailed research brings alive the ancient city and creates a vibrant setting for the twisting, racing story. This is historical fiction the way it was meant to be enjoyed—and the way it was meant to be written!”

  —Kelly Durham, author of Berlin Calling and The War Widow.

  “This book fuses three of my greatest passions: drama, history, and the Jewish/Arab conflict. I was tremendously excited to discover City of the Sun—an engrossing, first-class historical drama. It’s a goldmine!”

  —Richard Dreyfuss, Academy-Award winning actor and founder of the Imagining the Future Fund

  “Juliana Maio’s City of the Sun is a stunning work of historical fiction, capturing the romance, intrigue, and danger of Cairo in 1941. Against the backdrop of an increasingly threatened Jewish community in Egypt and the rise of the Muslim Brotherhood—yes, the same one that keeps coming back to haunt that country—Maio magically transforms an almost genteel love story into a heart-stopping thriller.”

  —Andrew Nagorski, former Newsweek foreign correspondent and senior editor, and author of Hitlerland: American Eyewitnesses to the Nazi Rise to Power

  “What we don’t know about Cairo during World War II makes for an enthralling novel. Egyptian-born Juliana Maio knows this territory like the palm of her hand—which is where she holds us. City of the Sun weaves a tangled tale of espionage, wartime romance, political intrigue, and action in a city crawling with all four. If you liked Casablanca, this story is for you.”

  —Nicholas Meyer, New York Times bestselling author and Academy Award nominee for The Seven Percent Solution; screenwriter, The Human Stain

  “An ambitious work set against the backdrop of real events, Juliana Maio’s City of the Sun provides a fascinating insight into the events that helped shape the forces at play in Egypt and the Middle East today. This book couldn’t be more timely.”

  —Reza Aslan, international and New York Times bestselling author of No god but God and Zealot

  “Vivid … a romantic thriller set during the early years of WWII … [a] satisfying exploration of a key time in Western and Middle Eastern relations.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Greenleaf Book Group Press

  Austin, Texas

  www.gbgpress.com

  Copyright ©2014 Juliana Maio

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright holder.

  Distributed by Greenleaf Book Group LLC

  For ordering information or special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Greenleaf Book Group LLC at PO Box 91869, Austin, TX 78709, 512.891.6100.

  Design and composition by Greenleaf Book Group LLC

  Cover design by Greenleaf Book Group LLC

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62634-052-7

  Ebook Edition

  For Natasha

  You, too, are a daughter of Egypt.

  “Cairo during the war was what Casablanca had been mythologized as in the eponymous Humphrey Bogart film—a romantic desert crossroads of the world, of spies and soldiers and cafés and casbahs and women with pasts and men with futures, except that Cairo threw in a king and a palatial high society gloss and grandeur that Casablanca, both on and off screen, never even tried to evoke …”

  —William Stadiem (Too Rich: The High Life and Tragic Death of King Farouk)

  PROLOGUE

  A modern day Cleopatra without the glamour—that’s me! Maya thought as she leaned against the railing of the decrepit El Aziz as it steamed into Alexandria’s harbor on a hot and muggy morning. Like the legendary Egyptian queen who so fascinated her, she was being smuggled into the city. But while Cleopatra had designs on seducing the most powerful soldier on earth so as to assure her reign, this battered refugee from Europe could only hope to escape the never-ending persecution that came from being born a Jew and the ravages of the war on the continent. Maybe here, in this sunny Mediterranean land, she could rid herself of the nightmares that afflicted her night after night. She’d been told that Jews were safe in Egypt, but there was no escaping the war, as the gargantuan ships and submarines that dominated the horizon like ominous thunderclouds reminded her. Though she knew the fleet was British, she still shivered.

  Once she would have given anything to visit the land of the pharaohs and to pull into port greeted by colorful sailboats and fishing vessels. She would have taken a barge up the Nile, one sensuously scented with the oil of lotus flowers as Egyptians had done in ancient times, and glided up the river, admiring the majestic temples along the banks. But as she gazed at the gunmetal warships, the fantasy evaporated. She was too exhausted for that. The war had robbed her of even the basic right to dream. All she wanted was a place to drop her suitcases for good.

  As the boat approached the port, she saw that in addition to the British armada, hundreds of cargo ships crowded the harbor and she wondered how long it would take for the ship to dock. She had heard that it sometimes took days for boats to find a place to land. After all, this was the headquarters for the British Mediterranean navy, and who cared about a small boat full of filthy refugees? She removed the scarf from her head and pulled her long hair into a ponytail, before flipping it back and forth to fan her neck as she braced herself for a long wait.

