City of the Sun Read online

  Lili slid up next to Maya and interlaced her arm around hers. “Should we go?”

  Maya placed the postcard back in the display, and they started walking back.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Siwa,” Sidi said, pointing to the small town just inside the Egyptian border, which shimmered in the heat like a mirage. “We’ve finally arrived.”

  Mickey shook from his head the haunting images of the decimated Cruiser tanks littering the desolate landscape like dinosaur carcasses in a prehistoric graveyard and turned toward Sidi. The poor man had been badly injured, with cuts all over his body and a broken ankle, if not more. Angry with Mickey for his recklessness, he’d sulked the whole way. The journey back had taken three times longer than expected because of the high winds they’d encountered on the way. “We’ll go straight to the field hospital. They will take good care of you,” Mickey said.

  “I doubt it. They are British,” Sidi snorted.

  “I don’t blame you for not liking the Brits, habibi, but I wouldn’t trust this Mohammed Haider,” Mickey said. “Ask the Russians. He signed a nonaggression pact with them and then he turned around and attacked them.”

  Sidi stared straight ahead, unhappy with this truth.

  As the Jeep drew closer to town, tanks and trucks milled around in the afternoon sun. Once a sleepy plantation of dates and olives built around an oasis, Siwa was now a British military garrison. A high wire fence surrounded the encampment on the outskirts, and a British sentry emerged from the wooden hut that served as a gatehouse. He flagged them down as they approached.

  “Papers ’ave ye?” the Brit demanded in a bored Cockney intonation, scrutinizing the two bloody men.

  Mickey reached inside the jacket lying on the backseat for his papers, careful not to brush his wounded hands against the rough fabric.

  The soldier jotted down Mickey’s name from his ID and glared at the Egyptian. “Who’s the camel jockey?”

  “He’s my interpreter,” Mickey answered. “The official translator for the Detroit Free Press and, as you can see, we are both injured.”

  “Listen, mate. I don’t care which press you’re from. If ’e doesn’t ’ave any papers ’e can’t enter a bloody restricted area.”

  “Maalesh, it’s okay,” Sidi urged. “We go to the hotel and get my papers.”

  “The hell with that,” Mickey retorted. “This man needs medical care and I’m taking him to the hospital.” He slammed the pedal to the floor and sped off.

  Sidi laughed at Mickey’s brazenness as he looked back at the sentry, who was running after the car in a huff. “You are brave, habibi. I hope your paper is paying you a lot of money for all the risks you are taking.”

  Mickey didn’t say anything, but he was not actually on the payroll. He was a stringer, writing stories and selling them to any publication that would buy them. His letter from the Detroit Free Press designating him as one of their official stringers was baloney, but he needed it to obtain press credentials in Egypt. Gunther Hoff, his mentor and former political science professor at the University of Michigan, had pulled strings to get it for him.

  The field hospital consisted of a large compound of khaki tents. Mickey pulled up next to an ambulance where two men were unloading a bandaged soldier and putting him on a stretcher. A receiving nurse was instructing the medics where to take him after noting the serial number on the ID tag that hung from his neck.

  “Just a few steps,” Mickey said as he draped Sidi’s right arm around his shoulder and lifted him from the Jeep.

  “I’m sorry, but this is a military hospital,” the nurse said as she strode briskly up to them, all business. “We don’t treat civilians.”

  “This man needs attention,” Mickey began to say.

  “Is that an American accent I hear?” a woman asked.

  Mickey turned to find the driver of the ambulance stepping out of her seat and coming toward them. She was all of five feet tall and in her midtwenties. She wore a red scarf around her neck, which offset the severity of her khaki uniform.

  It was Mickey’s first encounter with one of the infamous lady drivers of the Ambulance Corps. His college buddy, Hugh Charlesworth, who had convinced him to join him in Cairo in the first place, had waxed on about these women in his letters, assuring him that they were as bold in the bedroom as they were in the field.

