Fatma frowned. “Looked distraught? Alexander Worthington asked you this in person? On the morning his father died? He’s in Cairo?”
Madame Nabila blinked. “Yes, he’d just come into the country, to such dreadful news.”
Fatma shared a look with Hadia. That was new information. “One last question. Was Alexander part of the Brotherhood?”
The woman shrugged. “God knows best. But given his father’s convictions, I find it hard to believe it could be any other way.”
Fatma considered this. So maybe there was one surviving member of the Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz after all.
Madame Nabila didn’t bother to end her hydrotherapy to see them out.
“She was pleasant,” Hadia grumbled.
“As my mother says, it’s always the wicked who have lots of money. Good work earlier. With the verse. Think your pushback made her more pliable.”
“Wasn’t even thinking all of that,” Hadia muttered. “Just couldn’t stand her bigotry.”
“Lots of that to go around,” Fatma assured.
Hadia made a face. “When I was in America, everything was about color. Where you could eat. Where you had to ride. Where you could live or sleep. When I got back to Egypt, I couldn’t believe I’d not noticed it before. With my friends, my family. In the Alexandria EFS, none of the officers were darker than me. At our protests, Nubian and Soudanese women marched in the back. Quoting scripture came in handy to fight against it.” She sighed. “Maybe we aren’t so different than America after all.”
Fatma hadn’t needed to travel to know that. She’d suffered her fair share of slights. Nothing near what Siti endured, but not absent either. Magic and djinn hadn’t changed everything.
They reached the front door, which the servant opened to let them through. Siti stood waiting on the street. She met them, sniffing. “Why do you two smell like tea?”
“Let’s catch a carriage,” Fatma said. “I’ll tell you on the way back.”
They had to leave Cité-Jardin to actually find a carriage—so Fatma talked on the way. By the time they caught one, the three were already tossing around ideas.
“Alexander Worthington here in Cairo,” Siti murmured. “And his sister claimed otherwise?”
“Told me he was away,” Fatma said.
“Why lie about that?” Hadia asked.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Fatma muttered.
“You’re thinking he has something to do with all this?” Siti asked. “Maybe hired this man in the gold mask to do in his own father? Treacherous. Even for an Englishman.”
“Or maybe he’s the imposter,” Fatma said.
Hadia inhaled. “That’s … elaborate!”
Siti looked dubious. “Our friend last night didn’t sound English. Their Arabic is usually terrible. Worthington’s heir running around Cairo as al-Jahiz is very elaborate.”
Fatma knew as much. Plus, none of this explained a possible Ifrit. Or the man they’d had fought last night—or whatever he was. She was grasping.
“You’re right,” she admitted. Probably best not to make wild speculations.
They reached the Ministry in short order. As they stepped out, Fatma pulled Siti to the side. “About what happened before … with Madame Nabila.”
Siti made a gesture commonly used to dismiss unruly children. “You think that’s the first time anyone’s called me abda? Insulted my family as a ‘pack of stinking abeed’? Or made some comment on my skin? My lips and nose? Maybe men asking me to be their little gariyah? I assure you, it’s not uncommon.”
Fatma wasn’t naive. “Still, doesn’t make it right.”
Siti smiled. “Protector of my honor. I might swoon.” Her eyes flickered over Fatma’s shoulder. “Though that might have to wait.”
Fatma turned to find a familiar figure in a khaki uniform exiting the Ministry.
“Inspector,” she greeted. “Another unexpected visit.”
“Agent,” Aasim replied. Then to Hadia, “I mean, agents.” He glanced to Siti, but she turned as if ignoring them. “Rang your office. When I didn’t get you, decided to stop by. Only one who had seen you was a djinn in your library. I think he insulted me five times just to tell me you weren’t there.”
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Fatma mocked.
Aasim grunted, wrinkling his moustache. “Do the two of you know you smell like tea? Anyway, I followed up on what you told me about last night. Your encounter with al-Jahiz.” He said the name sarcastically. She had called him first thing in the morning. The police had more people than the Ministry to search the streets.
“And?”
“We found him! At least, we found out about him. Seems you were right. This imposter’s been running around Cairo for at least a week now. Maybe longer. Don’t know how we missed it. But once we put an ear out, the streets were buzzing.”
“Anything on who he might be?”
Aasim shook his head. “No, but we found out where he’s going to appear next. Sunday night. Thinking of attending, with a few of my friends.” His moustache twitched. “Want to come?”
CHAPTER TEN
Over the next two days, they planned.
Aasim secured an arrest warrant, listing every complaint and criminal code he could get away with—and some he probably couldn’t. Fatma coordinated on how things were to go. The police had the numbers. But if the Ministry were to be involved, she would have some say.
That meant keeping Aasim’s people under control. Cairo police had a reputation. She wanted to expose this imposter, not start a riot. So no guns. This gathering was likely to be full of poor people, the old, even children. Last thing they needed was bullets. Amir had let her build a special team of agents. Hamed was her first pick. He helped find four more—men who could keep their heads, and whose size made people think twice.
The hardest part was convincing Hadia to stay behind. An operation like this was no place for a recruit. If things went bad, no guaranteeing her safety. Nothing the woman wanted to hear. Fatma had to quote Ministry rules and explain she’d serve better running logistics from the police station. Onsi would be with her. Everybody was suited for what they were suited for.
The one snag was getting a chance to interview Alexander Worthington.
