An exaggeration. Many here worked in greater Cairo. Or engaged in the informal economy that sustained this city within a city. Most people in el-Arafa weren’t thieves or criminals. Just poor.
“We’re not here to stop fencers dealing minor goods,” Fatma replied.
“Minor goods? They say the Forty Leopards are headquartered in this place. Nothing minor about what those lady thieves pilfer. You know the last time we were here, I had more than this.” His white-gloved hand touched the handle of a wood baton at his side.
“No guns,” Fatma reiterated. “We’re dealing with people. Not a legion of flesh-eating ghuls.” She suppressed a shiver that came at the memory of their prior visit to the Cemetery, investigating the machinations of a mad angel.
Another grunt from Aasim, and his overwrought moustache twitched with unease—no doubt also having vivid recollections. “Hope you’re right.” He jerked a chin into the distance. “Because that doesn’t fill me with confidence.”
She followed his gesture to a pack of makeshift houses set among gravestones and mausoleums. Somewhere just beyond, a bright glare lit up the sky, illuminating the rooftops. It reminded Fatma of an open-air night market. Only there were no night markets in the City of the Dead. And the raucous chants and cheers that erupted now and again didn’t sound like dickering.
“Is everyone in place?”
Aasim looked back to assess his ranks. The wagons had emptied, leaving policemen standing in two lines shoulder to shoulder. He frowned. “I think you’ve got company.”
Fatma turned, not understanding—and caught sight of someone hurrying past the policemen. Hadia? The woman reached them, breathing calmly despite her swift gait.
“What are you doing here?” Fatma asked. “Did something happen?”
Hadia shook her head. “Nothing happened. I’m just being your partner.” She smiled, but the words were tight.
“I expressly forbade you from coming here tonight!”
“I know.” Hadia lost the smile. “Only you can’t. That rule you quoted me, about ordering a recruit to stay behind. It doesn’t exist. You made it up.”
Fatma felt her face flush. Beside her, the other Ministry agents bit back smiles.
“You made up a rule?” Hamed chuckled. “And left her with Onsi?”
“He knows the Ministry Code of Conduct by heart,” Hadia affirmed. “I mentioned your rule to him in passing, and he alerted me immediately there was no such thing. So, I hopped onto a police wagon and made it up here. Where I belong.”
“I did it for your own good,” Fatma grumbled. “This might get dangerous.”
“I realized things might get dangerous when I went to the academy,” Hadia retorted.
Their gazes locked into silence.
Aasim cleared his throat. “You two need a moment?”
“No.” There wasn’t time for this. “Hadia, you’re with me. If this turns bad, you get back behind police lines.”
“I can handle myself—”
“With what? Your hands?” Fatma turned to Aasim, trying not to let her irritation boil over. “Are we ready to do this?” The inspector looked between them, but nodded. “Good, then.” She shrugged, pulling her bowler tight, and stepped out with her cane. “Let’s go.”
The small army marched down the Cemetery’s narrow streets. Fatma walked at its head with Aasim—and now Hadia—flanked by Hamed and the other agents. Behind them followed lines of police. At least forty. Aasim wanted more, whole contingents to encircle the place. But Fatma objected. They were already descending on people in the middle of the night. No need to make things tenser than they already were.
Not all of el-Arafa’s residents had gone to the rally. They sat in windows and doorsteps, watching the procession snaking between stone tombs with raised markers—sometimes ducking beneath laundry lines and navigating around brick ovens. Most faces regarded them blankly. Some were anxious. One woman let out a set of panicked “Ya lahwy!” as they passed. Others, however, gave hard stares. Once or twice came a whispered curse.
Aasim leaned over. “Did I mention that police aren’t well liked in the slums?”
Fatma didn’t doubt it. From reports she’d heard, and with good reasons too. Their march continued in relative quiet, though the sounds from ahead grew louder as they approached. There was cheering. And someone was speaking. She could make out a few words echoing through the narrow passages of the necropolis. But it wasn’t until they cleared the settlement of buildings that she got a full measure of what lay beyond.
A packed crowd filled a clearing. More people stood or sat atop buildings that rose up on the other side. Fatma had expected high numbers. But this looked to be a few hundred. Much more than the last gathering. Lamps with glow gas had been strung up, and their glare basked the entire area, bringing to mind an outdoor amphitheater or opera house. The stage here was a towering mausoleum. Its crenellated walls had probably been smooth once, though the mud brick showed numerous cracks. Wooden scaffolding surrounded the sides, where someone was making repairs. The structure was capped by a grandiose pear-shaped dome, its surface decorated with indented lines that ran from base to tip—a pinnacle rising to end in a crescent. Just in front of the dome, in an opened-up space where a section of triangular, honeycomb-patterned merlons had crumbled away, stood the speaker.
Fatma frowned. Not the man in the gold mask. Someone else—dressed in a blue gallabiyah and a white turban. He held up both hands, shouting into the night. “… and I saw with my own eyes, the wonders performed! He called upon those made of smokeless fire and destroyed the foreigners! I had once helped them carry out their theft and desecrations! But he has guided me proper! He has returned so that we may all see and know the truth! He has returned so that he may teach us, as he did before!”
New cheers went up in a roar that was deafening this close.
“Who is that?” she asked, leaning close
