Oasis of Night (19 page)

“Doesn't this sort of ruin the effect?” I gestured at our surroundings. “I thought the point of having tea on the terrace was to be seen.”

“Is that why you came here?” She leaned over the table. “To be seen?”

“Maybe I should be asking you the same question.” It felt like being interrogated, and I didn't like it.

“Mr. Stoyles”—she looked up as the waiter reappeared, bearing a pot of tea and a three-tiered tray loaded with dainties—“will you take tea?”

I was more than capable of fixing my own plate or anybody else's, but I reminded myself that this was their country, and they did things differently here. She selected sandwiches and tiny cakes and poured the tea.

“Thank you.”

“You no doubt are wondering who I am and why I have summoned you here.” She gazed at me with her beautiful liquid eyes, and I figured this was some kind of ploy. I'm naturally suspicious, and I'd heard about all the different tricks your average Egyptian employs to get himself a little of your tourist baksheesh, but she didn't seem the type.

“Yeah, you could say I'm a little curious.” I sipped my tea. It was excellent. “Maybe you can tell me what your game is.”

A muscle twitched at the corner of her mouth. “Mr. Stoyles, I know you are here looking for Samuel Halim.”

I'd been buttering a scone; I stopped. “Yeah?” There was something not right about this. No. Strike that. Everything about this wasn't right. I had the distinct feeling I was being set up.

“I, too, am very interested in finding Samuel Halim.”

I put my knife down with a
clang
. “Is that so? Suppose you tell me what for.”

Her dark eyes were suddenly full of tears. “My name is Tareenah, Mr. Stoyles. Samuel Halim is… my husband.”

I was glad I hadn't taken a bite of my scone because I'm pretty sure I would have choked. Yeah, I knew Sam was married; it was one of the first things he'd told me once we got to know each other. I just couldn't figure out what she was doing here, or how she knew about me. “I'm… pleased to meet you, Mrs. Halim.”

She covered her face with her hands and cried, and something inside me just crumbled. Call me a sap if you like, but I can't handle seeing a dame cry. I pulled out my handkerchief and offered it to her, mumbling what I hoped were comforting words. But I didn't dare touch her. I knew better. Your average Egyptian male doesn't take too kindly to a foreigner looking at, never mind pawing over, a native woman. I'd end up beaten to a pulp and dumped in an alley somewhere—if I were lucky.

“Thank you.” She accepted my handkerchief and dabbed at her tears. She really was the most astonishingly beautiful woman I'd ever seen. I could tell she hated losing her composure like that, and in front of a foreigner. “Mr. Stoyles, you are wondering how I came to know about your… friendship with my husband.” She pleated the damp handkerchief in her hands as she talked. “You are wondering why a woman like me would take such chances, meeting you in a public place.”

“Yeah, I wondered about that.” I didn't know a whole lot about Egyptian customs. Not every woman chose to wear the veil, and I understood it was a matter of religious devotion to those who did. Religious or not, however, an Egyptian woman was expected to observe certain behavioral conventions, and if Mrs. Halim had seen fit to meet me—a foreigner and an unmarried man—in public, her reasons must be pretty important.

“When I married Sam, I knew that his work was very important to him and also very dangerous.” She picked up her cup and sipped her tea. “I knew that he would be called upon to travel, and that I might not hear from him for weeks at a time.” She shrugged. “Such is the nature of his profession, that there is often physical danger.”

“Physical danger?” She'd lost me. “Wait a minute. He's the assistant to the British Consul in Newfoundland. How dangerous could it be?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Assistant to…. Oh, Mr. Stoyles, no. I imagine Sam told you that as a covering tale, as you Americans say.”

This was getting more and more confusing. “He's not the assistant to the British Consul in Newfoundland?”

“Mr. Stoyles, my husband is a captain with the Cairo police.”

You could have blown up a fifty-story building right in front of me then, and I wouldn't have even noticed. “He's… did you say… he's a cop?” I'd always figured there was more to his story than Sam had originally told me, but I hadn't counted on this. Sam, a cop? It explained a lot of things, though, come to think of it: his intelligence, his excellent physical shape, and his air of eternal watchfulness.

