“You know better than to trust the papers, Hamed,” Fatma chided.
He looked disappointed at seeing no more was forthcoming. “Fine. But this office is terrible at keeping secrets. The longer you hold out, the more inventive the story’s going to get.”
Fatma frowned. Men were so gossipy. “Please tell me there’s not another pool?”
“Oh, there’s a pool. But not on that. The bet’s on how long before you chase off your new partner.”
Fatma inhaled sharply. Hadia! Between Siti’s return and this morning’s meeting, she’d completely forgotten! Her eyes scanned the office. “Where is she? Did they already get her a desk?”
Hamed bit his lip, failing to hold back a smile. Lifting his teacup, he motioned straight to her office door. “Onsi’s in there with her now. He’s bringing her up to—”
Fatma spun on her heels, no longer listening. She found her office door wide open, and walked inside. She’d been granted this space upon making special investigator. It was big, with windows that looked out on the Nile and space enough to hold a desk and furniture, including a wardrobe chest—where she kept her backup suits. You could never be too careful. Now, it held a second desk. Hadia sat behind it. At seeing Fatma she stood straight up.
“Good morning, Agent Fatma,” a voice greeted.
Fatma glanced to the squat man across the room. Agent Onsi. Hamed’s partner. His brown face beamed, as usual.
“I was just talking to Agent Hadia. Did you know we were in the academy together? Why I—” He stopped, frowning through wire-rimmed silver spectacles. “Agent Fatma, are you well?”
“The desk was already here when I came in,” Hadia blurted.
Fatma turned about and left, not saying a word. She was vaguely aware of people watching as she strode to Director Amir’s office. She gave a quick knock before being called in.
At first glance, Amir didn’t fit expectations of a director. His graying hair, sleepy eyes, and drawn face affected the air of an overworked bureaucrat. His uniform had a dull, rumpled cast, and his desk was a clutter—covered in folders and paperwork. But he’d run the largest of the Ministry’s offices for over ten years. Most in his position barely lasted half that long. Currently, he stood engrossed with riffling through a large book, as if searching for something.
“Thought I’d be seeing you,” he said. “Surprised it took so long. Have a seat.”
Fatma sat in a narrow, uncomfortable chair. Her eyes fell on a photo of a young Amir framed on the desk, wearing an outdated Ministry uniform and smiling. It was hard to believe he’d ever been young—or that he smiled.
“I suppose you’ve met Agent Hadia.”
“We met last night,” Fatma replied.
“She showed up at the Worthington estate? Impressive.”
That was one word for it. “I don’t think this partnership is going to work out.”
“Oh?” Amir mused distractedly. He was taking more books off shelves, opening and shaking them. Fatma steeled herself. The man was notorious for throwing you off your intent.
“I’ve done fine as a special investigator without a partner. I believe my record speaks for itself. Therefore, I can’t see why I would need one now. I know the Ministry has been pushing for agents to be paired up. That works for some people, but not everyone. I think Agent Hadia deserves a proper mentor, which I’m uncertain I will be.” There. Succinct and to the point.
Amir said nothing for a moment, shaking out one last book. With a frustrated grunt, he returned to his desk, settling into a worn chair. He was a lanky man, and when he set his half-closed eyes on her it felt like she was being hovered over by a vulture.
“Ask me how many people, right here in Cairo, have blood sugar sickness,” he said.
Fatma blinked. “I don’t—”
“No, go ahead. Ask me.”
“How many people in Cairo have blood sugar sickness?”
“Ya Allah! I have no idea! I’m terrible with numbers!”
“You just told me to ask you.”
He kept on talking. “You know who’s good with numbers? My wife. A statistician at the Health Ministry. Put together a report on blood sugar sickness and how it’s an epidemic in Cairo. Her probability model says that I could have blood sugar sickness and not know it.”
He leaned forward.
“So, do you know what she’s done? She’s thrown out every sweet we have in our house. It got so that I took to hiding sugary things in secret places. Last Moulid, I bought several little candy horses and kept them here. I reasoned she’d have an eye out for sesame candy or malban—not confectionaries made for children. But now it appears she’s found even those so that I can’t grab one sweet thing to nibble on.”
Fatma stared. He’d done it. He’d completely thrown her off.
“Is it frustrating? Of course. A grown man should be able to eat a sweet when he wants!” He sighed, and his face relaxed. “But my wife is doing this for my own good. So how can I dislike that? Do you see now what I mean?”
Fatma shook her head. How could anyone see what he meant?
“You’re getting a partner for your own good, agent,” Amir snapped. “Whether you believe you need one or not. You’ve done commendable work. But it also gets dangerous. Ghuls. Djinn. That sordid business with the angel. It’s not safe for a lone investigator. The Ministry wants its agents paired, to watch each other’s backs.”
“But, director,” Fatma protested, “I often work in liaison with the Cairo police. They—”
Amir shook his head. “Not good enough. You don’t work with police all the time. And they’re not Ministry. Look, it’s not often that I put my foot down.” He motioned at her suit. “Do I ever say anything about your flagrant flouting of proper Ministry uniforms?”
“You bring it up at least once a month!”
He frowned. “Really? Well, you don’t appear to pay attention to me, but you’ll have to do so this time. This comes
