their uniforms, their bearing, and their agility.
“They are the sultan’s army?” he asked.
“His personal guard,” Kafele answered. “The very finest soldiers our nation has ever produced.”
From this review of the soldiers the sultan’s nephew led Lenox to the waiting ship. It was low in the water, burdened with great crates on its decks. A captain waited, smiling, by a gangway.
“These are the crops that will make both of our nations rich,” said Kafele, and led Lenox to a pallet at the ship’s edge. “Here you see a bale of cotton and a bag of rice. Please, take them as our gifts, as tokens of our commercial friendship, back to your country.”
“Thank you,” Lenox said. “I accept them on behalf of Her Majesty Queen Victoria.”
The wali’s nephew came forward, behind him two men bearing pillows with boxes on them.
“We have these gifts, too, for you,” he said. “For your own august personage, an ancient cup of Egyptian marble, held in my family for many generations, and representing the comity of our nations, which share bread and water.”
One of the men bearing pillows stepped forward and showed Lenox the cup, whose marble was so thin it was nearly translucent, sand-colored and veined with red. It was beautiful. “I thank you,” he said.
“And for your prime minister, we offer this gold dagger, chased with dragons, inlaid with opals, as a representation that our strength belongs to you.”
The second pillow-bearer stepped forward, and again Lenox offered profuse thanks, along with a promise to give the dagger to the prime minister.
“The wali himself will present you with a gift for your queen, Mr. Lenox,” said the wali’s nephew. “Until then, may I invite you to a feast in our pavilion?”
“With great pleasure,” said Lenox.
It had been an interesting morning. The superficialities—the soldiers, the wali’s nephew—Lenox could take or leave. But the cotton and the rice were real. The hundreds of ships on the water were real. The economic potential of the canal, already partially realized, was so immense that with any luck Africa might soon be as great, as powerful and rich, as Europe. For the first time Lenox considered the idea that this pretext for this trip might, in the end, be just as important as his true reason for coming to Egypt.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
That evening as the sun fell, Lenox sat alone at his desk in the consulate, making notes for his colleagues in London about the state of Port Said and the Suez Canal. Following the feast there had been a long, detail-heavy meeting with the wali’s emissary, Kafele, and the officials and businessmen who wanted Lenox’s ear. These men were surprisingly quick to reveal what the French, the Dutch, and the Spanish had offered them, and what they needed to maximize the revenues the canal could produce. A prudent investment from Victoria’s treasury, Lenox argued in his memorandum, might repay itself a hundred times over in the next fifty years. So much of the British Empire—the Indies, parts of Africa, once upon a time the Americas—had been won by brute force. Now intelligence and money might do more to increase England’s power than her military could, in this new world that the construction of the Suez had created.
As the hours passed—he skipped dinner, having eaten far too much at midday out of politeness—he could feel his heartbeat increasing, his nerves growing tauter. The Frenchman, Sournois, was never far from his mind.
Chowdery had invited Lenox to his and his wife’s private apartments for a game of whist, but Lenox had declined, simulating regret and promising to join him for a hand the next evening.
“I thought I might call into Scheherazade’s, in fact.”
“Oh? I confess myself surprised that you’ve heard the name—a rather dingy place, though popular with many Europeans.”
“A friend in London recommended it, said the street it was on had a great deal of local flavor.”
“You might say that—certainly it has the balustrades, those balconies one story off of the ground, you know, that the French have handed down to the Egyptians. Well, I will be pleased to accompany you, Mr. Lenox. Membership is relatively informal, but as far as it goes I am a member.”
“Thank you, Sir Wincombe, but I couldn’t possibly take you from your hand of cards—Lady Megan wouldn’t like it.”
“Heh! Well, I don’t deny I like a strong-willed woman. But I would be more than happy—”
“Please!” said Lenox. “You must indulge me and stay in.”
With a look of relief, Chowdery nodded and said, “Oh, well, if you’re sure, if you’re sure … my carriage is, needless to say, entirely at your disposal.”
“Thank you. And the driver knows where it is, this place?”
“Of course,” said Chowdery.
So Lenox’s plans were laid. As the minutes ticked on into hours, and midnight drew closer, he began to feel a certain calm that he knew to be indistinguishable, in its essentials, from fear, though rather more useful.
At ten o’clock he asked McEwan to call the carriage round, and by ten past the hour the horses were warmed and waiting.
“Would you like me to come, sir?” said McEwan.
Yes was the answer, badly. “No, thank you. I say, do you think the
McEwan laughed. “In the past she has generally stayed hearty in my absence, sir.”
“Carrow, you think, is well enough?”
“Yes, sir. He’s a good man, Mr. Carrow.”
As the carriage clattered through the streets, the mysterious smells of the city thick in the warm air, Lenox reviewed in his mind what he had to do at Scheherazade’s. He could picture the diagram of the building perfectly in his mind, and reminded himself which door he would enter the kitchen by and which he would exit by.
This gentleman’s club was housed in an unprepossessing building of three stories, whose ground floor was occupied by a frankly off-putting restaurant. It was popular, however, filled with Africans and Europeans alike.
Lenox instructed his driver to wait, got out, and walked through the restaurant, attracting a number of looks. At the back he found a dim and narrow staircase, at the top of which was a dark door, with MEMBERS ONLY stenciled onto it in gold print.
He opened this door, and found himself in a tiny entryway. A small Egyptian man stood at a table, and when Lenox entered he bowed his head.
“Member number?” he said.
“My name is Charles Lenox, Sir Wincombe Chowdery mentioned—”
“The president of the club is just this way, in the Trafalgar Room. He will see you.”
Despite its grandiose name, the Trafalgar Room was nothing much to look at. It held a number of red armchairs, a few chipped tables, and between two great windows, looking out over the street, a small number of books on a shelf. There were also newspapers on a table by the door, in English and other languages, which Lenox saw at a glance were several weeks old.
A single man was sitting in one of the armchairs, pipe in hand, absorbed in some journal. He rose when Lenox entered.
“Mr. Charles Lenox,” said the servant, then bowed and left.
“Mr. Lenox!” said the man in heavily accented English. “I had heard you were in town. How delighted we are to see you. My name is Pierre Mainton.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance. You’re French, I take it?”
“Well spotted, sir!” said Mainton and laughed.
Lenox switched to his sturdy, unhurried French. “I’m surprised to see you so at ease in a room named for the Battle of Trafalgar!” he said.
“I’m surprised that you speak my language! You are the first Englishman of my acquaintance who has, I assure you.” Mainton laughed again. “We have tried here to reflect our membership, which is multinational, by permitting each faction to name a room. There is the Emperor Napoleon the Third room just over your
