AH Novel: Funny Money

Good preview.

simon darkshade , I'll have a think about the name. Ark Royal sounds good, but not sure if the previous/existing might survive TTL.

10. Alexandria

The Gabes tied up early in the morning after a two day wait, much to Captain Travert frustration. The late arrival meant the plans for meeting with his contact in the port were ruined, and he had no way of contacting anyone in Alexandria, nor a way to contact Schultz back in France. He and the First Mate stood on the deck and puffed cigarettes, bemoaning their late arrival, watching the local stevedores fumbled with the gangplank.

“Merde,” Pascal Sergeant cursed and angrily flicked his butt into the oily waters below. “We’ll be here forever. I hope they’re going to unload us too.”

“Calm down Pascal,” Travert said mildly. “We’ve got no way to find the contact, so it’s a waiting game anyway. I suppose they’ll come tonight. Anyway, there’s no rush. Send someone to the market for some fresh vegetables. And some meat.” The sun was warm, and the captain squinted to the east. “We’ve at least a day to kill, and expenses to claim.”

“Hmm.” The anticipation of the bonus mollified the miserable Sergeant – things were not all bad. He watched through narrow eyes as a car drove along the dockside road and stopped at the end of the pier where the Gabes bobbed in the light swell. He flicked his chin in the direction of the car, and Travert turned.

“Or perhaps earlier,” he muttered. “Get going Pascal. Those idiots have finally got the gangway settled.”

The captain watched as a man clambered out of the car, recognising Hugo, their passenger from the summer. How could he have got here so quickly? They only received the radio message to dock an hour ago. Travert shrugged. No matter. Best to arrange the handover tonight – he expected complaints from the man, but there was nothing he could do about the ineptitude of the Alexandria port authorities. He ambled down to meet the man.



Across the road, Rashad Ahmad stood at the window of his office and pulled on the cord of the blinds to let in more light. The sun would necessitate closing them later in the day, but for now it was pleasant to allow a little natural light into the office. His desk was a bit of a mess, covered in papers and he feared a busy day.

The tricolour flew off the ship opposite, and Ahmad saw the small man exit the car and walk confidently towards the French ship. He did not wait to be invited aboard but marched across the gangplank towards a man who Ahmad assumed was the captain of the ship. Although Ahmad could not hear the conversation, it was obvious the newcomer was shouting at the captain, which caught the Egyptians attention. It was not done to be rude to the captain aboard his ship, but this man seemed uninterested in protocol. Curiously Ahmad glanced at the ship’s bow. Gabes. He frowned. He recognised the name, which suggested it must have visited recently, certainly within the last few months ago. Ahmad watched the argument as he mused on whether he might be able to turn the ships visit into something worth mentioning to Mr. Brook.

Eventually, the captain calmed the man down and Ahmad watched as the newcomer pointed to the fence a few hundred yards away. The captain nodded and the two men wandered down the gangplank, towards the fence. It was topped with barbed wire, and across a small, unkept patch of grass, the main road towards the navy base was busy with construction traffic. The men talked for a few minutes before walking towards the car that the visitor had arrived in. He stood at the door, still talking – the demeanour of the captain was one of hostile acceptance as he nodded along. With a final finger waggle, the unknown man climbed into the back and the car, which started immediately and drove towards the exit. Once it was out of sight, the captain gave a rude gesture, lit a cigarette, and returned to his ship.

Ahmad pursed his lips at the unusual scene, and on a whim scribbled down a description of the man and the car. The ship must have just arrived because it had not been there the previous evening when he left the office. He sat at his desk and riffled through the latest sheaf of arrival notifications. The Gabes… there it was. Due to dock two days previously – it might explain the man’s frustration, but he must know the captain has no control over berth allocation. The port was chaotically busy due to the imminent canal closure, and ships with transit slots were being prioritised, for a fee! This vessel was almost certainly not heading south, otherwise the captain – if he had any sense – would have found the correct palm to grease.

