City of the Sun Page 17

  “I see,” Mickey said. “What about Yvette Cattaoui? Was she a Zionist?”

  “Very much so.”

  Bingo. Mickey thanked him hurriedly and hung up. “I have to speak to Yvette Cattaoui,” he demanded. “If anyone would know how to get false papers, it would be her. She might have a personal axe to grind, a score to settle with her brother.”

  “Slow down, kiddo,” Dorothy said. “We appreciate what you’ve done, but this is Donovan’s worry now.”

  “Connolly,” Kirk said, visibly flustered. “You’ve carried the ball up to this point …”

  “It sounds like you’re showing me the door,” Mickey interrupted, the smile on his lips quickly fading as he realized they were serious.

  Dorothy lit a cigarette and looked away from him.

  He was shocked that she wasn’t taking his side. “What’s going on, Dorothy? I thought we were pals.”

  She lowered her eyes and shook her head, her face showing her forty or so years of age as she frowned. “I am being your pal,” she said softly.

  “Ambassador?” Mickey sought a response from Kirk, who continued to avoid his eyes as well. “Hey, I may not be an expert, but I know my way around the Jewish community here better than any new COI guy you’d bring in.”

  “We don’t know how Donovan wants to go about this,” Kirk said hesitantly.

  “Donovan is taking over,” Dorothy said. “He’ll be in Cairo in two weeks.”

  “Two weeks!” Mickey was appalled. “Blumenthal is a moving target. Things can’t stand still for two weeks, you know that,” he said angrily.

  “Sorry. You’re off the case, Mickey,” she insisted, her face flushing. “The stakes are way too high to include anyone who isn’t a pro.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, too, but I’m not done yet,” Mickey declared. “You did too good a job recruiting me.” He crossed his arms.

  Kirk and Dorothy exchanged glances.

  “Maybe we ought to think this over,” Kirk said. “Let me talk to Donovan.”

  “I don’t think we can put him in touch with Madame Cattaoui without compromising ourselves,” Dorothy said to Kirk, sensing defeat.

  “What about that big B’nai B’rith affair that the king is throwing on his yacht?” Mickey said. “I can’t imagine Madame Cattaoui not being there.” He turned to Dorothy with a big grin. “I’ll bet my bankroll you can find me a ticket, sweetheart.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Photo of scientist can be found in Copenhagen University Science Journal, Spring 1936 issue. Check library at Fuad University.

  Kesner let out a victory cry as he deciphered Washington’s radio communiqué in response to Fastball’s inquiry. Sitting in his claustrophobic communication room, swallowing dozens of Benzedrine pills, and pissing into a bottle the liters of water he’d drunk to fight off sleep, he’d been waiting for this for the past thirty-six hours. Although the American Embassy in Cairo sent its transmissions out at fixed hours, Washington was unpredictable, and Kesner couldn’t afford to be away from his radio lest he miss this one. This was his chance to catch the American spy, who would undoubtedly be going to the library to retrieve the photo. Kesner would follow him and eliminate his rival.

  He furiously radioed Tripoli, which had reiterated that this assignment was top priority.

  Am on the trail of the American spy. Schwarze Hund.

  Forgetting his aches and pains and general exhaustion, he climbed back upstairs to his bedroom, his heart beating rapidly from the rush of adrenaline. What a story this will be to tell his son one day! It was 6:30 AM. He pulled out a guidebook and found that the library would open at 7:30. He had time for a quick shower before going down there to study the terrain and wait for Fastball’s arrival.

  As he anticipated, there was very little traffic on the road, with the Arabs just stirring from their Sabbath prayers, and it took no time to reach Fuad University. To his puzzlement, when he got there at 7:15, the doors to the main library were already open. He went straight to the mezzanine, where the scientific journals were shelved, and had no problem finding the journal in question.

  He anxiously flipped through it, only to discover that the page he wanted was missing, a fresh, clear tear along the side. Furious, he threw the journal on the table. “Someone has torn a page from this journal,” he complained bitterly to the librarian in charge.

  “Ay! It must have been that woman from the American Embassy,” the man said as he inspected the damage. “She’d called before and asked as a favor to the embassy if we could open the library early.”

