looked at him trying to decide if he was being sarcastic. He couldn’t tell. This new man knew how to keep an inscrutable face. ‘In civvy street I worked for myself, sir.’
‘You’re beginning to give me an inferiority complex, Marker. Do you know that?’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ How far was Major Cutler joking? It was hard to know. They were walking along the open balcony overlooking the parade ground. A dozen red caps were being paraded and inspected before going off on their patrols through the streets of the town.
‘This way, sir. This is your office.’
The department that Cutler had been assigned to take over had its offices on this floor. This part of the building was only one room deep. The offices that were reached from the balcony overlooked the midan and the railway station beyond it.
They were all lined up waiting for him: privates, corporals and a sergeant plus four radio-room staff and their corporal in charge. There was even a cunning-looking old soldier who was assigned to be his clerk.
‘Organise a photographer right away,’ said Marker to one of the clerks. ‘Identity photo for the major, double quick.’
‘We’ll get to know each other soon enough,’ said Ross trying to remember other clichés he’d come across during his duties in the orderly room. Marker introduced each of them and described their duties, their accomplishments and, where applicable, their previously held civilian jobs. None of them were ex-policemen. Poor old Cutler had guessed right about that.
‘Is that everyone?’
Marker hesitated.
‘Well, is it?’ said Ross.
‘There is only one member of your staff not here yet,’ said Marker. ‘It’s a female clerk: Alice Stanhope. I’m sure she’ll be here any minute.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She went to see her mother in Alexandria.’
‘Is she sick?’
‘Her mother? No. No, not as far as I know.’
‘Why isn’t she at work then?’
Marker hesitated. It was difficult to explain about Alice Stanhope. ‘Her mother … that is to say her family are good friends with the brigadier. That’s really how she came to be working here.’
‘I see.’
‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, sir. Alice Stanhope is a highly intelligent young woman. She speaks several languages and knows more about this wretched country than any other European I’ve met.’
‘But?’
‘Well, her mother knows everyone. I mean everyone.’ He went to the door and looked over the balcony. Then he came back. ‘Yes, I thought that was her car. It’s an MG sports car, I recognised the sound of the engine.’
‘Do you mean to say she parks her car on the parade ground?’ said Ross incredulously.
‘Her mother arranged it with the brigadier,’ said Marker. In a way Marker enjoyed explaining the situation to his boss, just to watch his face.
‘I can’t wait to meet her,’ said Ross.
‘You won’t be disappointed,’ said Captain Marker.
He guessed of course that the big surprise was yet to come, so he was watching very carefully when Alice Stanhope came down the exterior balcony and swung in through the door. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late, sir,’ she said. Then, remembering she should have saluted, she came to attention and put her hat back on.
‘That’s quite all right,’ said Ross. Until that moment he’d firmly intended to leave his quarters that evening and disappear, thanking his lucky stars for preserving him. Now his plans, and indeed his life, changed. He would have to come back to the office tomorrow.
Alice Stanhope was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He must see her again, if only just once.
2
The region called El Birkeh, where so many of Cairo’s brothels were found, stretched from the railway station almost to Ezbekiya Gardens. This forbidden area – marked OUT OF BOUNDS by means of circular signs bearing a black cross – was constantly patrolled by red-capped military policemen. Its main streets were Clot Bey – named after a physician who did notable work on venereal disease, and Wagh El Birkeh, after which the whole ‘Birkeh’ district was named. For centuries this pleasure district had been spoken of with wonder throughout the Arab world, from Casablanca to Zanzibar.
The extreme western edge of El Birkeh was a maze of narrow alleys, twisting and turning between low mud-brick buildings. Day and night it was always populous, rowdy and predatory. Once musicians, magicians, soothsayers and dancers had plied their trades along with the whores. Now, in January 1942, the cabarets, peep shows and whores predominated. Women of all colours, all sizes, all shapes and all nationalities were to be had here. There were women for the rich and women for the poor. They sat on their tiny balconies calling down to men in the streets below. They were available in accommodations that varied from curtained alcoves in mud-wall huts to ornate rooms in palatial houses.
One of the more expensive establishments in El Birkeh was the brothel the soldiers called Lady Fitzherbert’s after the heroine in a ribald army song. The woman they called Lady Fitz was a fifty-year-old Greek dentist who’d arrived in Cairo penniless in 1939. The war, and the buildup of the army, was making her rich. She had already become one of the most influential people in Cairo. Lady Fitz ran her establishment with all the managerial skills of a Swiss hotelier. She sent gold coins to the ministers, provided the choicest young women for the Cairo police inspectors and gallons of whisky for the British red caps.
It was a cardinal rule with Lady Fitz that she did business only with those she knew. She knew the two soldiers who were using one of her best upstairs rooms. They came regularly. She knew them as Sergeant Smith and Sergeant Percy. What their real names were she did not care; the money they paid was genuine and they never gave her any trouble. She looked at her watch. The expensive Longines wristwatch was one of her few concessions to luxury, for her hair was simply combed, her makeup minimal, her dark blue cotton dress was simple and her flat-heeled shoes purchased in the souk. It was almost time; she made a signal to one of her girls.
The two soldiers had been upstairs for almost an hour. It was time that Lady Fitz sent the girl up to them. She was a beautiful half-Tunisian child who didn’t know the date of her own birth. She knew only that all her family had been killed during the fighting in Sidi Barrani in December 1940. From there she had walked about 350 miles to Cairo. Lady Fitz had found her begging outside the great al Azhar mosque. She’d looked after her well, and was saving her for someone special, which meant someone who could pay.
Sergeant Percy always paid for everything well in advance, and without argument or complaint. Sergeant Percy was different from all the others. He wore South African badges, but she was not convinced that he was from South Africa. She didn’t inquire. The important thing to her was that he was quiet, sober and polite. He seldom smiled, never made a joke and always wanted a different girl. It was the sort of behaviour that Lady Fitz expected of men, and she liked him. The other one, Smith, was sober too but fat, flashy and arrogant and too ready with sarcastic jokes. He ordered everyone around as though they were his subordinates, but for Lady Fitz his worst fault was in showing a complete indifference to her girls. Sometimes she wondered whether he was a homosexual. She could have offered him boys, men, anything he wanted, but he showed no interest in her offerings. She’d never fathomed him.
‘Get ready now,’ she told the girl. ‘Prepare the tea. It will soon be time to go to them. Do exactly as I told you.’
The girl had that earnest expression with which many children face the world of grown-ups. She looked at Lady Fitz and nodded solemnly.
The rough surfaces of the khaki uniforms the two soldiers wore, and