Opposite the name
Egyptian Queen
, the name of the owner was given as Darius Zubair and his occupation was listed as lawyer. The officer in charge of searching the
Egyptian Queen
and questioning Darius had made a note to the effect that Darius had been extremely cooperative.
Deep in thought, Jack closed the file. He was still deep in thought when Archie walked in on him.
“So what's our next step?” Archie asked glumly. “Do we just check on the private life of every officer with clearance to take top secret information out of the building?”
Keeping the information that Darius was one of the houseboat owners to himself, Jack said briskly, “We'll keep as many people as we can spare doing that, but I think we should be
looking at the embassy staff as well. Gezira is the place where most of them live. I know tradition has it that no British diplomat can be suspected of treason, but there's a first time for everything. What's that you have in your hand? Another file resulting from the search operation?”
“No. Sadat has left Cairo for Manqabad in Upper Egypt. It's his official army posting, so no surprise there.”
“None at all. If he is on friendly terms with our spy and our spy's radio operator he won't be maintaining contact with them in Manqabad, so we can forget about Sadat for the moment. But the minute he returns, I want to know.”
Jack ran a hand through his hair. “I'm going to ask Haigh for clearance to speak with Sir Miles Lampson. Someone is going to have to tell our ambassador that his diplomatic staff will be coming under surveillance. Wish me luck, Archie. Lampson stands six foot six, weighs in at eighteen stone, and is going to be one very angry man.”
Lampson was so angry that Jack thought he was going to explode.
“A member of my staff a spy?” he thundered.
“It's a possibility, sir. Transmissions are being made to Rommel from Gezira and—”
“A member of my diplomatic staff a spy
?”
“—we need to know just what kind of military information embassy staff are privy to—”
“A MEMBER OF MY DIPLOMATIC STAFF A SPY
?”
“—and then check everyone with access to vital information,” Jack continued manfully as the ambassador's face went from an indignant red to choleric purple.
It took a full half hour for Sir Miles to gain control of his temper. When he did, Jack got the information he was after.
“Embassy staff at attache level are allowed to see everything, Major Bazeljette. The authority for them to do so comes from the highest possible source.”
“And that includes military information?”
“Of course. And if you think for one moment that a member of my staff is leaking such information to the enemy, then you are stark raving mad. You should be looking for a German, not an Englishman. And if not a German, you should be investigating officers in the Egyptian army. In fact they are the most likely source.”
Jack didn't bother to point out that the British scrupulously kept the Egyptian army ignorant of high-level military information. He didn't need to get into an argument with Sir Miles. Embassy attaches had access and that was all that he needed to know.
As he left the embassy he reflected that as Farouk couldn't possibly be as intimidating as Sir Miles had been, it was high time he had his confrontation with him.
“Where to, Major?” Corporal Slade asked him as he slid into the passenger seat of his staff car. “Back to GHQ?”
“No, Slade. The next stop is the palace.”
“The palace, sir?” Corporal Slade looked at him as if he'd said the moon.
“Yes, Slade. The palace. Now get a move on, will you? I want to see the King before he starts on one of his gargantuan lunches.”
“The King, sir?”
Slade was now looking at him as if he was suffering from heatstroke and that a hospital would be a more appropriate next stop.
“Either you start driving, Slade, or I drive myself. Now get this damn jeep into gear!”
It wasn't far from the embassy to Abdin but, as always in
Cairo, a short distance could take a long time. Today it was tanks that were causing a major traffic jam as they rolled in the direction of the Kasr el-Nil Bridge.
As Slade drove past a small alleyway off Sultan Hussein Street, Jack saw Sholto Monck's distinctive Chrysler parked at the entrance to it and then he saw Sholto going into a small cafe—and he was with Constantin. Zahra's boyfriend.
There was no reason at all why one of Darius's friends shouldn't also be friends with Sholto. Sholto was, after all, Davina's brother-in-law. All the same, it seemed a surprising friendship and as Slade battled on through the traffic toward the palace, Jack wondered just how long it had been going on.
Once they reached Abdin they were forced to an ignominious halt.