The telephone rang, and Ahmad’s interest in the French ship waned as his boss barked orders, demanding the impossible. He sighed and slumped back into his chair. At least when the canal closed, the port might be quiet for a few days. Reluctantly he lifted the receiver to cancel his assignation at the flat – he was far too busy to spare the time. It was dusk by the time Ahmad escaped his office, and the thought of an evening in his busy house depressed him. Perhaps a few hours in the flat, even alone, then a late-night return. He could blame work.



A few hours later, Travert, lying on his bunk checked his watch. Almost midnight. It would not do to upset the surly Monsieur Hugo again. Travert was still furious at his treatment earlier in the day, but there was nothing he could do about it. Better to just get rid of the cargo and hope he would not have to deal with the horrible man again. He took a last drag of his Gitanes, ran a thumb over the end to extinguish it, and dragged himself upright, straightened his shirt and slipped on his jacket and hat before leaving the confines of the cabin and walking down to the gangplank and off towards the darkness of the fence.

The road was now quiet, the only sign of traffic a small van parked, and up on a jack. A spare tire lay on the grass, and a man was crouched next to the front wheel, attacking the nuts with a wrench. Travert glanced at his watch in panic – was he late? No, still ten minutes until the agreed rendezvous time.

“Mon Captain,” a voice whispered from the darkness, and Travert jumped. A flash of light revealed the man he knew as Hugo. “Good, you are on time.” He snapped his fingers, and two men appeared from the rear of the van, one wielding large set of bolt cutters. They trotted to the fence and whilst one of the men held the wire, the other quickly cut a line down the wire fencing, then along the top, creating a hole a man could easily get through, if he crouched down.

“Lead on,” Hugo said with a wave of the hand. Travert nodded and gestured towards the ship. The docks were quiet and dark – no late-night shifts for the stevedores, whose union bosses were still to receive the requisite bribes to justify triple shifts and nightwork to clear the backlog. It was only a matter of time! Bastards! The light from the docked ships was enough, and he led the men towards the Gabes, and straight to the crates.

The men reached for the crates and grunted in surprise. They were heavy. “One at a time, captain. You will help.” It was an order rather than a request, and although Travert wanted to refuse, his desire to be rid of the man won out and he reluctantly picked up one of the crates. It was indeed heavier than expected, and he risked a glance towards the Frenchman. What on earth was inside? Hugo’s eyes were dark, inviting no questioning, and Travert focused on carrying the crate. They were certainly not filled with paper money this time. Could it be weapons? Travert shivered – had he accidentally become a gunrunner? He quickly dismissed the thought, and anyway, it was none of his business.

The trip to the van was longer with the heavy crates and the fake mechanic was called to hold the wire. The wheel was still beside the vehicle, and it appeared no progress had been made. The crates were deposited in the back of the vehicle, and a second trip was made.

“You are departing tomorrow?” Hugo asked when the last of the crates was safely in the back of the truck and the burly men were out of earshot.

“Who knows? The dockworkers are a law unto themselves. We’ve not unloaded yet. The crane next to the ship is not working. A repairman is expected tomorrow.”

“I’ll see to it,” Hugo said. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. “From Herr Schultz. He appreciates your efforts.”

“Merci,” Travert said cautiously. He slipped the envelope into an inside pocket without opening it and started back to his ship, then paused in surprise when the Frenchman and his two men followed. He looked at them quizzically.

“The fence will be discovered. We will take some items of value, items that will be missed from the ships near you. Perhaps you were robbed as well.” He raised his eyebrows.

“No, I don’t think so,” Travert said slowly. “I’d rather not deal with the port police. We’ll say there was a man patrolling the decks. We got lucky.”

“How did he not notice the theft?”

“He was patrolling,” Travert said with a shrug. “The police will not expect help from sailors. Especially foreign sailors!”