  “When did she come?”

  “Shortly before 7:00. She showed me her card. I could not deny this courtesy to the secretary of the American ambassador,” the librarian explained in a plaintive tone. “But I will call the embassy and insist she bring the page back.”

  “You remember her name?”

  The librarian shook his head. “They all sound the same to me.”

  Kesner started out, but his nose twitched from the faint smell of tobacco. On one of the nearby desks, he found an ashtray with two lipstick-stained Viceroy cigarette butts. Fastball?

  All Kesner had to do to transform himself back into a Westerner was to exchange the tarbush he had been wearing with his suit for a fedora he’d bought at Cicurel. He stuffed a handkerchief into his chest pocket for added panache. Et voilà! Just another European dandy. He’d also bought at the department store a women’s purse, which he’d filled with basic feminine paraphernalia—face powder, lipstick, a mirror, and a comb.

  An hour later, he walked into the American Embassy with a relaxed gait.

  “She forgot it on the banquette at Groppi’s,” he said, laying the purse in front of the marine manning the reception desk. “She mentioned she worked with the ambassador.”

  “Must be Miss Calley, Ambassador Kirk’s secretary,” the young marine replied, his crisp white-brimmed hat shadowing his eyes. “Let me buzz her. I’m sure she’ll want to thank you in person.”

  “That’s quite all right. I’m in a hurry. Just tell her to be more careful next time.” As he spoke, his hands started to twitch and his scalp itched as if it were crawling with bugs. The damned Benzedrine! He quickly turned on his heels and pretended to head for the exit, but instead slipped into the visitor’s telephone booth, where he could observe the front desk. He removed his hat and gave his scalp a good scratching.

  A few minutes later, a strawberry blond in a tight black skirt and a white ruffled blouse strutted in. She examined the purse and shrugged. After looking around, she returned it to the marine.

  “Oh, my darling, aren’t you a lovely one,” Kesner muttered under his breath as he exited the embassy and walked to a bench a little way down the street. He checked that his Mauser pistol was securely tucked into his belt and leaned his head back. The sky was blue and cloudless. Another beautiful day. Like the banks, most embassies were open only half a day on Saturday. It wouldn’t be long before Blondie came out.

  Shortly after one, the American girl, wearing white cotton gloves, descended the steps and strolled down the street.

  “Excuse me, madame. May I bum a cigarette?” Kesner asked her.

  “Sure thing,” she said in a raspy voice. “I hope you like filters.” She dug out a pack of Viceroys from her bag. “Here, finish the pack. I have another.”

  Kesner smiled. He had found his prey.

  He could hear her humming along to the strains of “Lili Marlene” on the radio as she shuffled around in her bungalow, calling out, “Fiji, come here, kitty.” Gun in hand, Kesner stood motionless behind the entry door, which had been left ajar for the cat, his heart and mind racing. He’d never considered that Fastball could be a woman. He hadn’t killed a woman before. He did not like killing. He had even thrown up the first time. “You can’t think about it; you just have to do it and forget it,” he had been told on his first day of training. “This is war.” He felt nauseous, but he had to press forward. Suddenly he felt a warm body brushing ag
ainst his feet. It was her damned cat, and it refused to go away. Kesner kicked it, sending the cat scurrying away, meowing loudly.

  “Fiji!” the woman called, coming to the door in response to the cat’s cry, and was startled as Kesner shoved her back inside and smashed the side of her head with the butt of his gun. She flew backward and fell to the floor, her hair curlers scattering everywhere. He slammed the door shut and locked it. When he turned around, the bitch was back on her feet, her claws out as she jumped on him, making him drop his gun. She scratched his neck and kicked him in the leg, trying to scream for help as he covered her mouth. He wrestled her to the floor and pinned her. But she fought back with everything she had—a tigress—kicking, punching, and scratching his face. Finally, he had to slam her head against the floor until she passed out.

