Elizabeth Peters - Night Train to Memphis

When Feisal came back he was smiling. I hadn’t realized how tired and old he had looked until I saw that smile.

‘It’s all right,’ he announced, settling into his chair. ‘He wants us to meet him.’

‘Your father?’

‘He started out ordering me to turn myself in. But when I explained, told him you were with me and that you’d confirm my story, he said he’d be willing to listen.’

‘Danm nice of him. Look, Feisal, I’m not sure – ’

‘It’s okay, I tell you. A friend of his is away on business, Father has the key to his apartment, which is not far from the train station. We can hole up there, use his telephone to call Munich and your parents and, if you like, the Embassy. That’s much safer than the central telegraph office. You can have that shower and maybe even a drink with ice in it.’

‘Where does he want us to meet him?’ I asked doubtfully.

‘Ezbekiya Gardens. It’s not far from his office. He didn’t want us to go there or to the house.’

‘The police have probably got both places staked out.’

‘He hinted as much. Have you finished?’

I sat in front with Feisal this time. He was in a very happy mood, relaxed and smiling. He kept pointing out sights – mosques and museums and parks. The traffic was horrendous and parking seemed to be hit or miss. I wouldn’t have considered the place where Feisal stopped, in between a barrow piled with cauliflower and a little old lady who had apparently set up housekeeping on the kerb, as a legitimate spot, but he waved my comments aside.

‘God willing we won’t be coming back to the damned car anyhow. We’ve got a couple of blocks to walk.’

‘Okay.’

‘Vicky.’

‘What?’

‘Just in case . . .’ He hesitated. ‘I’m sure it’s all right. But stay a couple of hundred feet behind me. I’ll talk to him, get the key to the apartment. Wait till I wave or call to you before you join us.’

He didn’t give me a chance to reply. He started walking.

I followed, close enough to keep him in sight, but no closer. What he had suggested was only a sensible precaution; his father might be under surveillance and unable to shake it.

Crossing Cairo streets is a death-defying procedure. The street on the west side of Ezbekiya Gardens is a wide, very busy thoroughfare, and I lost sight of Feisal for a few seconds while I tried to avoid being run down by taxis, buses, and trucks. Reaching the other side breathless but intact, I caught sight of him standing by a little kiosk. The gardens were large; they must have arranged to meet at that precise spot. Hanging back, per instructions, I saw a tall grey-haired man approach Feisal. He was wearing Western clothes, and even at that distance I noted the resemblance. They stood talking for a while; then the older man threw his arms around Feisal.

Any father might embrace a returning prodigal son, and Middle Eastern males have no hang-ups about expressing affection physically. Not until I saw the crowds disperse, like hens when a fox enters the chicken yard, did I realize what was happening. Feisal saw the foxes too. They were hard to miss – four of them, carrying automatic weapons. He twisted away from the arms that tried to hold him, and gave his father a shove that sent him staggering back.

‘Run,’ he yelled. ‘Run, Vicky!’

He wasn’t trying to escape. He was just trying to warn me. He was standing perfectly still when they cut him down. I heard the rattle of weapons, and I heard him cry out, and saw him fall. Another, shriller, cry echoed his. It came, I thought, from Feisal’s father.

People were screaming and running and I ran with them, blindly. My throat ached with rage and horror and grief. What sort of man would turn in his own son? I hoped it had been the old man who had cried out. I hoped he was suffering. Maybe he hadn’t expected they would fire without so much as a preliminary warning. But he ought to have known, he ought to have trusted his son, given him a chance to explain . . .

I threw myself in front of a taxi, pried myself off the front fender and wrenched the door open. ‘The American Embassy,’ I gasped. ‘Shari Latin America.’

I’m as patriotic as the next guy, but the sight of the flag had never affected me as it had that day. The farther you are from home the better that star-spangled banner looks. I marched up to the door with my chin held high and demanded entry.

It’s nice to be famous. As soon as I mentioned my name I was passed from flunky to flunky till I ended up in an office few tourists see. There was a flag there too, and behind the big mahogany desk hung a picture of the President. I had voted for him and I had always thought he had a nice friendly smile. It had never looked friendlier.

‘Dr Bliss? Dr Victoria Bliss! Thank God! You have no idea how relieved I am to see you.’ The man who hurried to meet me didn’t resemble my idea of an ambassador. He was too young and his hair wasn’t grey. He sure was glad to see me, though. He invited me to call him Tom, and took both my hands and shook them, and went on to tell me exactly how relieved he was.

‘The ambassador’s in the States, which left me holding the bag, as you might say. A hostage situation is a diplomat’s worst nightmare.’

‘Gee whiz, I’m really sorry to have upset you,’ I said.

He flushed, and I gave myself a mental kick. I was getting to be as bad as John, making smart-ass remarks when I should be trying to gain his support and attention. It was imperative that I remain calm. If I lost my temper or broke down he’d think I was just another hysterical female, and I’d never convince him in time that my wild, improbable story was true.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, with a smile so charming it must have been one of the qualifications for the job. ‘Our primary concern, of course, was for your safety. Sit down. No, I insist, I won’t ask you any more questions until you’ve had a chance to catch your breath.’ He went to the desk and started punching buttons. ‘Joanie, will you come in here, please? Joanie’s my assistant, she’ll take care of you.’

‘But I want you to ask me questions! There’s been a mistake. I was never – ’

Joanie must have been waiting for the summons. By that time everybody had heard of my arrival, and they were all wild with curiosity. She was older than her boss. Being female she would of course rise more slowly up the diplomatic ladder.

‘You have to listen to me!’

Joanie put her arms around me. ‘Sure we will, honey. Don’t worry about a thing. Come along with me, I’ll bet you’d like to freshen up some.’

If she hadn’t had grey hair and a lined, motherly face I might have resisted. There was shock on that pleasant face as well as sympathy. It gave me some idea of how awful I must look. I suddenly realized, as well, that I had to go to the bathroom. (I know, that’s not ‘romantic’ But it’s true.)

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Five minutes. I’ll be right back, Tom. Don’t go away.’

Joanie was very kind. She even offered me some of her makeup, and after I’d seen the wild face glaring back at me from the mirror, I accepted. I wouldn’t have listened to anything that came out of a face like that.

She only asked me one question. ‘Did he hurt you, honey? He didn’t . . .’

It was the wrong question. I thought of Feisal, making jokes and worrying about his mother and falling, falling and screammg, trying to warn me with what might have been his last breath. I turned on her like a madwoman.

‘Hurt me! He was . . .’ It was the wrong tense, too. I threw her lipstick wildly at her. ‘Damn it, why I am I standing here doing stupid things to my stupid face? Maybe he’s not dead. Maybe he’s . . . just dying and being tortured and – ’