The Hidden Read online

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2013 Joanna Chumas

  All rights reserved.

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

  Published by Thomas&Mercer

  P.O. Box 400818 Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781477848197

  ISBN-10: 1477848193

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013909235

  I dedicate The Hidden to the memory of Huda Shaarawi, early twentieth-century Egyptian Nationalist and feminist, and to the memory of my father, Henry John Chumas.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  East of Lake Timsah, Egypt, July 1940

  The strikingly handsome young man smiled to himself as he considered his good fortune. The rendezvous at the small desert village to the east of Lake Timsah, bordering the north of the Sinai, where he now found himself, on an icily still, crystal-clear night, was the culmination of a finely tuned plan. He had waited for this moment for months. Nothing and no one had stood in his way. His heart pounded as he searched the darkness. The sharp tang of wood smoke filled his nostrils, mouth, and lungs. In the distance, he saw a group of men lounging by the dying embers of a fire. They were smoking a nargila pipe, laughing drunkenly.

  He made his way towards the peasant woman’s mud-brick house on the far side of the village. He edged silently around the side of the building, then slipped through a narrow arch. He knew what he had to do—hand over the documents, maps, and key information. He fumbled with the canvas satchel he was carrying, and drew out a thick black cloak, which he hoisted around his shoulders. Everything was happening as his men had predicted. He saw the leaf mat at the back of the house and the red silk ribbon tied to a pole, the narrow entry, the back door to the woman’s house. He heard the murmuring of voices and shrank back behind a date palm.

  The men around the campfire were laying out mats, laughing, swigging back the last dregs from a whisky bottle. He stood silently, holding his breath, waiting, watching.

  Suddenly a powerful blow struck him from behind. Arms were clamped around his shoulders, and his head was wrenched back by the roots of his hair. A searing sound slit the air; the glint of a dagger poised at his throat, the pain shot through him, tight and hot and numb. The smell and taste of blood curdled in his mouth, and his screams echoed across the emptiness.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cairo, Egypt, August 1940

  The man who telephoned Aimee identified himself as Professor Langham. He introduced himself not only as Azi’s superior, but also his colleague, advisor, and friend. He asked Aimee to come to the university to pick up Azi’s belongings. A parcel, he said, had been retrieved from his locker. She hadn’t said much to him on the phone, simply agreeing to meet him for tea on the specified date. That Wednesday, Aimee went to see him.

  “It’s a real pleasure to meet you at last, Madame Ibrahim,” the professor said, smiling warmly. Taking Aimee’s tiny hand in his, he guided her through the thick oak door leading to his office.

  She looked hopefully into his blue eyes and murmured a quiet thank-you. He escorted her to a low armchair, then sat down opposite her under the whirring ceiling fan.

  “You’re very brave to have come so soon,” he said soothingly. “This must be a great ordeal for you. I had thought of paying you a visit and bringing you the parcel myself, but I didn’t want to intrude and appear improper or forward.”

  Aimee straightened her back and jutted her chin out, looking him squarely in the eye. “That’s kind of you,” she said, holding herself tightly inside her grief. “I am rather grateful to you actually for the chance to come. I needed to get out of my house.”

  Her voice trembled slightly as she spoke. She bit her lip and casually gazed around the room, studying the heavy wooden bookshelves, the trophies and ornaments on display. The professor did not respond right away, respectfully allowing the silence to settle over them for a moment or two.

  “The university was devastated by the news,” he said at last. “Young Ibrahim was one of our most respected professors. He had such a bright future ahead of him. Of course, I was delighted when I heard of his sudden engagement and marriage, but then this.”

  He broke off with a melancholy sigh and leaned towards her pleadingly. “I want you to know, Madame Ibrahim, that I am at your service, if there is anything you need, anything at all.”

  Smoothing her skirt with her hands, Aimee flashed him a half smile, wriggled her toes nervously inside her shoes, and moved her neck discreetly to ease the tension in it. This was so hard for her. She felt uncomfortable sitting with him, alone, like this, in his office. It did not seem quite right.

  “Azi spoke very highly of you, Professor,” she said with a forced smile. “He loved his job, his students, the university.”

  Langham sat back in his chair, studying her closely. What a startlingly good-looking girl she was, but she was just a girl surely? Her alluring eyes glittered like cut crystal in the sunlight, translucent green, all observing. She wore her hair clasped at the back of her head, its inky darkness a stark contrast to the pallor of her skin. She spoke English flawlessly despite a heavy French accent.

  “Have the police arrested anyone yet, Madame? Do you have any more information?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I’m so sorry, Madame Ibrahim,” he said. “The wait must be agonising.”

  “Please call me Aimee, Professor. I wasn’t married for very long. I’d hardly gotten used to being called Madame Ibrahim.”

