Redemption - Leon Uris [191]
Chester took a taxi across the 14th of October Bridge onto the forbidden island and stopped at the most magnificent hotel in the Near East, the Memphis Palace.
All the dinginess and noise of the other Cairo was muffled by banks of defending hedges and flowers. Arched and marbled, the hotel boasted legions of white-gloved attendants who seemed to walk slightly off the ground. It was genteel, good stuff. More like it, Chester thought. Moreover, Chester seemed quite at ease in the midst of all that rank. And tea music.
“I am Private Chester Goodwood, I believe Mr. Sira is expecting me,” he said, slapping the old pound sterling into the assistant’s hand. Chester knew that a pound on the rich man’s side of the bridge went farther than a fiver on the poor man’s side. It was a singular accomplishment of the wealthy and powerful not to overpay for things.
“Mr. Sira is with a guest. He will be with you directly.”
A pommy colonel locked in on Chester, annoyed by the soldier’s familiarity. He looked the lad up and down and assumed by his New Zealand patch that he was unaware of the custom. Enlisted personnel serving and waiting for their officers at the Memphis Palace had their own waiting area, out of sight of the main lobby.
“Soldier,” the colonel said gruffly, “are you quite certain you are in the proper place?”
“Quite, sir. I am waiting to see Mr. Sira on behalf of Lieutenant General Mulesworthy.”
“Oh…hmmm…carry on.”
“Sir!” Chester said, cracking off a salute fit for the King himself.
Mr. Sira and Chester Goodwood sized one another up. Mr. Sira was, as anticipated, the Egyptian version of the Chinese concierge in the Peninsula Hotel. Sira appeared to be a man who had come up through the ranks and survived—and in Cairo that spoke loudly.
Chester was simply baffling—smooth cheeks, innocent smile, and mild manner.
Now, Chester thought, we can go into an Egyptian tango and start endless word games and play dodge, or he could shoot the old arrow straight to the heart.
“You have been passing out large amounts of money to gain contact with me,” Hamdoon Sira said, utterly certain the private had to be fronting for some senior officer. Sira knew his name was not passed around lightly.
“Mr. Sira,” Chester said, “here’s the situation. I’m a Brit from Hong Kong and I’ve got two pals, New Zealanders We’re part of a special squad and we have a great deal of camp leave. Two or three more men might be assigned to us, no more.”
“You are representing the commander?”
“No, sir.”
“Just what is it you think I can assist you with?”
“Camp Anzac is shit city incarnate. Over the river it’s a real sleazy scene for enlisted personnel. We happen to be well financed and all we want is a quiet place where we can find some respite from our duties. As I said, we have ample funds.”
Hamdoon Sira smiled. Well, now, the plot thickens…this child before him is certainly fronting for a prostitution ring, perhaps hashish smuggling, black market liquor, British army weapons…some such.
Chester read Hamdoon’s smile. “We are not after running a whorehouse, drugs, or playing with dirty money. We are all proper people from proper homes and we don’t wreck furniture.”
Ah…Hamdoon Sira liked Chester Goodwood. “I like you. I admire candor. We see so little of it. I am totally sympathetic but I am afraid there is nothing—” Hamdoon halted as he looked directly into the face of a fifty-pound banknote.
Hamdoon had been in the hotel scene since childhood. Before the war the new, rich oil sheiks from the peninsula gave out lavish gratuities, but they were no longer able to come here due to the war. Otherwise, he had never seen anything larger than five pounds from a British officer, and then only rarely.
“If you will come back tomorrow,” Sira said.
“No,” Chester retorted. “We’re soldiers and we’ve no time to play the game. I’m buying. We move directly or forget it.”
By my father’s beard, Hamdoon thought, this is one clever individual.
“I plead with you, Mr.