“As you wish.” The Frenchman handed a sheet of paper to each of the men and pointed at the vessels nearest the Gabes, turned back to Travert and extended a hand. The captain accepted it with reluctance, forced a smile and nodded.

“Merci monsieur. Bon chance.” Hugo smiled and marched away. Travert walked along the gangplank, found a bottle of cognac, and drank a third of it before he remembered the envelope. Another two thousand francs, and a note:

Mon Capitaine,

Thank you once again. I look forward to working with you in the future.

It was unsigned. Travert screwed up the envelope, threw it in the bin and downed another measure of cognac before he clicked off his light and went to sleep, wondering when the promised inconvenience to the British would materialise.



When Rashad Ahmad arrived later than planned the next morning, he was perturbed to see his boss prowling outside the office. Fortunately, he was not noticed, so he straightened his tie and walked towards him, hoping to give the impression he was returning from an inspection. The pretence failed – Yaser El-Hashem, the port manager had already checked and been informed Ahmad had not yet arrived.

“Morning Rashad,” he said. “Running late?” Ahmad muttered an apology, but it was waved away. “There was another break in last night. Those two ships reported some items missing.” He waved a hand in the general direction of the quay. “The port police are on their way. In their own time I might add. I’ve been here since eight. Anyway, the fence was cut. Sort out repairs. Today! And find out if we can add a fence and some patrol dogs in the gap. It’s the second time.”

“Yes, sir,” Ahmad said. Over El-Hashem’s shoulder he saw the crane unloading large crates from the Gabes. Strange. The crane was broken when he left, and although it was on his long list of tasks for the previous day, he was surprised someone else had resolved the issue so quickly.

“Get on with it then,” El-Hashem snapped. Ahmad nodded and scurried away. Aboard the Gabes the captain and mate chatted as they watched another crate swing onto the quay, closely following by a thick net full of sacks.

Ahmad stumbled into the office, ignored the other man who had clearly informed his boss he was late and quickly picked up the telephone to book a repair. “No, two days isn’t good enough. Today. Or I’ll find someone else,” he snapped at the man on the other end of the telephone. “I’m sure you realise how important this contract is, especially with the expansion plans.” The abused as ever kicked down, but in this case, Ahmad held the whip. A repair crew would be there before noon. He slammed the telephone down, stood and walked to the window to adjust the blinds. The smart corner office belonged to El-Hashem, but he rarely used it. Most work was palmed off on others whilst he attempted to impress his own bosses, with apparent success given how rapidly he had risen to his current position. Rumour said he was being considered for another promotion, and El-Hashem dropped hints he would have an influence on this replacement. Ahmad could not help but imagine sitting in the office, giving orders, and doing little, but he knew in his heart it would never happen. El-Hashem’s job would either go either to a relative, or someone who could afford to bribe him.

He pulled his eyes away from the door to El-Hashem’s office and watched the unloading of the Gabes gather pace. There were far more men working on the ship than expected, and dozens of large crates were already sitting on the quayside. Although he had lots to do, curiosity got the better of him, and he flicked through the manifests until he found the French ship. Car parts. He wasted an hour trying to find a record of the ship’s last stop in Alexandria but was eventually rewarded. Several months ago, the cargo was French wine, champagne, and cigarettes. He glanced at the date, looked sharply at the ship, then at the date again. What a coincidence! The last time the ship was docked here in Alexandria, it was in the same berth, close to the fence, and the very same piece of fence had been damaged. It had not been discovered until a day after the Gabes left – El-Hashem had lectured him for twenty minutes on his lack of attention to detail when it was noticed by someone on the road rather than the inspectors Ahmad was supposed to manage.

He looked back out of the window at the ship, then scrambled around at his desk until he found the notes from the previous day. The man, the car and now this unlikely coincidence. This was certainly something to mention to Mr. Brook. He debated whether it was an emergency but decided after last time it was not. It was probably nothing, but then again, the Englishmen seemed to be interested in the strangest things.