“You did not know.”

I gulped down some tea. “No. No, I didn't.”

A waiter passed by, and I stopped talking, but he was merely conveying a tray of dainties to a table in the far corner. Two blonde American girls, maybe sixteen years old, sat with a gray-haired man who was probably their father. The girls wore pastel dresses in some light fabric, with hats and gloves to match; the older man was smiling—a little painfully—as both girls chattered at him.

“So if he's a Cairo policeman, what was he doing in Newfoundland?”

She shook her head, lips pressed together. “I don't know. There are aspects of my husband's work that have to do with the war, and he is not free to discuss things with me or with anyone else. Mr. Stoyles, I am afraid. Sam was to have returned home several weeks ago. Since then, I have heard nothing from him. I question the police almost daily, but they always tell me the same story: they have no information, and even if they did, they could not divulge anything for reasons of national security.”

I helped myself to a tiny square of something that seemed made entirely of nuts and honey. “Mrs. Halim, I'm not sure what I can do to help.”

She extended her hand across the table, but did not allow herself to touch me. “Find him, Mr. Stoyles.
Please.
I have some money of my own. I will pay you what I can.”

“Oh, no.” I stopped her as she was opening her purse. “Not a chance, lady. I never take money from women.”

“You will not help me.” Her shoulders sagged. “You have no intention of helping me to find my husband.”

“Mrs. Halim, the only reason I came here was to find Sam, so you can bet I'm going to help you.” I smiled, but I was careful not to look directly at her; that kind of thing doesn't go over too well in Egypt. “I'll stay here as long as I can. I can't promise you anything. I'm a restaurateur, not a detective.”

“Oh, thank you!” She clasped her hands together. “Thank you so much. Thank you.
Shukran Gidann!
”

 

 

I
FIGURED
the first place to start my search would be the Cairo Police Department, so first thing the next morning, I went down to find a taxi. As luck would have it, Shiva was waiting in front of Shepheard's with his engine already running. If I didn't know better, I could have sworn he was following me. “Not at all, effendi, but I make it my business to anticipate your needs.” When I told him to take me to the Cairo police, he didn't even ask questions, just shifted into gear and pulled out into the noisy, smoky chaos of the Cairo street. “You know, effendi, I am not any ordinary taxi driver.”

“Uh-huh.” What was Tareenah Halim's angle anyway? How much did she know about Sam and me? She knew we were friends, but I somehow doubted she'd understand if I told her Sam and I had kissed—or maybe she would. I'd heard from more than one person that open and public displays of affection between men were quite common in Arabic societies, even encouraged, as a kind of bonding ritual. All the same, I found it hard to believe that any devout Moslem would cotton to the idea of two men kissing in anything other than friendship. It was kind of hard to tell what Mrs. Halim would think; she was difficult to read. Sure, she'd started crying on the terrace at Shepheard's, but maybe that was calculated, designed to make me open up and tell her everything I knew. I'd seen dames use that kind of manipulation before, so I wouldn't put it past her. In spite of her careful efforts to make me think she was harmless and delicate, I sensed there was steel in there somewhere, hidden underneath her pretty pink dress and red hibiscus flower.

“I anticipate and fill your every need, effendi Stoyles.” Shiva grinned at me in the rearview mirror. His teeth were white and very even. “I am your friend.”

“Hey. How do you know my name?”

“I had only to inquire at the hotel.” But he sounded uneasy, and his gaze slid away from mine.

I didn't believe him, and I wasn't about to let it go, but right now my main concern was getting some answers. Luckily, Shiva knew the city well, and before too long, we were pulling up in front of the police station—how he knew which police station, I couldn't figure, and this made me really uneasy. Ever since I'd arrived in Egypt, I'd been besieged by people who seemed to know why I was there, and I didn't like it. What happened if some knife-wielding crazy decided to take exception to me? Was there anybody I could call for help? Come to think of it, was anybody in Cairo what he or she seemed to be? I felt in my pocket for the tiny diorite bowl, making sure it was still there; I'd get Shiva to take me to the museum after I'd been to the police station.