Jack showed his SIB warrant card that gave him carte blanche to go anywhere he wanted, but it cut no ice with the palace guards.
He telephoned Haigh for help. “I've spoken with Sir Miles and now I need to speak with the King,” he said tersely through the usual static. “Get Sir Miles to sort it out for me, would you?”
Two hours passed. Jack spent the time sitting in his jeep at Abdin's gates with Corporal Slade.
“Do you mind me asking what we're doing here, sir?” the young Londoner ventured as the day's heat grew ever more intense and beads of sweat rolled down his face.
“I have an issue with King Farouk, Slade,” Jack said, wondering whether that was, perhaps, the understatement of the year.
Just when he thought he wasn't going to be able to stand the heat for another minute, one of the guards walked toward him.
“The first chamberlain will see you,” the guard said as the giant gates opened. “His Majesty does not give audiences to
British army officers. His Majesty only speaks with generals and the British ambassador.”
Jack nodded, as if accepting the situation, but as Slade drove into the palace grounds he was determined that Farouk
would
see him, no matter how many courtiers he had to argue his way past.
Leaving an unhappy Corporal Slade sitting in the jeep, Jack was shown into an ornate anteroom where he was offered tea.
Tea always prefaced any dealings with Egyptians—even the buying of a carpet demanded the ritual—and Jack knew better than to attempt to hurry things along.
After nearly an hour an aide appeared.
“The first chamberlain will see you now, Major Bazeljette. If you will please follow me?”
Jack followed him. It was his first time in Abdin and he found the beauty of the rooms stunning. The main public chamber, the Byzantine Hall, was as long as a rugby pitch with high gilded ceilings, exquisite mosaics, and an awesome number of massive chandeliers. They walked through several more rooms before reaching the room where the first chamberlain was waiting. He was wearing a tarboosh, but his suit could have been tailored in Savile Row.
“I understand from your ambassador that you have business to conduct with me,” he said, making no attempt at small talk. “Is it, perhaps, to do with the safety of His Majesty?”
“No. His Majesty's safety is very adequately taken care of, I believe. And my business is not with yourself but with His Majesty. I trust the ambassador made that quite clear?”
The first chamberlain breathed in so hard his nostrils turned white. “His Majesty is not at the beck and call of British majors! Nor is he at the beck and call of the British ambassador! If you would please state your business and—”
At the far side of the room a door was ajar. Jack sensed that the King was behind it—and listening.
Not allowing the first chamberlain to finish his sentence, Jack said, speaking in a voice that would carry clearly, “Perhaps His Majesty is unaware that Bazeljette is an uncommon name in England and that there is no other Major Bazeljette in Cairo. If he could be informed that my wife is the daughter of Zubair Pasha, and that my reason for seeing him is bound up with a delicate family matter, perhaps then he will see me. If not, of course, I am only too happy to lay the matter before you, or anyone else who—”
The door slammed open.
The first chamberlain flinched.
The King glared at him.
“I'll speak with Major Bazeljette alone,” he said with an imperious gesture of dismissal, a huge cabochon emerald weighing down his little finger.
As the first chamberlain fled, Jack regarded his wife's lover with interest. Though his huge appetite ensured he was already beginning to look a little portly, the King was a good-looking young man—the emphasis being very much on the adjective “young.” Sovereign for five years, he was still only twenty-one. Jack had heard it rumored that Sir Miles Lampson often referred to King Farouk as “the boy” and could well understand why. This boy, however, had the kind of absolute power British kings had lost three hundred years ago.
“Many thanks for granting me this audience, Your Majesty,” Jack said, giving the bow protocol demanded, when what he yearned to do was land a very solid fist on the royal jaw.
The King, dressed in an exquisitely tailored suit and wearing a tarboosh, inclined his head.
And waited in stony silence for Jack to continue.
Jack had thought very carefully about how to gain his objective without ruining Fawzia's life. Any suggestion that he intended making the affair a public scandal would result in Farouk instantly ending it. And since Jack did not want to
take his wife back, such an outcome would, for Fawzia, be disastrous. What Jack wanted, despite his anger toward her, was protection for her when the affair ended on its own accord.
