The Hidden by Jo Chumas Page A

went on, “this is the wife of an acquaintance of yours. Madame Abdullah Ibrahim.”
    Farouk shook Aimee’s hand, his eyes devouring hers, taking in her softness and warmth. He studied her features curiously. He had not seen eyes like hers since his time in northern Afghanistan. How beautiful she was, such an exquisite face, such a young girl.
    “Madame.”
    Aimee shivered. She didn’t like the way he was staring at her.
    Farouk went on. “I’m so sorry about your husband. I met him briefly a few months ago, at—let me see, a function given at the university.”
    Aimee smiled with effort. She was sick of smiling at strangers, sick of making polite conversation. She suddenly regretted coming to the launch. It turned out she did not really feel like being out in company.
    “I got the impression from our brief encounter that your husband was very ambitious,” Farouk went on. “Such a brilliant theorist and speaker on all subjects. He would have made an excellent politician, but instead he wanted to put the world to right using the long and dreary intellectual strategies of academia. If only he had used his intellect more wisely, but then, I can see he had excellent taste in matters of beauty.”
    Aimee straightened her back and flushed scarlet. Swallowing hard, she scanned the room for Sophie, searching for some excuse to leave.
    “I don’t think he mentioned you, Monsieur. I think he would have told me if he had met the editor of a newspaper like the
Liberation
.”
    Farouk looked at her with surprise.
    “I see,” he said, frowning. “I’m sure—oh well, Azi Ibrahim had many friends. It’s quite possible. Anyway, he was a young man with a great future ahead of him. I liked him very much on first meeting and was shocked and disturbed when I found out about his death.”
    Aimee’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t know what to make of this man. She was not sure if she liked him. There was something about his mouth, his eyes, something that she couldn’t identify, but that she found disturbing. “You’re kind, Monsieur. But my husband is gone, and my only concern now is that his murderer is found.”
    Unable to take his eyes off the girl, Farouk took a long draw on his cigarette. How cool she was, how calm. Azi’s confident young wife was one of a new breed of Egyptian women. But she was so young. He knew women like her. Perhaps her confidence was an act. She looked so virginal, so pure; yet she had married Ibrahim and was no doubt properly a woman in every sense, perhaps cunning, perhaps secretive, perhaps in possession of the type of information Littoni would give his eyeteeth for. Maybe Littoni had been right about the girl.
    “A gang of thugs, no doubt, Madame. I regret your husband’s death, but I have no time for emotion or sentimentality. Your husband was spared the fate that will soon come to so many of our men. The Egyptian Army must prove itself. The Anglo-Egyptian Treaty has done nothing for the self-esteem of our soldiers. The British government is supposed to be supporting the Egyptian Armed Forces. Academics like our friend, your husband, Abdullah Ibrahim, will be prime fodder for eventual conscription. Before too long, your beloved academic husband would have had to don a soldier’s uniform. He would have been out there in the desert, fighting the Germans. All of al-Qahire’s young men are destined to succumb to some sort of North Africa campaign.”
    Farouk did not really care about the Egyptian Armed Forces or the Western Desert military lieutenants whose ultimate goal lay in strategic war manoeuvres. He knew his words would mean nothing to a young girl like Ibrahim’s wife.
    “It does not alter the fact that the police are taking their time finding Azi’s killer,” Aimee said bitterly.
    Farouk nodded. “It is likely they’re occupied with other things they consider more important. Even as we speak, officers of the Egyptian Army are preparing extensive plans on how to fortify the city