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young and energetic and moved with a dancer’s sensuality. Abbas was richer, she was sure, than the newspaperman, the man she called Monsieur Farouk, richer than any man she knew. Though she knew Abbas would take care of her, she still had a duty to her mother and herself to amass as much money as she could. She didn’t trust her madame, the owner of the el-G, or the clients who frequented the place. The only sure thing in her life was Abbas. As long as she satisfied him, she knew his money would continue to flow in her direction.
    Nemmat studied the faces of the soldiers as they lingered on the street corners talking, the men at Ali’s clustered around tables, smoking, the other café owners standing outside and wonderingwhether to close up shop for the night. Still she waited. How she hated waiting, hated standing on this corner, hated being stared at by the people who passed. The looks they flashed at her made her squirm. Women were usually escorted by a male relative and rushed from place to place. A woman shrouded, standing alone, was not a common sight in these parts.
    Her impatience at being kept waiting made her ball her free fist under her chador. This Monsieur Farouk would make her late for Abbas if he didn’t turn up soon—which would make Abbas angry. Once the Monsieur had arrived, Nemmat would head straight to Abbas’s apartment. If she wasn’t late, Abbas would have a full two hours with her, before he went home to his wife—and Nemmat didn’t like to disappoint him. If Monsieur Farouk did not appear soon, she would leave. She was also anxious because she did not want to risk anyone from the nightclub, the el-G, seeing her talking to Farouk. Word would get back to her madame in no time. And then her madame would question her, thinking she was soliciting more business for herself on the streets, and for that she would be in trouble.
    She thought about Farouk. When at the el-G, he always lurked in the shadows of the bar, observing everything around him, and kept his distance from the other customers. When he had requested her services in one of the back rooms of the club, instead of expecting her to fulfil her usual fleshly duties, he had asked her to help him find an apartment, for temporary use, in one of Cairo’s seedier suburbs. Nemmat had often wondered why he had asked her. Did he know something of her background? She hadn’t said much at that one meeting in the back room of the club, but she had agreed to help him.
    While she waited for him, Nemmat distracted herself with thoughts of magnificently furnished apartments, adoring servants,and grand trips abroad to London and America. She had Abbas in the palm of her hand. The newspaper monsieur, she wasn’t so sure. He had treated her gently the night he had asked her for help, and spoke to her in a soft voice, but it was clear that he was a hard-edged character, not to be trusted. Like all the men who went to the el-G, he probably wore a mask. Their real selves were invisible. She didn’t know him at all, but she knew his type. And then she saw him.
    He had spotted her and was walking towards her. It was clear that he did not want to be seen talking to her and he knew he had to be quick.
    “Jewel?”
    Nemmat nodded at the sound of her code name. He took a wad of notes out of his pocket and slipped them into Nemmat’s outstretched hand.
    “Is it all arranged?”
    “Yes,” she said, sliding her hand from under her chador to reveal a bunch of keys. “Here are the keys. You can take the flat any time you like. No one will disturb you, but you only have possession for seven days. You must return the keys to me after that or pay double the fee.”
    Farouk took them from her and let his eyes wander over her veiled features. He was right; she was cunning. She had already asked for too much money. Farouk knew the price of those run-down apartments. He could have taken his chances with any of them, but the risk was too high. Jewel would keep her