Ahmad suddenly remembered Brook’s interest in the Italian ship. He was still to provide the information. He would do it now, although it meant another hour not working on his assigned tasks. Lunchtime arrived, and Ahmad was yet to start any of his actual work, and he briefly considered skipping lunch, but his stomach rumbled in protest. It was not as if Mr. El-Hashem deserved his extra efforts. He glared at his colleague and stalked out of the stuffy office to find some food and drop of the envelopes at the little apartment.

21. Alexandria

Rashad Ahmad was frantic. When he returned home the previous evening his mother was subdued over dinner, then disappeared to bed after kissing her son on the forehead and muttering he was a good boy. When Zaahira told him about El-Hashem’s visit, he struggled to hide his fear. He quizzed his wife intently, but she knew little about what his mother had told the man – apparently, he had asked where Rashad was, and she would only admit to letting slip she thought her son worked too hard.

Ahmad considered confronting his mother but realised it would be pointless. She was stubborn and would never admit to being in the wrong – it was a trait his father abhorred. Why would El-Hashem have come to the house when he knew Ahmad was in the office. He was obviously snooping, hoping to catch him in a lie, and given how quickly he left when Zaahira appeared, it was likely he had whatever he wanted.

His mother had not appeared for breakfast, so before he left for work, he tapped on her door, and when she refused to answer he walked in. As expected, she would admit nothing other than saying he worked too hard. Did El-Hashem ask anything specific? She had shaken her head, then mentioned his failure to return Sunday evening. Ahmad stalked out of the house and made his way to work.

Now at his desk, he sat with his head in his hands as he tried to figure out what he should do. He desperately wanted to talk to Mr. Brook, but he was nowhere to be found. It was obvious El-Hashem had correctly identified him as being responsible for the missing money, but more importantly as having witnessed the events of that night. Ahmad recalled the captain’s insistence they check the office. Clearly no one was meant to see the ship unloading its illicit cargo.

Taking a deep breath, Ahmad decided he would check the flat to determine if Mr. Brook had received his message, and if not leave another one. He looked up and checked the clock. It was almost ten, and he was still alone. Strange. Where were his colleagues? Before he had time to worry further, the door opened and El-Hashem, today wearing more traditional clothes, loomed in the shadows.

“Good morning, Rashad,” he said amiably. Ahmad managed a response. “I have a job for you. We’ve been notified of a delay and need to deliver urgent messages to a couple of customers. Important customers. We can’t wait for a messenger, so I need you to take them. Can you manage that?” It was said with a slight sneer, as though delivering message was beyond Ahmad.

“Er, yes of course, sir.” Ahmad was surprised. El-Hashem usually asked one of the others to run such errands, but if his boss did not want to talk about the money, it was fine by him.

“Good. Come into the office for a moment.” He half-turned, waiting for Ahmad to rise, and marched into his office. It took just a few minutes to explain what was needed and Ahmad left the office with a satchel packed with large envelopes. As Ahmad passed his desk, he glanced back. El-Hashem was watching, eyes narrowed, his lips curled in an unpleasant half-smile. Ahmad swallowed hard, nodded, and left the office, walking down the stairs towards the tram stop. He considered going to the flat, but decided it might take too long, and he did not want his boss to have something more to be unhappy about. Perhaps this was a test to determine if he could be trusted. Unbeknown to him, the errands would stop him revealing the location of Brook’s flat, and hence the information he had written about the Italian ship.

Beauchene’s men were already at the tram stop and followed him across the city to the first delivery and onwards with Ahmad oblivious to the danger. And hour later, he left the penultimate address and walked towards the tram confident El-Hashem could have no complaints. Realising he was close to the Shepheard Hotel he checked the time then abruptly doubled back and jumped onto a tram which pulled away before the men following him could react. Two stops later he was off the tram, and briefly without his pursuers. He trotted up the driveway and despite the questioning look from the doorman, marched confidently to the front desk.

“Mr. Brook please.”