He cleared his throat. “It has come to my attention, Your Majesty, that a very eminent member of the court circle is having an affair with my wife, the only daughter of Zubair Pasha. Zubair Pasha has, I believe, held many cabinet posts in Your Majesty's government.”
Farouk continued to regard him in silence, but his eyes had taken on a distinctly nervous look.
Jack said pleasantly, “I will not cause embarrassment to Your Majesty by citing a member of your court circle in a divorce action. Nor will the divorce reflect in any way on my wife's reputation. Gallantry demands that she be seen as the innocent party.”
“Quite so,” Farouk said, now with relief in his eyes. “English gallantry. A very commendable quality.”
Jack nodded. “Indeed it is, Your Majesty. Which brings me to the crux of what I wish to speak with Your Majesty about.”
Farouk put a pudgy hand into his jacket pocket and began running worry beads through his fingers.
“I feel it would be gallant, on the part of my wife's lover, to make provision for her in the event of his leaving her. Such a provision would enable her to leave the relationship with dignity. It is the kind of magnanimous gesture an English gentleman would make,” he said, knowing damn well that if it was, it was a pretty rare one, but seeing no reason why Farouk shouldn't be led up the garden path as far as he could take him. “A chivalric, knightly gesture.”
“Ah, yes.” Farouk was beginning to look happier. “Quite so. When Prince, I had an English tutor. I am familiar with historical instances of English chivalry.”
“Then I think you will agree, Your Majesty, that the time to
make the promise of such provision is not when an affair ends, when emotions are painfully raw, but that a written promise of such provision should be made by the gentleman in question now—and lodged with Zubair Pasha's lawyer who will, if the time should come when it is necessary to do so, expedite everything without the gentleman in question having to be further involved in any way.”
The worry beads continued to rattle and click.
Jack waited.
“And what sort of … provision … do you think this particular gentleman should make, Major Bazeljette?”
“Not knowing the extent of the gentleman in question's wealth, I think perhaps Your Majesty would be the best judge of that. Perhaps Your Majesty could indicate the kind of provision you deem gallant?”
Farouk pursed small rosebud lips and then drew a gold-backed notebook and gold pen from one of his inner pockets. He scrawled down a figure, looked at it, and then wrote something else down.
He gave the notebook to Jack.
With great difficulty Jack remained nonchalant. “That would be very satisfactory, Your Majesty,” he said, continuing the charade. “And now perhaps I could wait while you confer with the gentleman in question and a legally binding document is drawn up? I shall then deposit the document with Zubair Pasha's lawyer. Fawzia will know nothing whatsoever about her lover's chivalric action until the day comes when it is requisite for her to do so. And perhaps,” he added in a moment of devilment he couldn't resist, “perhaps that day will never come? Perhaps her lover will marry her?”
Farouk's dark eyes gleamed. “Perhaps he will, Major Bazeljette,” he said, holding out his hand. “And though I know that such an event would surprise you, it would not surprise
me. And now, if you would like to return to the anteroom, an aide will bring the document to you very shortly.”
With that Farouk exited the room fast, on feet that were very nimble for such a plump young man.
As he realized that he had achieved his objective, Jack let out a deep sigh of relief. Not only had the King made ample financial provision for Fawzia, he had also stipulated that the deeds of a palatial Saint-Tropez villa would be made over to her. It was, Jack thought, with sneaking admiration for Farouk's farsightedness, a very good way of ensuring that if and when the affair came to an end, Fawzia would very conveniently be living several hundreds of miles away.
And if the affair didn't come to an end? As he left the palace, the document guaranteeing Fawzia's future in his breast pocket, he couldn't help reflecting that Fawzia would make a quite spectacular Queen of Egypt.
The next morning, as he set about prizing from the embassy a list of the names of the staff along with their biographical details, Brigadier Haigh put his head around the door. “Just thought you'd like to know your father is about to land at Heliopolis airfield,” he said in a manner far more genial than usual. “He's here to chinwag with Auchinleck and give Churchill a firsthand account of our situation. I keep forgetting what a bigwig your father is. If you want to join the reception committee, you may.”