Novel Treatments / Hidden
Hidden – A novel by Joanna Chuma
Copyright
2006
joanna.chuma@gmail.com
“Whisper her name…………..”
Prologue
Egypt
1940
Allah would protect him. The strikingly handsome Egyptian smiled to himself as he considered his good fortune. The rendez-vous at this small farming village by Lake Timsah, 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 and so far, he had not failed in his duty.
His heart banged anxiously as he searched the darkness. The stars winking in a moonless sky lit the way. The sharp tang of wood smoke filled his nostrils, his mouth and his lungs. In the far distance, he saw a group of men huddled around dying embers, smoking a nargila pipe, lounging drunkenly by the fire.
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, through a narrow arch. He knew what he had to do, hand over the documents, maps and key information that would blow the operation’s cover.
He fumbled with the canvas satchel he was carrying, and drew out a thick black cloak which he hoisted around his shoulders, pulling the collar high. He saw the leaf mat at the back of the house and the red silk tied to a pole.
He saw the tiny, narrow entry, the 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, gulping his breath, waiting, watching.
A great force hit him from behind. Arms clamped around his shoulders, his head forced back from the roots of his hair. A searing sound slit the air; the glint of a dagger poised for his throat, felt the pain, 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, August 1940
When she picked up the telephone receiver and heard his voice, Aimee closed her eyes in agony and chewed on her lip. He was so kind and his encircling kindness wounded her, perforating her heart, far more than any enemy’s hatred.
It was that voice, the soft, soothing velvety caresses that dragged her so painfully back in time, that voice that caused her self-control to crumble. And yet she had never met him, the man who spoke to her with such kindness. She had only spoken to him on the telephone when he had called wanting to speak to Azi. Azi was her husband and her husband was now dead.
Aimee knew what she had to do. She had to go to the college, to meet the kind possessor of the voice. She knew it belonged to the man called Professor Langham. He had been Azi’s superior, his colleague, his advisor, his friend.
She knew it was time to go and fetch the last remaining items that had belonged to Azi. The professor had told her he was holding them safely in his office at the university. She had delayed going, because she did not want to go there, did not want to relive the memories and walked through the booked lined corridors, knowing that Azi would never walk beside her again.
**
“It’s a real pleasure to meet you at last, Madame Ibrahim,” the professor smiled warmly, taking Aimee’s tiny hand in his, guiding her through the thick oak door leading to his office.
She looked hopefully into his blue eyes and murmured a rather choked thank you, trying very hard to concentrate on the moment, pushing away the shroud of death that enveloped her. She must concentrate on the simple things, the silly things, Professor Langham’s lopsided bowtie perhaps, then she would find the strength to carry on, the strength to push away the thought of her husband, the achingly real feeling of his arms around her, the sweet taste of his mouth on hers, his scent, the way their bodies had moved so beautifully together in the first weeks of their marriage, in the first thrill of their love. If she could do that, she would cope.
The professor guided her to a low armchair and sat 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 and she continued, lying, to save face, to hold herself tightly inside the grief she felt. “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 and she hung her head. Then she bit her lip, looked up and let her eyes wander casually around the room, studying the heavy wooden bookshelves, the trophies and ornaments on display.
The professor did not say anything for a while. It was respectful, he thought, to allow the silence to settle over them for a moment or two.
“The College was devastated at 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.”
And he broke off with a melancholy sigh and leant 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.”
Aimee flashed him a half-smile, smoothing her skirt with her hands, wriggled her toes nervously inside her shoes, moving her neck invisibly to ease the tension. This was 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. “He loved his job, his boys, the College.”
Langham sat back in his chair, studying her closely. What a startlingly good looking girl, just a girl, surely? Such alluring eyes that glittered like cut crystal in the sunlight, the colour of translucent green, all observing. Her hair was worn in a roll behind her head, the inky darkness of it, such a violent contrast to the pallor of her skin. She spoke English beautifully, though with a heavy French accent.
“Have the Police arrested anyone yet? Do you have any more information?” he asked.
“No, not yet.”
His head slanted sympathetically towards her.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, “It must be so very hard for you.”
She nodded and tried to hold his eyes with hers, to assure him she was all right.
“Please Professor Langham, call me Aimee. I wasn’t married for very long. I’d hardly got used to being called Madame.”