  He smiled nervously at her and nodded. Aimee
felt herself go hot at the obvious break in the conversation. She was struggling to hold back the jabbing pain taking hold of her, the feeling that made sitting here in the professor’s office so excruciating. She thought of Azi, sitting in this same chair, talking to Langham and how he was dead now. She flashed Langham a grateful smile. He only wanted to help her, after all, but he couldn’t bring her husband back.

  “Professor, perhaps there is a way you could help me. I really would like to teach or translate perhaps, something to occupy my mind. It would make waiting for the police to find the killer easier to bear. I am fluent in English and French, and I speak a little Turkish and Arabic too.”

  Langham frowned thoughtfully and stroked his chin. “You’re a talented young lady. If only it were possible for us to use you here. I regret that this is such a conservative institution. I have my aspirations for this place—we need to adapt to the modern world and educate our young men to accept women in the workplace; although some do, I am bound, you see, by our founder, and by outside money. A woman working here would be”—and here he paused—“difficult. For the time being, I could not allow it.”

  Aimee felt her cheeks redden. She shouldn’t have asked him.

  He decided to change the subject. He could see he had embarrassed her. “You have family here, Madame?” he asked with a smile.

  “I’m an orphan. I have an aunt, but I never knew my parents.”

  She returned his smile, then studied her hands. It was humiliating to put herself at the mercy of a man she didn’t know. And he was looking at her so inquisitively, as though he wanted to know more about her. But some things were private and sacred—looking back on recent events, even a little unreal. First the telegram from her aunt Saiza had come, summoning her back to Cairo after fourteen years in France because of the war. Then had followed the train journey with Sophie, her school friend, their voyage together across the Mediterranean on Le Congo from Marseille to Alexandria, their arrival in Cairo—a city she did not remember, even though she had been born there. Released from the confines of their convent education, Sophie and Aimee loved the freedom from school, the excitement, the invitations to soirees and nightclubs and dances, all organised by Sophie’s uncle and guardian, Tony Sedgewick, who was based in the Egyptian capital. Cairo was a breath of fresh air after life with the nuns in Paris. Aimee hadn’t even been in Cairo for more than a month when she met Azi. Her aunt Saiza had introduced them, and he had courted her with such passionate abandon that she had been almost shocked. She knew nothing about men—did not know the first thing about how to act around them—but she knew she was falling in love with him. He had promised her the world, if only she would agree to be his. Azi’s world had fascinated her, and she’d been dazzled by his intellect, his plans for a dynamic new Egypt. He had a large group of male friends, academics and businessmen. Though she longed to live in his world, she knew that her shyness and her French convent-school upbringing had not prepared her for the cacophony of activity she witnessed every day in Cairo. Though she felt strangely connected to her birthplace, she was still a stranger here, walking blind. Like an invisible spirit, she could observe but felt barred from taking part. And her youth and her sex were barriers to this world. She was a young woman expected to act in a certain way. She knew so little of life, but sometimes her desire to know everything hidden to her shocked her.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Langham said. “But Ibrahim’s family surely will look after you now. They will take care of everything?”

  Aimee caught his eye. How could she explain to this nice man that the family she had married into was not interested in her?

  “They’re emigrating to America as soon as possible before things get too difficult with the war. I haven’t been invited to join them, not that I would want to, you see—”

  He looked on with interest.

  “It’s my aunt, Professor. She’s been like a mother to me. I couldn’t leave her behind. She’s all I’ve got now.”

  “You travelled from France, I believe?”

  Aimee nodded, searching his face. “I spent my childhood there, in the town of Neuilly near Paris, at a convent boarding school. My aunt thought it best, for my education. I taught there for a while after finishing school. Then the war started and my aunt sent for me. I’ve been in Cairo now for nine months.”

  “So you hadn’t been here long when you met Ibrahim?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “No. My aunt is a very social person. She’s very active with the women’s movement here. It was thanks to her that I met my husband. As you may know, he gave talks at the Society for the Status of Women on women’s role in society and the future of families in Egypt.”

  “Yes,” Langham said. “I was behind the research grant that sparked the talks.”

  She went on. “My aunt was very pleased with the way things progressed between us. She strongly approved of our engagement and our marriage. She thought it was proper that I marry, and to have me finally returned to Cairo to be with her was a blessing.” Aimee stopped herself before she said too much and turned to look out the window at the dazzling cloudless sky.

  “Of course,” said the professor, though she wasn’t really paying attention. Then out of the corner of her eye, she noticed him get up and go to his desk, unlock the drawer, and pull something out.

  “Before I forget, I do need to give you that parcel. I’ll order some tea for us, shall I?”

  He passed a large parcel to her and picked up the telephone. Aimee shivered and stared at it. Wrapped in thick brown paper and tied with string, it looked innocent enough.