  Incredibly, only two hours later, the El Aziz droppe
d anchor. Was God finally smiling on her?

  CHAPTER 1

  Libyan Desert

  September 1941

  “He says it’s true. Hitler is a Muslim, a good one. He goes to the mosque and prays five times a day,” Mickey’s Egyptian interpreter assured him, as he hurriedly translated the comments of the ragtag group of Bedouins who’d gathered around their Jeep. The men were tripping over each other’s sentences in their eagerness to share their stories about the war with an American reporter.

  “Are you kidding me, Sidi?” Mickey asked, tugging on the brim of his Detroit Tigers baseball cap.

  “They say his Islamic name is Mohammed Haider and he has come here to Libya to free all Arabs everywhere from the British infidels,” Sidi answered as he sheltered his eyes from the sun with his hand and squinted up at Mickey, who towered over him.

  The Bedouins nodded as if they understood what Sidi had said.

  “Where on earth did they get that idea?”

  “They said they hear it on the radio—on the German station. They play the best music, Mister Mickey Connolly,” Sidi explained.

  Mickey shook his head in disbelief. He’d heard all kinds of outrageous stories since arriving in Egypt in July, but this one took the cake. With Goebbels at the helm, Hitler’s mighty propaganda machine had extended its reach into the far corners of the North African desert, and the locals were eating it up. The audacity of the Germans was galling, though he had to admit the damn Krauts were brilliant at their game.

  “Don’t they listen to the BBC?” he griped, batting at the flies that swarmed in front of his face.

  A man with a gray headscarf and a flat nose spat out a short response after Sidi relayed the question. The Bedouins laughed heartily at the cleverness of their comrade, who puffed up his chest in pride.

  “Oh, yes, they do sometimes, but it’s very boring,” Sidi translated, barely suppressing a smile. “They tell us how to tend to rose gardens.”

  Mickey cracked a smile, deciding not to argue, but he felt deflated. He hadn’t driven 475 miles from Cairo and defied the British High Command by crossing the border into Libya just to listen to a bunch of nomads sing the praises of the Third Reich. He’d come here for a story. Though they were not involved, the American people needed to know about this desert war. They had to be made to understand the strategic importance of Egypt, which sat at the jugular vein of the Mediterranean and whose Suez Canal constituted the Allies’ lifeline to the Orient. If Hitler won here, the world would be up for grabs.

  Over the last few weeks the British Army Press attaché office had become increasingly tight-lipped, but it didn’t take a genius to realize that General Erwin Rommel and his mighty Afrika Korps were racing toward the Egyptian border at a furious pace, reclaiming the Libyan territory that the British had captured from the Italians. Three weeks ago, the Germans had been two hundred miles away in Benghazi; now they were only fifty miles from the border.

  “Sidi, please ask these good men who they think will win the war,” he requested, resuming the interview.

  The question was met with an immediate and unanimous response.

  “The Germans, of course,” Sidi translated.

  That the Brits were getting their asses kicked was not news. Facing the Germans’ new long-range artillery cannons, they were at a serious disadvantage. “I wouldn’t discount the Brits quite yet,” Mickey cautioned, “they didn’t gain control of half the world by accident.”

  “If you ask me, Mister Mickey Connolly, it is because of the English that we have no money to feed our families,” Sidi snorted. “They take the best jobs and then look down on us for being poor. Why are they still here, anyway?”

  Mickey had heard similar complaints from the fellahin, the peasants he’d met on the Delta on his way to the front, who blamed the British for the country’s staggering inflation. This was not their war. Neither the Germans nor the Egyptians had declared war on one another. Yet, when the conflict had started in Europe in 1939, the British had imposed martial law in Egypt, seizing control of the ports, railways, and aerodromes, and censoring the press, effectively undermining the independence that the Egyptians had fought so hard to achieve and had theoretically gained in 1936. The Brits refused to release their grip on the country.

  “A storm is brewing,” Sidi warned, squinting north toward the darkening horizon. “We must hurry back through the Siwa depression.”

  Mickey could feel a light wind pulling at his cap. He checked his watch. It was close to 8:00 AM and the temperature must have broken a hundred degrees already. It was time to wrap up. He had gotten all he could out of the Bedouins. He thanked them by distributing the packs of Lucky Strikes he’d brought as gifts. As Sidi started pouring water into the Jeep’s radiator, the boy tending the camels began to shout. He was standing on a ledge and pointing frantically into the valley below.

  “Tanks,” Sidi yelled over the shrieks of the nomads, who were rushing toward the boy. “Oh, I hope this is no big trouble,” he said fretfully.

