“I’m sorry all of this has happened to you, agent.” He offered his cigarette.
Fatma hesitated, then accepted, taking a long pull. The tobacco smoke swirled in her nostrils, reaching her tongue—and she gagged. She could probably count the times she’d ever smoked a cigarette on one hand. But this was by far the worst. “This is awful. It tastes like…”
“Stale feet?” he suggested.
“Why do you smoke them if they’re so bad?”
“They don’t call it a habit for nothing.”
She handed back the Nefertari. “Did you know? About Siti?”
He shook his head. “Though I myself am no stranger to … transformation. I hope the two of you can find a path forward. I am also no stranger to love and loss.”
His words struck her, as they always managed to do. She fought to rise above her own problems and grief, imagining the pain he carried. “I haven’t given up on the case, Ahmad. I’m going to find this imposter. I’m going to bring him in. Your … Nephthys will receive justice.”
His reptilian eyes searched her. Whatever he saw there appeared to bring satisfaction.
“Justice comes for the wicked in time. The scales of Thoth demand it.” He came to his feet, dropping the spent cigarette and stamping it out. “Thank you, agent.”
“For what?”
“For trying. For deciding that Nephthys mattered.”
He turned to walk away.
“Wait,” Fatma called. He swiveled his head around, fixing her with green baleful eyes. She searched them, trying to see if there was anyone else—anything else—staring back at her. “You really believe there’s a”—she fumbled at the word—“god, living inside you?”
“A bit of a god. A drop, to an ocean.” He squinted curiously. “And what is it, agent, that you have seen this night?”
Fatma fidgeted at the question, unnerved by his odd perception. She didn’t answer, instead posing another query. “What’s happening to you now, is it your choice? Or something being done to you, by your”—she fumbled again—“god?”
Ahmad seemed to contemplate this, before rolling his shoulders in a shrug. “When you have faith, it really doesn’t matter.” With those final words he left her there, his odd gait carrying him into the shadows like a god back to his realm.
It was near midnight when she reached her apartment. You have to go home eventually, her mother often said. She caught sight of two figures in blue gallabiyahs standing at her door, in heated discussion. One was the bewab, Mahmoud. The second one was … Fatma frowned. The second man looked remarkably like Mahmoud as well. Same portly build. Same receding graying hair. As she came close, both turned to her, surprise on their faces, and she stopped in her tracks. There were two Mahmouds. That same red-brown face, bushy eyebrows—even that look that could weigh and judge in a moment. She blinked, and wondered whether this night had finally taken its toll on her mind.
“Good night, Captain,” one of the Mahmouds greeted.
“We know how this might seem,” the other said.
“But we can explain,” the first finished, palms open.
Fatma looked between them. “Are there two of you?” She needed that confirmed first.
“Yes,” both replied.
That was a relief. “Which one of you is Mahmoud?”
“I am Mahmoud.”
“And I am also Mahmoud.”
Seriously? “Then which one of you is my doorman?”
The two exchanged an awkward look. “Both of us.”
She nodded, though that made absolutely no sense. “You were going to explain…?”
“My brother and I are both the bewab of this building,” one Mahmoud said.
Twins. She’d already deduced as much. “This whole time, there’ve been two of you?”
“When we came to Cairo, it was not easy finding work,” one spoke. “Everyone wants mechanics for the factories or expects you to have skills in machinery. What do old men like us know of such things? This was the best work we could find.”
Fatma listened, things falling into place—the way Mahmoud seemed always on duty, or didn’t appear to sleep, or how he knew everything that was going on. “Does the building owner know?”
A Mahmoud shook his head. “And we would keep it so. We have traded shifts quietly, outside of everyone’s view.” The two put on identical sheepish looks. “We were careless tonight. Brothers will argue.”
“The owner’s only paying one of you? Why do double the work if not double the pay?”
“It’s more complicated than that,” one answered. “We are offered a place to sleep and live, so long as we mind the building.”
“We mind it so well,” the other picked up, “we’re paid more than most bewab in the city at comparable places, wallahi.”
“More than twice as much, wallahi!” the first exclaimed. “The owner does this because he believes one man is doing such tremendous work. He feels good in knowing that he is so generous in his rewards. If he were to find out there are two of us…”
Fatma thought she understood. It was the perfect racket. Sort of. Maybe? She was a bit perturbed they’d fooled her for so long. What kind of investigator was this unaware of what was going on right in front of her eyes? Thoughts of Siti flashed in her head, knotting her stomach.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” she told them.
“God keep you, Captain,” a Mahmoud said thankfully. “We Sa’idi can always be counted up to keep each other’s secrets.”
He looked over her disheveled clothing. “The Ministry is working you even harder than usual.” His tone went low as if he were delivering some secret information. “We hear the palace was attacked!”
Of course they had. Fatma just nodded, not wanting to get into it.
“You catch that son of a shoe making these troubles!” the other Mahmoud exclaimed as he ushered her inside. “We do not believe his lies! I do not care if he is al-Jahiz returned twice over, wallahi!”
“Wallahi, he belongs in a prison!” his brother finished.
She walked through the open door, then stopped to peer back at them. “How do you keep it up? Pretending to be one person? Knowing that you have to hide what you are?”
Both men shrugged. “We already know who
