Redemption - Leon Uris [190]
Rory watched as the swirl of Terriers ground to a listless few, except for the kids still hustling Muslim worry beads, Catholic rosaries, kaffias, and trinkets they couldn’t mail to the girls back home.
Johnny Tarbox appeared like a mirage with steam shimmering up around him. He fell into a chair, limp.
“Nothin’.”
“Nothin’.”
“Fucking roaches had pet rats.”
“Wouldn’t put a pommy officer up in them.”
“The Casbah has eyes and ears,” Johnny said nipping the gin with an “ah.” “We’d be paying off half the gangsters in the old city to keep from getting our throats cut. They’re all sweaty and hairy and dirty in there, and the men are even worse.”
Rory was unable to resist a beggar kid leading a blind and hideously warped old man. His coin brought on a swarm. He settled for a wooden crucifix carved from the true cross and shouted them away.
Johnny jerked a thumb in the direction of the island in the middle of the river. “There’s where it’s at, Rory. When the Brits take over running a country, they make it comfortable for themselves at a cheap price. The Zamalek District has got the only beds in town without fleas.”
“Are you sure it’s off bounds?”
“Not officially, but they’ve got military police on every bridge, and patrols sweep up anything that looks like an enlisted man. We’re scum, cobber.”
“Makes you really want to fight for them.”
“Yeah,” Johnny muttered, “officers’ country deluxe…staff officers’ country. Nobody under a light colonel better blow his bugle over there. We got a tour of the gardens once when I was here. Like hotels you see in moving pictures…villas…gardens.”
A number of egalitarian plans began rotating in Rory’s mind.
“I hear you thinking, cobber, forget it. Anyhow, I found the best whorehouse in the old city—semi-exclusive—some real nice lookers in there. I think it’s a cold tub for me and then I’ll go fall in love,” Johnny said.
The clock in the train tower rolled half past three. It was two-thirty.
“Jesus!” Rory cried.
“Wot!”
“Chester! He’s been gone since we arrived yesterday.” “Goddamnit! I told that little bugger to stay in camp and work on the manual. We’d better start looking”
“Where?”
“The police, the morgue!”
“Calm down,” Rory said. “Any kid who could stow away to New Zealand from Hong Kong…”
“I’ll never forgive myself if anything happens to that Kid,” Tarbox said. “I gave him over a hundred pounds out of our stash from the battalion safe. Ah Jaysus, he’s been robbed and murdered. What do we do, Rory?”
“I say, for now, we sit tight and wait. If you have to visit a lady, I’ll wait.”
No, no, I’ll stay here with you. Oh Chester, boy.”
* * *
Private Chester Goodwood spent the first day walking along Ramses Road admiring the exquisite shops and, as it turned dark, worked his way through a host of bars and hotel lobbies collecting information. Like a good detective on the scent, he did not return to his hotel but grabbed a nap at the train station so he could start again at the crack of dawn.
Chester zeroed in on a petite but well turned-out travel agency and studied the clientele. A pair of big-time Arabs entered. A high-fashion European lady came and left. Several officers went in, none under the rank of major.
Chester was greeted with a very uppity sneer at the main desk, but the agent did catch a glimpse of Chester’s hand on the counter with the corner of a five-pound note visible.
“I’m making some inquiries on behalf of my commanding officer,” the private said.
“Please”—arms open, invited behind the counter into the seat and, chop-chop, coffee for the gentleman.
“I want the name of the concierge with the best connections in Cairo. Phone him and tell him I’m coming on behalf of my general. Please speak in English and you have earned yourself another five.”
The magic name of Mr. Hamdoon Sira came up for the first time.
Chester then worked his way to the bell captains of several of the better hotels, confirming Sira’s credentials. He finally found himself in the