Page 61 of Sands of Sirocco
Releasing a tense breath, Noah inhaled another and it was filled with the scent of petrol and cigarette smoke.He was one of the few men he knew who didn’t care for cigarettes, but he accepted one from Masry.He’d learned to smoke as part of his work.He’d learned to do many things he didn’t care to do.As the acrid taste filled his mouth and throat, he ground his teeth.
Whatever Masry expected of him would be just another thing he’d do for his job.Nothing more.
The drive was a short one, past the fish market of the Clot Bey end of Wagh El Birket Street—infamous for its association with prostitution.The squalor of Clot Bey filled the car, the scents of rotting fish and refuse mixing with the petrol of the engine in a nauseating combination.They passed through the district, the tires rumbling down the street that came alive this time of night.When the driver stopped, they’d come closer toward the Ezbekieh end of the street, and the motorcar idled behind the back of the El Dorado, an Egyptian singing and dancing club.
Noah leaned back in the seat, peering out.“In a few minutes, a man will come from the back door,” Masry instructed them all, pointing with a squint.“And when he does, we’d like to teach him a lesson on manners.”
“What type of lesson?”one man asked.
Noah stared at the back door to the El Dorado, willing it not to open.He wasn’t in the mood for assaulting someone this evening, let alone to humor the appetites of his uncle.Since they’d parked behind the building, they were relatively isolated from the view of the main street.No one lurked back here but rats and insects.
Masry shrugged his thick shoulders.“I leave that up to you.But the message must be clear.Fail me and thefellahinwill find your body in the Nile tomorrow.There is no use for men who waste my time.”
Noah stared at the backs of his knuckles, rotating his wrist.After he’d punched Stephen, he’d been forced to ice it.The polo match hadn’t helped.“What has the man done?”
“He defiled an Egyptian singer.He claimed he paid her but she was no prostitute.The police turned a blind eye because she was Egyptian.She died giving birth to his bastard.”
The meaning of Masry’s words was clear.Whoever this man was, he was not an Egyptian.He was probably white and British.
Noah’s suspicions were confirmed by the opening of the back door.A British officer in uniform exited into the dim light of the alley.
Masry gave the men a nod.They stepped out into the filth and refuse that lined the streets in the Wazzir.Noah avoided the puddles, the stench stinging his nose.
The British officer who’d come out of the El Dorado lit a cigarette, then turned to walk down the alley, away from them.Noah’s feet felt heavy as he pushed himself forward, toward the man.If he’d done what Masry suggested, he deserved a beating—or far worse.But not from these men.They were likely to kill him.
Still, he felt Masry’s eyes on him.The penalty for failure was his own death.His pulse throbbed in his neck.He could try to run.But if he left now, he risked the best opportunity he had to learn about Victoria.
Stay, and he’d have to participate in the assault of a fellow British officer.One whose guilt hadn’t been proven.
He couldn’t stop them from hurting the man.Not now.But could he help him in the long run?
They prowled behind the man.Separating himself from the other men, Noah closed the gap, reaching him first.Noah wrapped his arm around the man’s throat with a speed and efficiency that allowed him access to the man’s sidearm with his free hand.The officer’s body went rigid against him as he put both hands up to grab Noah’s arm.
“Pretend to be unconsciousness quickly.I’ll help you if I can,” he whispered in the man’s ear.
Then the other men were at his side, and he couldn’t risk saying more.
Noah increased the pressure on the man’s throat and he gasped, sputtering.At last, the British officer found a weapon—the heel of his boot against Noah’s bare toes.A flash of pain traveled up Noah’s foot.Releasing him, Noah darted to the man’s side.
With a swipe of his leg, Noah knocked the man’s legs out from under him.The officer tumbled back, landing on the stones of the alleyway with a sickening thud.Dazed, the officer blinked, tilting his head against the stones.Noah loomed over him, willing him to pretend he was unconscious.
Damn it.
Noah’s jaw clenched as the officer stared up at him in fear, then wide-eyed recognition.All Noah could hear was his pulse pounding at his eardrums.Harold Young.
Please don’t say my name.
Harold had worked with Noah for two years at the CID.An awkward, nervous man—but no older than twenty-two.
He knew what Noah looked like in local street clothes, wig or not.
Could he have done what Masry accused him of?
Noah didn’t know him well enough for that.Not that it mattered now.
Masry’s men took advantage of Young being on the ground and began their own attack, kicking and beating him as he moaned.
Masry stood off to the side, watching him intently.If Noah backed away now, Masry would think him weak.Maybe even kill him.