  Mickey grinned at his lucky break and patted Sidi’s shoulder. Maybe he would get a story after all, a belated present to himself for his twenty-sixth birthday last week. He reached into the backseat of the Jeep for his binoculars and hurried to the ledge to join the agitated Bedouins.

  He spotted a deployment of a dozen British Cruiser tanks rumbling across the sand below. Routine reconnaissance, he assumed, but quickly the whomp and thump of shells told him otherwise. The tanks were being hit. Explosions shook the earth. The Bedouins dropped to the ground, but Mickey remained standing. His heart was pounding as he feverishly studied the horizon, trying to see where the enemy fire was coming from.

  There! To the left of the Cruisers, he caught sight of a detachment of six German tanks emerging from behind a small hill. An ambush. And these were not ordinary German tanks. They were Panzer IVs, monsters that were heavier, more powerful, and had greater firing range than anything the British had ever come up against. He had heard rumors about them, but they’d been dismissed by a British intelligence officer who’d told him that the Germans did not have the necessary equipment to unload such mammoth tanks at the docks.

  A deafening roar shook the ground violently, making Mickey almost lose his balance, but he managed to steady himself. Huge pillars of sand and plumes of smoke enveloped the British tanks as shells flew back and forth. It was the most frightening and exciting thing he had ever experienced.

  The Bedouins scattered, running away as fast as they could.

  “We must leave, Mister Mickey. I don’t care how much you pay me. We must go.” Sidi grabbed Mickey’s arm tightly and would not let go.

  “Calm down, habibi,” Mickey urged, wrestling his arm free. “We’re safe here. There is nothing to fear. The action is way down below.” He raised his binoculars again. Good God! The Germans had mounted their new long range 75mm guns on the Panzer IVs. The combination of range and mobility was proving deadly.

  Fresh explosions created a storm of sand as the rhythm of the rounds grew faster and faster. Two Cruisers were on fire. A rush of adrenaline surged through Mickey’s body as he spotted a German officer peering through his observation slit and shouting to his men. The turret of the Panzer swiveled and the tank lurched forward over the crest of a small dune, firing continuously, its armor-piercing shells plunging into a Cruiser and tearing its hull apart. In a flash, the ammunition and fuel inside ignited. Mickey bit back a cry and averted his eyes as the tank and the men inside were consumed in a fiery supernova. The Panzers were unstoppable, methodically obliterating the Cruisers one by one. The Allied shells made little impact against the Panzers’ toughened turrets, bouncing off the iron armor and exploding harmlessly on the ground.

  Suddenly, an ear-piercing blast erupted fifty feet away from him, throwing up a tower of sand and sending rocks and shrapnel flying in all directions. The deafening boom lifted him off his feet, and he landed on his stomach a few feet away under a massive cloud of smoke. His hands were
scratched and bloody. A goddamn stray round, he thought. Stunned by the blow, he instinctively curled into a ball and wrapped his arms around his head to protect himself from the rocks and debris that rained down.

  When the cascade ceased, he snapped to his feet and started to run for safety. A muffled cry stopped him. Sidi was rolling down the slope toward the battle. Mickey hesitated for a second before racing toward him as another thunderous blast shook the ground nearby. Shrapnel and rocks rained down again. He panicked. Had they been seen and targeted by the Germans? “Sidi,” he yelled, looking around frantically through the smoke. He found him lying motionless at the bottom of the slope.

  He had to get to him before the next round hit. Using his arms to protect his head from the flying rocks and angling his feet sideways so he wouldn’t fall, he hurried to him. The Egyptian was curled into a fetal position. His eyes were closed and blood dripped from his forehead and jaw. Mickey turned him on his back. He was breathing.

  “Sidi, can you hear me? Can you hear me?” he shouted, again and again.

  The corner of Sidi’s mouth twitched, and he struggled to formulate a response. “I hope you got your story now,” he uttered in a hoarse whisper.

  Mickey blinked. “Can you hold on to my neck?” he asked. There was no time to wait. He grabbed the Egyptian by his flak jacket and lifted him to his feet.

  Sidi whined as his knees buckled and he fell back to the ground.

  In the valley, the tanks were still firing at one another, oily smoke billowing high into the sky. Mickey knelt down and hoisted Sidi over his shoulder as best he could. They had to get out of here, out of the Germans’ sight. And fast.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Eins, zwei, drei …” Heinrich Kesner grunted as he pulled himself up to the iron crossbar that hung from the ceiling, counting until he reached fifteen to complete his third set of chin-ups. He’d already done his sit-ups, push-ups, and weight lifting. “A sound mind in a healthy body,” he told himself as he glanced out the open window and let the cool breeze from the Nile dry the sweat that had formed on his face and neck and made his undershirt stick to his skin.