  “I know you!” she said to Mickey, recognition crossing her face as she reached him. “You’re that American pressman. I saw your pretty face in the photo listing of foreign correspondents. There are not too many Americans.” She spoke the King’s English, every letter perfectly enunciated. “What is the trouble?” she asked Sidi before Mickey could reply.

  “I think my foot is broken, and I have a pain here.” Sidi indicated his lower abdomen.

  “I’ll be happy to take him in my lorry,” she told Mickey. “I’m headed to Mamoun. It’s only two hours away. I can drop him off at the general area hospital. I’m sure they can help him there.”

  Mickey brightened. He looked expectantly at Sidi, who shrugged, his lower lip still turned downward. “That would be fantastic,” Mickey said.

  “Brilliant. I’m Sally Harper.” She gave Mickey the once-over as she offered her hand. She radiated a cool sophistication that was only slightly undercut by the dimples in her cheeks.

  “Mickey Connolly,” he said. “Sorry, I can’t shake.” He showed his banged-up hands.

  “Better put some peroxide on those and bandage them up,” she advised, as she delicately inspected them and blew at some of the sand that had settled into the cuts.

  “That’s all right,” Mickey replied, pulling away. “Only a few scratches. Just take care of my buddy here.”

  They inched their way back to her ambulance and carefully deposited Sidi in the rear seat.

  “We’ll leave as soon as my friend comes out,” she said before putting two fingers in her mouth and jolting everyone with a piercing whistle. She leaned against the ambulance and crossed her arms. “So, you were just taking a stroll in the desert?” She grinned impishly while tossing a lock of blond hair from her eyes.

  “Something like that.”

  A plump redhead wearing the same uniform as Sally came out. After a brief introduction, she settled into the passenger seat.

  “Maybe we’ll bump into one another again,” Mickey said as he opened the driver’s door for Sally.

  “I’m sure we will bump into one another,” she said, taking a step closer and tossing a hip into Mickey’s. She looked up at him with sparkling blue eyes. “We’re going to Cairo soon. The city is very small. You run into the same people in the same old places all the time.” She slipped into her seat.

  “Then I look forward to bumping into you there,” he said with a wink and leaned in to say good-bye to Sidi. The man would probably be out of work for a few weeks. Mickey unhooked his watch and handed it to him. “Here, to tide you over.” He slammed the door shut over Sidi’s protests and tapped twice on the vehicle as it started off.

  By the time Mickey made it back to Siwa and returned the Jeep he’d rented, the sun was setting and the heat had finally begun to recede. He was beyond filthy and couldn’t wait to get back to his hotel and out of his clothes. He also couldn’t wait to get to his typewriter. The Brits had to be helped in spite of themselves. There was no way they could prevail in North Africa against the Germans’ new Panzer IVs with their 75 mm guns. They needed better arms and a better plan. He would tell the American people what was going on—assuming he could get his article out of the country. He knew how tight-assed the guys in the Censorship Bureau could be. They’d rejected the first story he wrote after arriving, a benign account of his impressions of Cairo. He had found the metropolis alive with glamour and exuberance, not a city paralyzed with fear and suffering, as he had expected. He’d entitled the piece “The Sweet Life.” It had no military implications whatsoever, but the censors feared that back home in England—where rationing had rendered an orange an extravaganc
e and the blackouts and bombings had made socializing impossible—reading about opulent parties in chic Cairo might be offensive. He knew he would have to smuggle this new story out of the country if he wanted it published. And he knew what he would name it—“SOS”

  The next morning Mickey awoke to the creaking of the slow-turning ceiling fan. He lay still for a few moments in that languid state between sleep and consciousness when the memory of yesterday’s events flooded his mind. His eyes popped wide open. No, he hadn’t dreamed it. His desert clothes lay torn and filthy on a chair and the ashtray next to his typewriter was brimming with cigarette butts. He let out a long, dejected sigh.