  He had to restrain the bitch before she regained consciousness. He dragged her to a chair, and using the window curtain ties as ropes, he bound her hands and feet to it. He used his own tie to gag her. Breathless, he paced, looking around. He saw his gun on the floor and picked it up. He wished he had brought a silencer. At the first shot, the whole neighborhood would be here. He turned up the volume of the radio and found his way to the kitchen, where he opened drawers. He took pliers and matches and returned to the living room. The bitch was now moaning and he heard the cat at the door meowing. He raised the volume of the radio some more, then went upstairs, to her bedroom. Clothes were neatly laid out on the bed. On a chair he found her purse and emptied it. Nothing of interest. But on top of the dresser was a small evening clutch. He opened it. There was an invitation in the name of Dorothy Calley to tonight’s ball on the king’s yacht, and neatly tucked in the corner he found the page of the scientific journal she’d torn out. In the middle of the page was a photograph of the Jew. The woman knew everything.

  “I don’t know anything about a Fastball, or a Blumenthal,” she repeated over and over when he removed her gag.

  She took him for an idiot. He showed her the picture. She shook her head. She did not know who he was. When he brought the photo very close to her face, she spat on him. That’s when it all became a blur—her tears, her explanations, her pleading, his ferocious yelling at her. It was a whirlwind as he brought the matches to her fingertips, then the pliers to her nails, pulling out her pinkie nail from the skin. But that was not enough. She still claimed to know nothing. She was just a secretary. That could well be true, but he no longer heard her, or the radio, or the traffic outside. Just the sound of waves crashing in his head as he clutched her head and deftly snapped her neck.

  CHAPTER 24

  El Emir Farouk, Mickey read the green letters painted on the side of the king’s gleaming white yacht, which was moored two hundred feet away from the Khedive Ismail Bridge. The three-deck vessel was the largest private boat on the Nile, and with its upper platform fluttering with streamers, it stood ready to receive the hundreds of guests that were expected for one of the year’s biggest social affairs, the B’nai B’rith fund-raiser for the British war effort. This was his chance to meet Madame Yvette Cattaoui and dig up some information about the local Zionists. He’d been allowed to stay on the case until Donovan’s arrival.

  “Get ready to meet the beating heart of the Peach Tin,” Dorothy had said when she informed him that she’d gotten him into the event.

  Peach Tin—he wondered how the Brits came up with that name for Cairo’s smart set of royalty, aristocrats, businessmen, military officers, and artists. It couldn’t get any swankier than this, he thought as he reached the dock, admiring the women in ball gowns and men in uniforms and tuxedos as they stepped out of their chauffeured Bentleys, Daimlers, and Rolls Royces.

  Mickey thought that for once he looked as spiffy as any of the dandies here, in his tailored tuxedo and with his hair slicked back with a dollop of pomade. If only his new black patent leather shoes were not killing him.

  “Bienvenue, monsieur. Welcome,” a young volunteer greeter chirped, as the last rays of the sun caught her gold chandelier earrings. “The reception is on the middle deck in the Lounge of the Pharaohs.”

  Straightening his bow tie, Mickey made his way past a small group of loud partygoers, drinks in hand, and ascended the intricately carved wooden staircase. The evening was balmy and there was a soft breeze. He could hear the gentle slapping sounds of the waves against the ship. It was a perfect evening for a cruise.

  It would be nice to take Maya on the water for their next date. He’d proposed horseback riding at sunset at the pyramids, but she’d said that would be too long an excursion for her. Yes, he would rent a felucca right here on the Nile and surprise her next Wednesday.

  It had not been easy nailing her down for a date. As the oldest sibling, it was difficult for her to get away, but they had talked several times since their last encounter. She was always the one initiating the calls, as she wouldn’t let him phone her at her cousin’s and refused to give him any information about her whereabouts. He never knew when these calls would come, making them all the more exciting. For God’s sake, he hadn’t dated a girl who had to hide him from her parents since junior high. Her family must really be old-fashioned. Had they promised her as a bride to another man? Mickey quickly dismissed that idea—she would not have allowed that. He would just have to accept the fact that Maya was elusive and that he’d have to jump through a hoop or two to see her. She was worth it. She was beautiful and delicate, and there was depth to her. She had an inner life that she kept very private, and whenever she let her guard down, he felt privileged.

