Commissioners? Fatma thought, bewildered. Ministry brass were involved?
“Why? What’s so important about this?”
Amir leaned closer. “How many women agents are there? I can count them off on one hand. Agent Samia in Alexandria. Agent Nawal in Luxor. Then you. And you’re far younger than them. Agent Hadia is the first woman recruit we’ve had since. A few months ago, women were granted the vote. We might see women soon in parliament. There’s rumors of women joining the police force. The Ministry can’t be seen lagging! Not with those Egyptian Feminist Sisterhood types monitoring everyone, then writing up reports for the papers!”
So that was it. Fatma had proposed new ways to recruit women years ago, and was mostly ignored. Now the Ministry was playing catch-up. And she and Hadia were to be some kind of public relations campaign.
“Honestly, I’m surprised. I’d think you’d welcome more women in our ranks. You know I’ve always supported you. Do you know, I was an early subscriber to La Modernite?”
Fatma groaned silently. La Modernite had been an Egyptian magazine featuring prominent thinkers, among them women who became early feminists. Amir liked reminding her of his more liberal past—frequently.
“If the Ministry wants more women recruits,” Fatma said, “then it should work on recruiting more women. The more the better. But that doesn’t mean I want a partner.”
Amir shrugged, settling back in his chair. “And I would give anything for a sweet right now. We don’t get everything we want, do we?”
By the time Fatma returned to her office, Onsi was gone. Hadia remained standing, nervously fidgeting with a deep blue hijab, her brown eyes expectant. Fatma closed the door, hanging her bowler on a wall hook before falling into the chair behind her desk.
“You can sit down, Agent Hadia.”
“It wasn’t my idea to put a desk in here,” she said, sitting.
“I know. I think Amir was trying to make a point.”
“Some of the other agents said you might throw me out.”
Throw her out? Gossipy men! They’d like nothing more than to see the bureau’s two only woman agents in a tumult. Then again, she’d tried to get her reassigned. But that wasn’t the same. Was it? She gave Hadia a hard look, remembering her own arrival in the office. How might she have felt, to be rebuffed by the only woman agent here? Her face flushed, and for the second time she heard her mother’s chiding of the embarrassed girl whose face fell to the floor.
She cleared her throat. “Agent Hadia. I may have misspoken last night. I’ve never had a partner.” The word still sounded strange. “So this is going to be new for both of us. But I think we can manage to figure it out.”
Hadia gasped. “Thank you! I mean, that’s wonderful! I mean, I’m overjoyed to—”
Fatma held up a hand. “It’s going to take a while. So let’s maybe go slow for now?”
Hadia cut off her exclamations, giving a solemn nod. “Slow. I can do slow.”
Well, that was at least a start. Her eyes fell on Hadia’s desk, to the typewriter amid a stack of folders. Following her gaze, the woman grabbed a paper and walked over.
“I started typing up the case report. I thought you’d want to get on it right away. Plus, I like doing paperwork. I hope I didn’t overstep?”
Fatma took the sheet. She liked paperwork? Was that a joke? Everyone had their thing, she supposed. Maybe this partner business had its advantages. She thought of Aasim sending new recruits to fetch coffee. No, that would be too much. She read over the paper.
“Not overstepping at all. Where did you get all this?”
“The police. Had to ring three times to get the file sent by boilerplate courier.”
Fatma smirked. Three times? Oh, Aasim was going to like her.
“I’ve been going through them,” Hadia continued. “The police identified most of the victims from a list Lord Worthington kept of his guests. Last names anyway.”
Fatma read them over … Dalton, Templeton, Portendorf, Burnley. All English.
“Two bodies were unaccounted for.”
“The woman and one other man,” Fatma guessed.
Hadia nodded. “From their dress, I’m betting they weren’t English.”
“Good bet. Pull up a chair, Agent Hadia. I’ll fill you in on what kept me this morning.”
For the next twenty minutes Fatma related what she’d found out: the identities of the unnamed man and woman; the Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz; and what the Jann revealed about the mysterious fire. When it was done Hadia gaped.
“An Ifrit,” she breathed. “And God created Jinn from fire free of smoke.”
Fatma was familiar with the ayah, one of many mentioning the djinn.
“You learned all this in one morning? From some informants among the idol—” Hadia halted, cheeks coloring. “I mean, adherents of the old religion?”
Fatma hadn’t given names. Not Merira’s. Certainly not Siti’s. But she’d made her sources plain. “I’ve dealt with them before. A strange bunch, but trustworthy. They certainly don’t go around burning people.” Hadia flushed further.
“None of this solves our case, though,” Fatma continued. “Why would this brotherhood bargain with an Ifrit? Fire didn’t kill our friend with his head twisted around, so who, or what, did? And then there’s this man in a gold mask.”
Hadia scribbled in a notepad. “Feels like we have more questions.”
“It’ll feel that way until the end. At least now, we have clues.” Her eyes went to the stack of folders. “Let’s take a look at what else Aasim sent over.” Hadia stood, turning to retrieve them. “And, agent,” Fatma called, rolling up her sleeves. “Welcome to the Ministry.”
The woman positively beamed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was half past ten when Fatma arrived at Muhammad Ali Street. Snatches of music filled Cairo’s liveliest hub, as patrons dipped into establishments with glaring signage. The Electric Oud blinked in green alchemical bulbs, while a red silhouette of a cabaret dancer flashed above another. A welcome reprieve, after today.
They’d spent hours searching through files on Lord Worthington: his business, personnel, financial transactions.
