A stunned quiet fell over the crowd, and then a voice called: “Yes, take off the mask!” It was followed by another. “Let us see your face! Take off the mask!” Fatma allowed the barest smile as more demands came. That was the thing about Cairenes. They’d listen to you. But if you wanted them to follow you, if you wanted to gain their confidence, they had to feel they knew you. They had to look you in the eyes and read your heart. Going around in a mask was a good gimmick. But lots of people here had come more out of curiosity than anything else. She’d taken hold of that curiosity and given it a good shake.
“Why do you take so long?” she mocked. “Is this feat beyond the great al-Jahiz? Or are you better at giving speeches? My mother always says that beneath the nice and unassuming exterior are often catastrophes. Maybe you’re hiding a catastrophe under that mask? Maybe your eyes are as big as your name implies?” There were peals of laughter. That was the other thing about Cairenes—give them a reason and you could go from serious to laughingstock, the butt of jokes traded on street corners and in coffee shops.
“Come on, great shaykh,” Fatma added for good measure. “Take off your mask!”
The imposter held up a hand, bringing renewed silence. “I have never claimed to be a shaykh,” he spoke in that soft voice. “That is a title you have placed upon me. I am but a revealer of truth. I speak these truths to those who need hear them—Muslim or Copt or disbeliever. When I first walked the streets of Cairo, I came only as a teacher and no more. As one whose face could be lost among the many. I did not wish for my likeness to be remade, to become an idol for misunderstanding men to venerate. I did not want to be used by the deceitful to lead the people astray.”
Fatma gleefully readied more gibes. He wasn’t going to just talk his way out of this one.
“But I am not without understanding, that eyes must at times see to strengthen truth.”
The words on Fatma’s tongue evaporated as the man did the unthinkable—placing his fingers to either side of the gold mask and prying it away. The gasps that rose around her cut through the stillness like a knife.
Beneath the mask was a face that staggered, and she had to fight not to take a step back. It was a face of deep angles, sunken in about the cheekbones and elongated to the chin. The skin that covered that face was as dark as any Soudanese, contrasting with the matted peppered locks of hair that fell about it. And those eyes! If it were possible, they burned even fiercer—as if unveiled in all their severity. It was not that this was truly al-Jahiz; for that her mind wouldn’t allow. But if ever she imagined what the man whispered of in stories and legends would look like, stepped back into their midst, this was the face she would conjure to stare back at her.
The awe that came from the crowd was palpable, rising up amid exclamations of “It is him! He has returned! Al-Jahiz!” That last one was picked up by new voices that blended into one constant chant. “Al-Jahiz! Al-Jahiz! Al-Jahiz!” If there were still doubtful out there, they were drowned out by these more fervent cries.
“This isn’t good,” Hadia said.
Fatma looked around. She had hoped to unmask the imposter, show him for a fraud. Instead, she had given him validation. There was a sinking feeling that this had been a trap. And she’d walked right into it.
“What now?” Aasim asked.
Fatma pushed away the dread and self-doubt. “I remember him admitting to murder. We take him, before he riles up everyone further.”
“They seem pretty riled already,” Hadia pointed out.
Not the only ones either, Fatma noted. Hamed and the other agents had their black truncheons clutched tight. The police had hands on their batons, shoulders tensed like men ready to spring. This could explode. “Aasim! We arrest him now or make a retreat!”
The inspector’s moustache actually went stiff. “The Cairo police don’t retreat,” he said bitingly. Pulling out a whistle, he blew it twice. His officers drew their batons and formed up ranks like a battalion. “I am authorized to place you under arrest!” Aasim shouted at the imposter. “For the murder of Lord Alistair Worthington and his known associates! Anyone who impedes will be arrested for interference in the carrying out of the will of the state!”
He was answered with eruptions of anger, jeers joining the chants.
“The will of the state.” The imposter’s voice came from the rooftop in mockery. “Do you see now of what I speak? Where are Cairo’s authorities when you are sick? Or need clean water? Or the price of food goes high? They cannot be bothered. But now, to protect these scheming foreigners, they will send an entire army of police. And against who? The poor and downtrodden. Invading your homes and dwellings. All to apprehend one man? I will go willingly, my people, if you so wish it. So that this shameful betrayal goes no further.”
Cries of defiance went up along with raised fists. As Fatma watched, a group of thirty or more broke from the main crowd. She recognized their leader: the young man she had pushed earlier. He led his group directly in their path, urging on their shouts and profane gestures. She cast a glance back to the police. There was anger on their faces but fear too at understanding they were woefully outnumbered. Things had escalated and now balanced on a knife’s edge. The slightest nudge could send them tumbling over. No, this couldn’t happen. She glanced up to the imposter, whose