  After speaking with someone in the university kitchen, Langham put down the telephone and looked at her hopefully. “Tea won’t be long. Have you any idea what it is?”

  Aimee shook her head and fingered the string curiously. “No. I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Do you want to open it here?”

  She looked up at him reluctantly. “I think I will take it home. If it contains letters or documents that might help the police with their enquiries, then naturally I’ll let them have it.”

  “Of course, you must do what you think is best.”

  “Is there anything you know, Professor? You must have known Azi better than most. You worked with him for a long time. Can you tell me anything? Anything at all?”

  Langham paused for a moment. He seemed to be searching the room for inspiration.

  “Your husband had many friends,” he said. “But that’s because he was well liked. Naturally he was opinionated, but it was important for him to be that way. He was a professor after all. But he also respected others who were prepared to voice their views. His students would say—”

  As he fell silent, Aimee noticed his expression change. He was biting his lip, thinking.

  “Can you think of anything unusual that occurred recently, anything he did that was out of character or that made you wonder?” she asked.

  Langham looked at her and put his thumb to his mouth for a moment, stroking his nose, his eyes narrowing, as he cast his mind back. “He seemed rather more ill-tempered than usual. That is the only thing I can think of. I put that down to his having a lot of work. And perhaps he resented that it was keeping him from his new bride.”

  He smiled knowingly at Aimee. The tea arrived. Cups were poured and handed out. Aimee put the parcel to one side and sipped her tea gratefully. When he had finished, Langham put down his cup and glanced at Aimee, quickly taking in the soft curve of her shoulders, the long black eyelashes framing those haunting eyes of hers. He felt sorry for her. He had a daughter her age. She could be his daughter. He watched her stand up to leave. The meeting had obviously been difficult for her, and he didn’t blame her for wanting to go.

  “Promise me you’ll telephone if you need any help at all, Madame Ibrahim,” he said as a last gesture.

  Aimee wondered what help he could be to her now.

  “I need work, Professor. I need to support myself and my aun
t. If you hear of anything.”

  He smiled and extended his hand to her. “Of course. I will make some enquiries. You must find time to enjoy yourself too, Madame, to take your mind off things. I’ve heard the great Noel Coward will be giving a series of war concerts. He’s planning a tour of the Middle East, which should be good for the soldiers’ morale and all of us really, something to look forward to.”

  He paused for a moment, studying her face. “As a matter of interest,” he asked, “do you think you will attend the launch of Monument?”

  She looked at him quizzically. “I—sorry?”

  “The book of poems by some of the university’s rising literary stars.” Langham smiled.

  “Oh—I don’t know.”

  “Your husband was looking forward to going. I’m sure you were sent an invitation. It’s been organised by Zaky Achmed, one of the professors here. I’m sure if you were to go, you would be welcomed with open arms. Many of the wives will undoubtedly be going.”

  Now that she thought about it, Aimee did remember the invitation. She’d seen it in Azi’s study but had forgotten all about it. She smiled and said, “I’ll give it some thought.”

  “It’s up to you, of course, Madame, but sometimes it’s better to be out among people, to know you’re not alone.”

  She watched him as he talked, his idle chitchat meant to make her feel better, as though he were an ally. The rays of sunshine through the window highlighted the yellowing of his teeth, the lacklustre rings around his irises. He was an old man and he meant well. She understood why Azi had been so fond of him. But all the same, she sensed he was relieved the meeting was over.

  “Don’t be a stranger to us, Madame Ibrahim,” he said warmly, his hand pressing hers once more. “You’re always welcome here.”

  “Good-bye, Professor Langham,” she said awkwardly, “and thank-you.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Haran Issawi was not in a good mood. His secretary had just informed him that his train from Luxor to Cairo had been delayed by another two hours. However agreeable the Winter Palace Hotel was, being stranded there was highly inconvenient. His temples pulsed angrily and he swore under his breath. He had engagements and reports to read over, and it was critical that the signing of the legal documents entitling him to an eighty-percent share in the trans-Mediterranean packing consortium went without a hitch. There was huge money at stake with this latest of his many business ventures. Although all of these endeavours yielded vast sums of money, this one would be particularly lucrative. It was typical of the inefficiency he encountered in every avenue of Egyptian public life that his chartered Luxor-Cairo train now had mechanical problems. And on top of that, he felt unwell. Beads of perspiration had formed on his forehead. His starched collar felt tighter than usual around his neck, and the buttons on his waistcoat strained. His eyes felt heavy and tired. Dinner the night before had gone on too long, and he had consumed too much whisky. Was it possible he was no longer young enough to enjoy the sensual pleasures of dancing girls, good food, and copious amounts of wine and spirits?