He smiled nervously while she struggled to hold back the jabbing pain taking hold of her, the feeling that made sitting here in the professor’s study so hard. She thought of Azi, sitting in this same chair, talking to Langham and now he was dead. She flashed the professor a faint grin. He only wanted to help her after all, but he couldn’t bring her husband back.
“I wish I could do something, 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 I do speak a little Turkish and Arabic.”
The professor 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, but I am bound, you see by the board, by outside money.”
He offered her a warm smile. “You have family here, Madame?”
“I’m an orphan. I have an aunt, but I never knew my parents.”
Aimee returned his smile but then hung her head and studied her hands. This was embarrassing; laying herself bare to a man she didn’t know. He looked at her so enquiringly as though he wanted to know more about her. Some things were private and sacred now looking back on it a little unreal. The telegram from Saiza summoning her to Cairo because of the war, the train journey with Sophie, then the boat Le Congo from Marseilles to Alexandria, their arrival in Cairo. Then everything had been wonderful, the freedom from school, the excitement, the invitations to soirees and nightclubs and dances and falling in love…
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Langham said. “But Ibrahim’s family surely will look after you. They will take care of everything?”
Aimee looked up and caught his eye. How could she explain to this nice man that her marriage family was not interested in her?
“They’re immigrating to America to start a new life as soon as possible before things get too difficult with the war. I’ve not 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, at Neuilly near Paris, at a convent boarding school. My aunt thought it best, for my education. I taught there for a while when I left school. Then the war started and my aunt called me to Cairo.”
“So you’d not 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 because of her I met my husband. As you might know he was giving talks at the Society for the Status of Women on women 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 auntie was very pleased with the ways things progressed between us. She was totally behind our engagement and our marriage. She thought it was proper I marry, and to have me finally returned to Cairo was a blessing for her.”
Aimee stopped herself before she said too much, staring out of the window at the dazzling cloudless sky.
“Of course,” she vaguely heard the Professor say and 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.
“Now I do need to give you that parcel. I’ll order some tea for us shall I?”
He passed it to her and picked up the telephone. Aimee shivered and stared at it. The professor was right. It did look innocent enough. Not large, containing no doubt papers, documents, wrapped up in thick brown paper and tied up with string.
Langham rang through to the College kitchen. Still she couldn’t bring herself to open the parcel. The heat, hardly made easier to bear by the fan, was making her feel quite faint. Suddenly she was back at Azi’s graveside. The wailing and the moaning, hauntingly terrible, echoed through her. If maman were alive, she murmured to herself with her eyes squeezed shut, her fists clenched against the fabric of her skirt.
Why she suddenly yearned for her mother, she did not know. It was as though a spirit had blown in on the wind, a voice from beyond the grave. And however wonderful her aunt Saiza was, a girl needed her mother. The girl she was, born to the harem princess, a baby, wrapped in scented muslin, was now out on her own. She had to pull herself together. If this grief would only pass, this dragging, pulling feeling in her heart and throat?
The professor put down the telephone and looked at her hopefully.
“Tea won’t be long.” He nodded at the parcel. “Have you any idea what it is?”
Aimee shook her head and fingered the string curiously.
“No,” she smiled almost apologetically. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Do you want to open it here?”
She looked up at him with difficulty. “I think I will take it home, Professor. If it contains letters or documents that might help the police with their enquiries then naturally I’ll let them have it.”
The professor cleared his throat nervously. “Of course. You must do what you think is best.”
“Is there anything you know, Professor? You would 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 and seemed to be searching the room for inspiration.
“Your husband had many friends,” he said. “But, let me see, there’s nothing odd there. He was well liked. Naturally he was opinionated, but it was important that he was that way. He was a teacher after all. And he respected others who were prepared to voice their views. His boys would say –”
“Can you think of anything unusual that happened the last few weeks, something he did that was out of character or that made you wonder?”
Langham looked at her and put his finger to his mouth for a moment, stroking his nose, as was his want, his eyes slithering to ribbons 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 the fact that he had a lot of work on. And that perhaps he resented this keeping him from his new bride.”
At this point, he smiled knowingly at Aimee. The tea arrived. Cups were poured and handed out. Aimee put the parcel to one side and drank her tea gratefully. When he had finished, Langham put down his cup, flashed Aimee a look, quickly taking in the soft curve of her shoulders, the long black eyelashes against 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.
“You will 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.
“If anything comes to mind, Professor, please let me or the police know. But then, “ she hesitated, “maybe it would be better if you talked to me first.”