  Welcomed by the warm sound of a jazz piano wafting out of the lounge on the deck, Mickey squeezed past a large crowd milling around the entrance and found himself inside a room that felt like a royal tomb. The ceiling and walls were covered with frescoes depicting scenes of pharaonic life, while torches on long brass poles created dancing shadows with their flames. The air was filled with a luscious scent emanating from enormous arrangements of orange blossoms and roses on tall pedestals positioned throughout the room. It was fantastic.

  “Entrez, monsieur. Ne soyez pas timide (Come on in, don’t be shy),” said a pretty volunteer in a flowing pink gown, offering mezzes from a silver platter. He counted a dozen or so such lovely young women floating from group to group, while flutes of champagne were served by suffragis clad in white with large gold headdresses in the traditional Egyptian style. As he made his way through the packed room, he was struck by the jewelry adorning the women. He was ready to bet that every jewelry store and safety deposit box in the city had been emptied.

  He noticed Robert Stahl, the American naval military attaché, approaching him, a drink in each hand.

  “Connolly, right? I’m Robert Stahl. We met at a cocktail reception at the French Embassy last month,” he said.

  “Yes, of course, I remember. How are you, sir?”

  “I liked your piece on General Catroux,” Stahl said, referring to the story Mickey had filed about the five-star French general who’d come to Cairo to help De Gaulle raise an army of Free French, only to run up against a wall of obstacles created by the pro-Vichy French Embassy here. “It kills me that the Brits are permitting an enemy embassy to remain here,” Stahl continued.

  “They have no choice,” Mickey said. “Egypt is a sovereign state and King Farouk won’t close it down. There are a thousand Egyptian citizens living in Paris, and he fears reprisals by the Vichy government.”

  “I think there’s more to it,” Stahl said. “Maybe he just wants to ruffle the British ambassador’s feathers. Well, if you’d excuse me, I have to deliver a lady’s drink. Nice cummerbund,” he added, gesturing to Mickey’s purple waistband before moving away.

  Mickey grinned. Dorothy’s doing. When he’d spoken to her this morning, she had told him the color purple brought good luck and he must wear it. Where was she, anyway? She had gone to Fuad University and picked up a picture of Erik Blumenthal to replace the one he’d lost. She was going to bring it tonight. He scanned the room for her
, but not seeing her, he decided to get a drink.

  He made his way to the bar, behind which five pretty volunteers were magically lit by the warm glow of hundreds of small candles. He asked one of them, a brunette who reminded him of Ava Gardner, for a scotch, straight up.

  “Have you got a lottery ticket, sir?” the girl asked as she poured the drink. “Winners get a dance with Madame Samina,” she said flirtatiously, handing him his scotch. “It’s for a good cause.”

  “Count me in,” he said. “I’m always good for a good cause.” The exotic dancer from the Kit Kat Club was apparently more of a star than he’d thought. Mickey obliged the girl by filling out a card before he walked away.

  Always the reporter, he made it a point to catch snatches of conversations as he meandered around the room on his way to the library. According to one British officer, the tide of the war would change, especially now that reinforcements were on their way. A man with a goatee was describing Hassan al-Banna’s escape from prison in broad daylight. His matronly wife seemed more worried about the shortage of rubber and its impact on ladies’ undergarments. He heard snippets about the looming railway strike and how this would not have happened had the government not nationalized the trains, as well as speculation about how big a crowd would attend Nahas’s rally. The speeches of the leader of the widely popular Wafd nationalist party were invariably anti-British. But the biggest concern seemed to be the news that the Eighth Army had retreated all the way to El Alamein.

  He strolled out onto the deck and into the library, where the atmosphere seemed more relaxed, with people gathering around oversized armchairs. The air here, too, was perfumed by extravagant floral arrangements.

  Mickey spotted Kirk easily in his bright yellow bow tie and matching cummerbund. He was holding court with no less than King George of Greece and King Peter of Yugoslavia. But kings or not, they both looked miserable. King George was drawn and sallow, and the wild-eyed, mustachioed King Peter looked more like a guerrilla leader than a monarch, despite his tuxedo.