“Uh, look—”

“I will wait for the effendi Stoyles
.”
He produced a folded newspaper from between the seats and sat back.

The inside of the police station was pretty much what you'd expect: a chaos of ringing telephones and conversation, the continuous movement of people up and down the corridors and in and out of the building. I approached the main desk, where a tall, skinny guy with great big ears was leaning on his elbows, staring down at the contents of an open file folder. My Arabic wasn't the best, but I'd gone to the trouble of buying a phrasebook; on the long plane ride over I'd amused myself by learning the half-dozen or so that I figured I'd need. I approached the desk. “
Salam alekum. Sabah el-kheir.”

Big Ears looked up. “Peace be with you, also, and good morning.” He had a faintly British accent, and I felt more than a little foolish. English seemed to be the
lingua franca
around here, what with the war and so many different nations all trying to score one for their side.

“You speak English, huh?”

“So it would seem.” The arch of his right eyebrow could slice through flesh. “What can I do for the Americani?”

“I'm looking for—” I figured there was no point in being coy about it; best to just come right out and say. “I'm looking for Sam Halim.”

His attention shifted back to his file folder. “Captain Halim is out of the country on important business. Good-bye.” The telephone rang, and he reached behind himself to pick up the receiver. “
Aiwa? Assif. Mish fahiim.”
He placed his palm over the receiver and looked down his nose at me. “I cannot help you. Good day.”

“No, you don't understand. It's very important that I see Captain Halim.”

“Captain Halim is out of the country on—” He snapped to taut attention as a slightly older officer with sergeant's chevrons on his sleeve approached the desk.

“What is going on here?” The sergeant picked up the file folder and flicked a glance over it, then turned to scrutinize me. “I heard you asking about Captain Halim.” His eyes were huge black pools of utter contempt. “He is out of the country on important police business.” His voice was sharp and slightly nasal, and he struck me as one of those people who always sounded irritated. You know, the kind of guy who thinks talking to you is a waste of his time.

“Yes, I know, but it is very important that I speak to someone connected with him.” I did my best to look desperate. “Please. This can't wait.”

“I am Sergeant Ibrahim Samir, Captain Halim's second-in-command.” He lifted a hinged section of the counter and summoned me forward. “Come with me.” I followed Sergeant Samir's elegantly trousered and beautifully shaped behind down a narrow corridor and into a room marked PRIVATE. He closed the door behind us and gestured at a small table and chairs. “Sit.”

“Sergeant Samir, I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice—”

“You will produce appropriate identification. Failure to do so will result in immediate incarceration.” He leaned against another table with his arms folded on his chest, while his big, black eyes bored into me like a pair of diamond-tipped drills.

“Like to play hardball, huh?” I took out my wallet and laid it open on the table. “There. Knock yourself out.”

He didn't smile. “The American style of humor has never appealed to me.” He picked up the wallet, and I couldn't help noticing that his hands were lean and tanned, and that the forearms left bare by the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt rippled with muscle. The same shirt was open at the neck, offering me tantalizing glimpses of his throat's smooth hollow, sprinkled with dark hairs. Like many of the Egyptians I'd seen in the streets, he wasn't real tall, but he sure made up for it. His face was square-jawed, lean and tanned, with full lips, a straight nose, and beautifully arched brows framing liquid black eyes. He was clean-shaven, albeit with a faint dusting of beard, and I wondered whether Sergeant Samir was just coming off the night shift—maybe that would account for his sour disposition—or if he just really needed to get laid. “Jonathan Stoyles.” He read the name off my driver's license, drawing out the syllables. “Jonathan Stoyles.”

I tried to lighten the mood. “Most people call me Jack.”

The black eyes fastened on me. “I am not most people.”

“Look, Sergeant. I'm not looking to cause trouble. I just need to find Captain Halim.”