The Hidden by Jo Chumas

why you may not have been aware of me. But I used to work with your husband at the university. He was a wonderful man, an honest friend, a good sport—”
    Achmed produced a large handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his eyes. She touched him briefly on the arm, and he tried to pull himself together, smiling once more and turning to wave to a group of men talking in the corner.
    “A few of Azi’s friends are here,” he said. “I’ll introduce you, but first I’d like you to meet my wife.” He wiped his nose and replaced his handkerchief in his jacket pocket.
    “You have children, Monsieur?” Aimee enquired.
    “Yes, four daughters. They’re in the sitting room with some of my cousins. They must go to bed soon, but if you’ll wait just a moment, I will have them fetched.”
    “Are you expecting many people here tonight?” Aimee asked Achmed, scanning the faces of the men and women already present.
    “The more the better, Madame,” he replied, and she saw his eyes glitter happily as four young girls approached from the other side of the room.
    “These are your daughters, Monsieur?” Aimee smiled. “They’re lovely.” The girls appeared to be between five and ten years old. They curtsied politely and gave a little bow. They were dressed identically in tight dresses of pink lace with sleeveless bodices, gathered at the waist with red satin ribbon.
    “Daughters, this is Madame Ibrahim, the wife of Professor Abdullah Ibrahim, Uncle Azi as you remember him.” Achmed coughed, then added, “It seems that my wife is detained at the moment.”
    “Good evening, Madame,” the little girls said with uniform sweetness.
    “This is Naima, Huda, Attilya, and Luisa,” Achmed said with pride.
    “Luisa?” Aimee looked at Achmed quizzically. “Surely that’s not an Egyptian name.”
    “A friend of my wife is Italian,” Achmed explained, smiling. “We thought it a beautiful name. She is the youngest, and we felt we could be a little freer with our choice.”
    Aimee studied the girls carefully, their soft, cherubic faces, big black wandering eyes, their glistening black hair smoothed into two gleaming plaits. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man eyeing her. Tall and smartly dressed in a dark suit, he stepped forward and placed his hands indelicately on the shoulders of the tallest of Achmed’s daughters. The girl did not flinch and simply stood there, looking up at the man as though she knew him. Achmed’s eyes narrowed slightly. Aimee saw a tiny, almost imperceptible tilt of the head, a flash of knowledge, some secret message, relayed to whom, she did not know. Then Achmed smiled at the man who stood soprotectively close to his daughters. She looked at Achmed, then back at the man. In his midforties, he had a dark Mediterranean-olive complexion. His night-black eyes stared at her unwaveringly from under arched eyebrows. He had no trace of a fashionable moustache or the much-loved Arab beard. Who was he?
    “Achmed, I knew you’d be behind
Monument
and your writers,” the man said with a laugh. His voice was low and seductive, and he obviously knew Achmed very well.
    Achmed smiled at his daughters, then pushed them gently away. They retreated to the other side of the room.
    “I had no idea you’d be coming tonight,” Achmed said soberly.
    Farouk grinned as he took a cigarette case slowly out of his pocket and nonchalantly lit a pale Turkish cigarette.
    “You didn’t think I’d miss the chance to profile your launch, did you? This kind of thing is perfect fodder for the paper. I love a good book launch. Any chance to write about the burgeoning talent of Cairo’s literati.”
    Aimee shuffled uncomfortably.
    “Well, Achmed, aren’t you going to introduce me to your guest? I’m sure this young lady must think you’ve no manners.”
    Achmed turned to Aimee.
    “Madame, let me introduce you to the editor of one of Cairo’s newspapers, the
Liberation,
Taha Mohammod Farouk. Farouk,” Achmed