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work on the time bomb. Al-Dyn, are you sure your cover hasn’t been blown?”
    Al-Dyn shook his head. “No. I hear everything that’s going on at the Oxford. There’s nothing suspicious there.”
    Littoni said, “We’ll meet again to decide where and how we’ll plant the bomb. Hamid, you’ve engineered it so it will be small but very powerful, yes? So all we need now is an invitation to the celebration to enable us to get past security. Tashi knows what he has to do there. The old Greek, Papadopolous at the Bulac print-works, can arrange the invitation for us. All right, that’s enough for now. It’s time to get to work.”
    Farouk listened on in amazement. “I’m going,” he said finally. “Think about what I said, Littoni. You’re signing your own death warrant—you know that, don’t you?”
    Littoni stared at Farouk. Blowing more smoke rings into the air, he said, “None of us should meet again until I say so. I’ll get a message to all of you, through the usual channels when it’s time. We must cover our tracks.”
    Farouk shot Littoni and the others one last look before he turned and left. He slipped his hand under his shirt and rubbed his chest as he walked towards his car. He hadn’t felt much pain today, and his convulsions hadn’t troubled him a great deal. He had a rendezvous with Nemmat, the prostitute from the el-G, who had keys to the Abbassiya apartment. He would size her up, see if she could be easily bought. If he could trust her, he’d set his own little plan in motion.
    The journal of Hezba Iqbal Sultan Hanim al-Shezira,
    Cairo, August 15, 1919
    I can’t believe what’s happened. My husband is charging me with nushaz. Claiming wifely disobedience, he has asked a qadi to charge me with Bait Al-Ta’a. This law means I will have to return to my husband’s home, and there is nothing I can do to fight back. I hate these religious rulings that strip me of my freedom. I will die. I will run away.
    My husband has told my papa that I have betrayed him, because I continue to live in the sarai of my birth, and I have not returned to live with him as his wife. He has told my papa that he will not forgive this betrayal. My husband and my papa consulted with the qadi, and it has been agreed. My husband told Papa my betrayal of him is the last act of disobedience he will tolerate of me. My marriage to al-Shezira was always a political alliance between him and the family of the sultan, and if I am not seen to be al-Shezira’s wife by Egyptian society, then al-Shezira fears his name will be like mud. That’s all they care about. How can I bear it? My only friend is my journal. My little notebook is easyto hide away. I carry it with me always, even to the hammam. I like to strap it to my body under my clothes. I like to feel its secrets close to me. No one will take it from me again. No one.
    And Habrid’s cruelty cannot stop me from dreaming. For the moment I have to be content with the brief moments Alexandre and I are able to share together. While I dream, I wait impatiently for Alexandre’s return to Cairo. And while I wait, I try to celebrate moulids with my harem sisters with the appropriate enthusiasm, and bribe my servants to sneak me out to a zaar. I love the zaars, where we women can be rid of our tormenters and all our troubles exorcised by the drums and the lutes of the wandering peddlers and musicians. When the women become possessed by the spirits of the desert, their true natures are allowed free reign. But in reality, I have become jittery with nerves and depression and a desire to cause trouble. It is almost as if I am living two lives: the sedate, grateful harem life, and my true inner life, wild and free.
    I know that tomorrow night there is a zaar in Shubra. One of the peddler women who came to the palace a few days ago told me about it. I pretended not to be interested, because we all know those peddler women are Cairo’s secret messengers—if the face of the daughter of