“I’m sorry,” the man behind the counter said, although he did not appear to be. “Mr. Brook is away, in Cairo. He will be back tonight.”

“Tonight? Do you know what time?”

“Around eight, I believe. Would you like to leave a message?”

“Yes,” Ahmad said quickly. “Do you have paper and an envelope?” Reluctantly the man reached into his desk and handed over the items. “And a pen?” The frown was ignored, and he offered a pen. Ahmad marched away, scribbled a note asking Brook to come to the flat that evening. Ahmad would remain there until they spoke. He sealed the envelope carefully and scratched his name over the seal, then walked back to the man behind the counter. “Please ensure he gets it the moment he arrives. It’s important.”

“Of course.”

Ahmad turned and left the hotel, walking down the long driveway, slightly happier. He would see Mr. Brook tonight and they would talk and decide what to do. Mr Brook would know what to do. He boarded the tram to the final address and handed over the envelope. As he was about to walk out of the building a man approached as though in a hurry.

“Mr Ahmad? Rashad Ahmad?”

“Yes.”

The man puffed his cheeks as though relieved to have caught him. “A message from Mr. El-Hashem. Some documents to collect.” Ahmad looked surprised but nodded. “Please, this way.” He gestured to a door and held it open for Ahmad to pass first, then waved down the corridor. Ahmad took a couple of tentative steps, paused, and turned to the unknown man. The smile had disappeared, the face now etched with a hard edge, and he waved him on, pushing with one hand to encourage him to move.

“What’s going on?” Ahmad asked, annoyed.

“Stop,” the man said, and banged on a door with his palm. It opened quickly and Ahmad was nudged into a shabby room, once perhaps an office but long disused. Ahmad glanced around, confusion on his face, the heard the door slam shut, and a bolt slide into place.

“What’s going on?” Ahmad asked repeated. His annoyance was replaced with fear. There were others already in the room, waiting for him. Why? Immediately it dawned on him. He took a step towards the door. “I’m leaving,” he muttered, although his voice lacked conviction.

“No, no,” the man said, propelling Ahmad towards the desk. “Sit.” When Ahmad did not obey, he pushed him on the shoulder, squeezing hard. “I said, sit!”. Perhaps something on Ahmad’s face gave him away, but as he was about to shout for help, one of the other men stepped closer, leaning down, their faces inches apart.

“Any noise and you die,” the man said with menace, the stale smell of tobacco and garlic washing over Ahmad. A small knife appeared, waving menacingly close to Ahmad’s face. A smaller man approached, and Ahmad swallowed hard as, impossibly, things took a turn for the worse. The translator from Sunday night! He was small, a dirty white jalabiya enveloping him without shape. His thinning, greasy black hair and twitchy eyes gave him an air of untrustworthiness. He stared at Ahmad for a moment, then spoke to the man who had forced him through the door.

“Where is Ansar?” The man shrugged, and a flicker of anger crossed Laurentin Beauchene’s face. “Find him.” A curt nod and the man left the room, leaving the door unbolted. An involuntary glance from Ahmad was greeted with a nasty, tight smile. “Not be a good idea,” Beauchene said. “I just want to ask some questions. If you run, I’ll think you have something to hide.” He contemplated Ahmad for a few minutes, staring, but saying nothing, eventually settling into the chair on the other side of the desk. A tap on the door broke his concentration, and he looked up sharply and barked an order.

The door opened and Beauchene looked up as a young man walked in. “Ansar, what are you doing here?” He asked in Arabic.

“Following…” the new arrival’s voice trailed off as he noticed the man sitting in the chair, and his face creased with fear. “I, er…”

“Lost him!” Beauchene finished. “I asked what you were doing here?”

“I’m so sorry, monsieur,” Ansar whined. “He jumped on a moving tram. I couldn’t get on.”

“I asked why you are here,” Beauchene snapped quietly. “You lost him,” he repeated.