  The sun outside was at its zenith. He tried to sit up and winced. His body was as stiff as cardboard. His left arm was bandaged, but was still a little tender and his scratched hands were still smarting.

  A loud knock on the door jolted him. “Telegram for you,” a man’s voice boomed. It was the desk clerk. “It says ‘Urgent.’ It came just now, sir. Right this minute.”

  Mickey’s first thought was that something had happened to his father. What else could be urgent? A stubborn union man with a twenty-five-year career as a welder for General Motors, Patrick Connolly had so far been lucky enough to avoid having any accidents with his blowtorch, especially since he had lately developed a tremor in his hands from his drinking.

  Mickey stumbled out of bed, slipped into his trousers, and opened the door just wide enough to retrieve the envelope. The telegram was short and to the point:

  Please report immediately to the American Embassy in Cairo. British authorities revoked your visa. Must leave country within seventy-two hours.

  CHAPTER 5

  The coffee seller had assured Mickey that making the same Turkish coffee that was served in all the Cairo cafés was very simple: boil water, add sugar and a spoonful of coffee, stir well, and turn the heat off when the first bubbles appear. But with his head throbbing from a hangover, Mickey failed to remove the copper pot from the fire in time and it boiled over in a messy spill.

  He had barely slept the last four nights since returning from Cairo. The specter of having to leave the country was eating him alive. The British press office had refused to meet with him, and asking for help from the Egyptian authorities would surely be a waste of time. When he’d gone to the American Embassy, the ambassador was not available and had him meet with his secretary, who had confiscated his press badge. The English had caught him illegally crossing the border into a war zone, she’d explained, and they feared that he might have inadvertently given away the position of their tanks. She’d refused to listen to his account of how the Germans massacred the British with Panzer IVs and told him that America had to be supportive of their ally who was fighting a war on many fronts. The best she’d been able to do for him was to obtain a few days’ extension of his stay here, giving him a little breathing room to figure things out.

  Mickey was raging inside. He didn’t like to lose. He’d come here to make his mark as a reporter and he’d barely gotten started. His friend Hugh had enticed him to come, assuring him that there was a big story opportunity here in Egypt. Indeed, newspapers in the States weren’t paying attention to the war in North Africa, and the competition from American reporters would be light.

  He rinsed the pot and refilled it with water, switching this time to the simpler Nescafé. While waiting for it to boil, he started to plan a note to Hugh, thanking him for the posh apartment and the contacts he’d arranged. It was woefully bad timing that Hugh had been out of town on assignment since Mickey’s arrival in Cairo two months ago. Mickey couldn’t imagine his unruly friend in uniform. After graduation from the University of Michigan, Hugh had returned to his native England, but quickly growing bored with the mother country, he’d moved to Cairo, where he’d been happy as a clam teaching at the American University and living a life of debauchery. Then he’d been conscripted into the army.

  The phone rang.

  “Howdy, you little sneak,” a man’s voice said. It was Carl Nelson from UPI. “How come you missed the press conference yesterday? Damn thing pissed me off so bad I’m throwing in the towel.”

  “What’d I miss?”

  “New rules for the press. I quote. ‘All contentious stories that might be detrimental to morale are prohibited. No accounts of unfavorable occurrences involving Allied troops will be allowed. Reports of air raids may not be featured in headlines. The name of Rommel is to be avoided; words like “the Axis forces” or “German Command” are to be used instead. No references to the Muslim Brotherhood or the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem will be permitted,’” Nelson concluded. “How do you like that?”

  “That’s ridiculous. Tell the folks in Alexandria that there are no air raids! And why can’t we use the names of the Brotherhood or the Mufti?”

  “’Cause they’re siding with Hitler, you dolt!” Nelson answered. “You haven’t heard the capper yet. Every article we write has to be approved by three separate censorship officers. I’m heading to Iraq tomorrow. I heard Syria has allowed Axis planes to fly over its territory and use it as a base. From there the Krauts are sending troops to help the insurgency in Baghdad. It’s all about those Iraqi oil fields, I tell you. Want to meet tonight for a last hurrah?”