She smiled and extended her hand to him. Langham took her tiny hand in his, said it had been a pleasure and walked her to the door of his study, stepping aside to let her through.
“I will telephone you if I can think of anything, I promise.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“And what will you do now?” Langham asked her.
Aimee smiled feebly. “I must find work to support myself and my aunt.”
“You must also 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, all 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, do you think you will attend the launch of Monument?”
She looked at him quizzically.
“Sorry?”
“The book of poems by some of the College’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 be going I am sure.”
Now she thought of it, Aimee did remember the invitation. She’d seen it in Azi’s study but had forgotten all about it, until now.
“I’ll give it some thought,” she smiled.
“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. Idle chitchat meant to make her feel better, as though he was an ally. The rays of sunshine through the window reflected the yellowing colour of his teeth, the dull lacklustre rings around his irises. He was an old man but he really was kind. 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.”
“Goodbye Professor Langham,” she said, “And thank you.”
Chapter Two
Haran Issawi was not in a good mood. His secretary has just informed him his train from Luxor to Cairo had been delayed by a further two hours. However agreeable the Winter Palace Hotel was, being stranded there was highly inconvenient. His temples pulsed angrily. None of this was any good, he swore under his breath. He had engagements, reports to read over and he wanted to make sure the signing of the legal documents entitling him to an eighty per cent share in the trans-Mediterranean packing consortium went without a hitch. There was huge money to be made from this latest of his many business ventures.
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. A thin line 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. Last night’s dinner had gone on too long and he had had one too many whiskies. Was it possible he was no longer young enough to enjoy the sensual pleasures of the dancing girls, the good food and copious amounts of wine and whisky?
His body was not young anymore. His once-lithe frame was padded with rolls of fat. His moustache was neither slick nor dark as it once was. His white hair fell out daily on his comb. His once-rich dark eyes had palled to a milky, vague non-descript colour.
Still in his position as Chief Advisor to the King, he commanded respect and fear. Yes, fear. He had the King and the Government of Egypt, like putty in his hands.
He considered his brilliant powers of persuasion, his own calculated finesse in persuading the Chief Councillor for the Fellahin, Youssef Attwara, against allowing tax concessions for farmers. High taxes made the fellahin work harder and the harder they worked on their cotton plantations, the more money rolled into the coffers of the wealthy landowners, of which he was, of course, one. The fellahin must become more businesslike in their approach and no concessions, tax or otherwise should be made available to them.
At least Attwara had been intelligent enough to read the underlying message he wished to convey. Issawi would hear no more on the subject of rent concessions or any concessions for that matter and that he had it in his power to ruin the business Attwara had built up painstakingly over many years. Attwara had stopped short of accusing him of threatening him. Wise man, Issawi thought, to stop the discussion there and to accept the inevitable. He did not like to be crossed. He had achieved all he wanted in his political life and he would continue to achieve. Now he could return to Cairo and report to the King he had succeeded in stamping out possible dissent among the fellahin and that aristocratic wealth would continue to flow in the right direction.
While he and his entourage waited for their private train to be made good, he would discuss the continuing problem of the X. His top security men had just arrived. As they walked towards him, he examined their faces and saw concern etched there. Hilali and Gamal both saluted and stood to attention.
“What news have you got for me, Hilali?” he asked.
Hilali cleared his throat.
“We need to move in soon, Sir,” he said. We have left it long enough.”
“Yes, yes,” Issawi snapped impatiently. “We must not loose any more men to them. What’s your strategy? How much ground force do you need?”
“Gamal and I have nearly finished fine-tuning our strategy Sir.”
“Not good enough,” Issawi snapped. “Your necks are on the line if you don’t speed up on this.”
Issawi saw Hilali’s eyes flinch, but the posture he maintained was rigid, soldierly.
“Sir, you must prepare yourself,” Gamal said, “Intelligence has uncovered another plot with you as the target.”
Issawi’s eyes narrowed bitterly.
“Go on.”
“We believe the Ismailia murder was the tip of the iceberg and that it’s only a matter of days before the Group make an attempt on your life.”
Issawi’s face was motionless. This news was nothing out of the ordinary to him. He was as hated as he was feared. His life had been targeted before. Now he travelled everywhere in armoured vehicles with his security entourage to protect him. But the way Gamal spoke, alarmed him. He was usually highly practical and unemotional. Now Issawi saw fear in Gamal’s eyes.