Ansar was about to defend himself, but a raised hand stopped him from speaking, and he shuffled nervously as Beauchene approached and he looked down, trying to meet Beauchene’s eyes.

“That is very disappointing,” Beauchene muttered ominously.

“There was nothing I could do,” Ansar answered, mustering as much confidence as he could manage.

“You allowed yourself to be seen!” Beauchene said contemptuously. “You let this… amateur lose you.”

“No, no, he didn’t see us. He just er, … changed his mind.” Ansar’s head bowed, and Ahmad felt fear. This man Ansar was terrified of what the greasy haired man might do, and he worked for him. Should he claim he had seen the man? No, it would not help. If he knew he was being followed, he would want to know why. An innocent man would be confused. Trying to lose the man would indicate guilt – something to hide. Besides, he almost certainly would not have made this final stop. No, silence was the best policy for now.

“Get out,” Beauchene snapped. Ansar was only too happy to comply. Beauchene returned to his seat, sat, and resumed staring at Ahmad. The seconds ticked by in silence. It was unnervingly, and Ahmad managed to retain eye contact only for a moment or two. Beauchene waved the other two men away, out of earshot.

“Why did you steal from Mr. El-Hashem?” No preamble, no attempt to ease into the questioning with an easy question, but just a straight accusation.

“I don’t understand,” Ahmad stuttered. The man spoke Arabic, but he was not Egyptian. “Who are you?”

“That does not matter. What matters is you stole from my friend,” Beauchene said menacingly.

“I didn’t steal anything.”

Beauchene leant forward and slapped Ahmad across the face. “Don’t lie to me,” he almost whispered. It was not hard, but it was so shocking that Ahmad was unable to respond immediately. “I know you were in your office on Sunday. I know you lied about when you left. I know you did not go to the mosque, and you did not return home. It is important you tell the truth.”

“I didn’t,” Ahmad began, but got no further.

“My men were following you.”

It was a lie, and for a moment it fooled Ahmad, whose eyes widened in surprise, then he realised they could not have been following him Sunday evening. If so, they would not have waited to question him. They would have found him in El-Hashem office. He thought carefully. He had not been back to the flat, so they did not know about that either.

“Why do you think you were sent on these errands today?” Beauchene asked rhetorically. “It was so we could check your desk. You appear to have papers you do not need, but the money is missing. Let’s start with some easier questions. Where have you been going to lunch?”

Ahmad looked questioningly, and Beauchene made to stand again. Ahmad flinched. “I was meeting someone.” He paused, and his captor – he could think of no other way to describe him because he was certain if he tried to leave, he would not be allowed to do so. “A friend. A lady.”

Beauchene smirked lasciviously but shook his head “I doubt that! But let’s assume for a moment you it’s true. Why were you in the office on Sunday night? Don’t deny it, or you’ll get more than a slap.”

“I….” Ahmad’s denial trailed off before it started. The man knew too much – a denial made no sense, but how much did he really know? Beauchene had made a mistake speaking to Ansar in front of him. Losing Ahmad meant they missed the visit to the hotel and sending him on these pointless errands stopped him visiting the flat.

Did they know about Mr. Brook? Ahmad wiped perspiration from his forehead. It was luck they had not followed him to the hotel, which would have led them to him. The man at the hotel would have told them about his note for a pittance. He decided they did not know, and he would not betray him. Surely keeping their secret would be worth something when they met later.

“I fell asleep,” Ahmad admitted, as though resigned. “I was working late, finishing some paperwork. I sat on the sofa for a break and fell asleep. When I woke up it was late, I heard a noise and looked outside. Something was going on, but I didn’t want to get involved. When I saw Mr El-Hashem coming to the office, I was, er, I don’t know. I didn’t want him to think I was snooping. I hid.” Ahmad shrugged.

“And the money?”

He desperately wanted to deny it, but it was pointless. His shoulders slumped. “I heard you in Mr El-Hashem’s office. When everyone was gone, I peeked into the office and saw the cupboard open. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t take much.”