  “I have a touch of the flu,” Mickey lied. “I’ll join you if I feel better.”

  “We’re starting the rounds at the Scarabee Club. Ain’t no fun without you.”

  Mickey hung up. He wanted to have his spiel together before he met his colleagues. He moved to the gas burner, where his coffee water was now boiling. He would try the press office one more time, he decided. If that failed, he still wouldn’t go back to the States. That would be an admission of failure. Maybe he could string out of Lisbon. Portugal was neutral, and a lot of people were converging there. The phone rang again, catching him by surprise and making him jerk his hand, splashing boiling hot water on his wrist.

  “Yes!” he howled as he picked up the receiver.

  “It’s Dorothy Calley, Ambassador Kirk’s secretary,” said the woman in a composed voice after a moment’s pause. “It’s a new day dawning, Mr. Connolly. The ambassador wants to see you. Pronto.”

  Located at No. 3 Tolombat Street in Garden City, one of Cairo’s most elegant districts and home to most of the city’s expensive mansions and embassies, the American Embassy was nevertheless a very friendly place. The Americans had leased the building from one of the Egyptian king’s cousins, who ironically was said to have German sympathies. The rear of the beautiful villa had been made available to the tiny American community living in Cairo. It offered a mail center and carried a number of American newspapers and magazines that were otherwise unavailable. Best of all, it housed a superb PX where American goods could be bought, and cigarettes and liquor were duty free.

  Mickey entered through the embassy’s main reception area, where the administrative offices were located. The marine behind the reception desk confirmed that he was expected and asked him to wait. He sat down next to a well-dressed man engrossed in the sports section of the Herald Tribune. Though Mickey had put on his best dress shirt, he felt shabby as he looked down at his wrinkled linen trousers and jacket.

  “Good to see you again, Mr. Connolly,” a female voice said, startling him.

  It was Dorothy Calley, the ambassador’s attractive platinum-blond secretary who had phoned him. In her early forties, she was immaculately turned out in a simple black skirt and white blouse.

  Mickey sprang to his feet and buttoned his jacket. “Hello, Mrs. Calley.”

  She laughed a throaty Bette Davis chuckle. “It’s Miss, cowboy. There was no Mr. Calley last time I checked. Please follow me.”

  She led him down a corridor, her heels clacking on the black-and-white checkered tile floor. Mickey trailed behind, his eyes on her shapely derrière.

  When they reached a large, solid wood door padded with red leather, she stopped and turned to him, giving him the once-over. She picked a piece of l
int from his jacket and rapped loudly at the door.

  “Ambassador, this is Mickey Connolly,” she said formally as they entered. “Mr. Connolly, this is Ambassador Alexander Kirk.”

  Dressed to the nines in a light gray, three-piece silk suit with matching shirt and tie, his hair slapped down with Brylcreem, the ambassador was a dandy, and a well-perfumed one at that. The ambassador rose from a baby blue velvet armchair behind his desk, and as Mickey shook his hand, his attention veered to another middle-aged man standing in front of the window. He wore a blue suit and yellow tie, and Mickey was struck by his bold gray eyes as the man approached.

  “Please, Mr. Connolly, meet Bill Donovan,” Kirk hastened to say. “‘Wild Bill’ as we call him—lawyer, foreign affairs expert, and citizen extraordinaire.”

  “Stop it, Alexander, you’re going to make me blush!” Donovan said as he firmly shook Mickey’s hand. “Ace reporter for the Detroit Free Press, I’m told. Nice to meet you, Mr. Connolly.”

  Mickey was taken aback by the compliment given that he’d just been expelled from the country, but before he could say anything, Kirk said, “Come.” He patted Donovan’s shoulder affectionately and guided the group toward the office’s plush sitting area, where they settled in. “If you don’t mind, Miss Calley is going to join us. She’s an essential member of our diplomatic team here and this was her idea in the first place.”