“Use your networks, Gamal,” Issawi said. “Find out who the masterminds are and exactly what they are up to.”
“Sir,” Hilali said. “We have dossiers, files on five possibles. There are quite a few branches or sectors of the organisation, but we can narrow things down to a handful of men at the top. The leaders have changed over the years. New names are appearing, linked with agents, sub-agents and counter-agents. We’re deep in muddy waters with this one.”
Issawi stood up and started pacing. The veins on his temple throbbed with irritation.
“Contact the Head of Secret Police at HQ. However big this group is, whoever the newcomers are, wherever they hide out, we have the resources available to find them.”
Gamal leant forward, his voice lowered.
“Sir, we can plan raids, but we do not have the resources to raid the hundreds of addresses this group uses. A lot of their men, we know for sure, are also undercover agents, working for the Germans, gathering information. We can identify, so far, as I said, approximately five leaders, but this group is clever. They move quickly. They change tack. They slip about invisibly. We have very few photographs of any of them. We think they using a tagging system, acting out directions, then passing the information on, so that work gets passed down the line and then each man disappears, changes his identity, his physical appearance. We believe they are running an identification paper racket, which serves them well but their primary focus is to take over the government and to rule by terror. As you know, they’re an old network. They’re artful and skilled. We don’t know yet when they are going to act, or how they plan to bring off the assassination. We just know that you are in very grave danger.”
Issawi ground his teeth and took a sip of water. It was unbearably hot. The ceiling fans whirred overhead. Trust nobody, he thought to himself. It was a mantra he had lived with his whole life.
“Where are these dossiers?” he asked.
“They have been encoded and sent to Operations and to our key men.”
“What type of man belongs to this group?” Issawi asked.
Gamal paused before he replied, studying Issawi’s face.
“Military men, academics, businessmen, traders from all walks of life and thugs, criminals, all coming together under one common purpose, a fundamentalist outright Nationalist take-over.”
“How many now belong, did you say?”
Hilali studied a notebook in front of him.
“We estimate the Group of the X is now at least five hundred men strong, but in reality, the network could and probably does spread far and wide and is without a doubt much larger than that.”
Issawi’s eyes narrowed.
“Damn them all,” he said.
Hilali went on. “We must use some of our men to go undercover and find out what they are planning. We don’t know how much time we have. It could be months but we think it will be a matter of days. The most important thing is to break them from the top down. Catch the leaders and we can attempt to break the network.”
Gamal said. “Your engagements, Sir? You should cancel your engagements for a while, until we can report back.”
Issawi snorted. “Impossible. I will not change one thing. I have my security men. I have my armed vehicles, my private train. My family is well looked after. You must order Operations to move in on them immediately. “
Hilali studied Issawi incredulously. It wasn’t as simple as that. His boss was an arrogant, unintelligent man who had no right to hold the position he held. Hilali hated him, but he had to earn a living.
Issawi went on. “How do you propose to organise yourselves men?”
Gamal said. “We’ll step up the undercover operation already in existence. We can scour the clubs, the brothels, the cafes, the streets, the addresses we have, tap phones, send in our men and women.”
Issawi smiled mockingly.
“Well, I am in good hands then, aren’t I? You’ll keep me updated very regularly, won’t you, Gamal?”
Gamal bowed his head and stood up.
“Yes, Sir.”
“But your priority is finding out the nature of the plot. You have forty-eight hours. Then I want you to report back to me.”
Hilali bowed and saluted then said. “Lunch has been ordered Sir. I’ll just go and check to see if it’s ready.”
Issawi went to window and stared out at the Nile below. The Group of the X did not scare him. He would not be intimidated by a pack of terrorists. He would continue to wield his power unhindered.
END PART-MANUSCRIPT
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November 27, 2006
Deleted User
So far I’ve enjoyed this snippet but its a bit short and way early in the story to attempt a lengthy review.
From the reviewers notes;
“Hidden has been reviewed by three critique agencies; two in the UK and one in the US. Both agencies agreed that the author has considerable talent as a writer and the novel has strong commercial appeal, engaging the reader with carefully crafted characterization, pacing and drama.
What exactly do critique agencies do? They can’t refer this piece directly to publishers as well?
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Usualy I wouldnt read things like this, I would just skim through and pick out stuff I didnt like. But for some reason I found your writing very interesting, not sure what it is but keep writing. 10
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