“I know,” Beauchene said soothingly. “Where is it?” Ahmad hesitated, and Beauchene waved a hand. “We’ll get to that. Why were you interested in the Doria?”

“The Doria?” Ahmad’s attempt to feign ignorance failed and Beauchene’s face hardened.

“I know you looked at the manifest. You made it dirty.”

“Oh, the ship? The Doria.” Beauchene nodded. “I was just curious,” Ahmad admitted. “Why Mr El-Hashem had to come at night?”

“What did you find?”

“Nothing. It was just car parts,” Ahmad said. “I was surprised because there aren’t many Italian cars in Egypt.” He shook his head ruefully. “Stupid. If Mr El-Hashem was supervising, it wasn’t something on the manifest.”

“What do you think it was?”

“I don’t know what comes from Italy. I just know they invaded and support the Germans.” He did not attempt to hide his distaste when he mentioned the invasion.

Beauchene pursed his lips and nodded. “Yes, I don’t suppose Italians are very popular here,” he said with a smile. Ahmad shrugged again, unsure if he was expected to respond. He decided not, and outwaited Beauchene.

“The problem is, I don’t believe you. You don’t strike me as the curious type. You do as you’re told. So, why? Why were you interested?”

“I wasn’t,” Ahmad whined. “I just fell asleep. I don’t know anything. I don’t want to know anything. Mr El-Hashem doesn’t trust me, so how could I?” Beauchene mouth creased in a smile.

“Finally, you’ve said something truthful,” he said. “Mr El-Hashem doesn’t trust you, but you’re not alone.” He leant forward conspiratorially. “I don’t trust him!”

Ahmad’s eyes widened at the comment. “I’m sorry I took the money. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Ah, the money. Where is it? We searched your office.”

“I’ll return it.”

“Hmm, it’s of no consequence,” Beauchene said dismissively, waving his hand. He pursed his lips. “I still don’t believe you. You’re taking an unusual interest in foreign ships. I mean non-British foreign ships. We found several manifests in your drawer you have no reason to keep. Your colleagues mentioned your interest in French ships. Why?”

“I’m just doing my job. Clearing up any mistakes, making sure everything runs smoothly for Mr El-Hashem. There’s lots to do.” He immediately regretted mentioning his boss. The man had just told him he did not trust Mr El-Hashem.

“Yes, your colleagues are very stupid. If Mr El-Hashem chooses to employ idiots, perhaps he is one too.” Ahmad’s eyes widened again at the comment. This man did not care who he insulted, or who heard. “No matter. What’s important is you tell the truth.”

“I am,” Ahmad responded desperately.

“I’m going to speak to Mr El-Hashem. You’ll stay here until I decide what happens next. Perhaps there is a way for you to make amends.”

“You can’t keep me here,” Ahmad protested, starting to rise. A glance from Beauchene gave him pause, and he slowly sank back onto the chair, confusion on his face. Why was Mr El-Hashem so worried? It was hardly a secret he took bribes – everyone did. In fact, if he had offered Ahmad just a few pounds, he would have been the one at the docks at midnight.

“I can do whatever I want,” Beauchene said ominously. “Remember that!” He stood and walked to one of the other men, neither of whom had taken part in the interrogation. They spoke briefly, Beauchene glancing at Ahmad, then he left. The man with the knife glared at Ahmad, bolted the door, and sat down across the room from him waiting for a wrong move.

Ahmad shifted in his chair but made no attempt to move. He was suddenly very afraid. This was about more than a few pounds. He was sure the Englishman would not be interested in a bit of smuggling, but now Ahmad thought about it, the small man was right – Mr. Brook was only interested in foreign ships. The French one, and this Italian one, the Doria. No, this was nothing to do with Mr El-Hashem getting his money back, the much bigger problem was this unknown man. Ahmad had a decision to make. Would disclosing his association with a British government employee help or hinder his case? He feared the latter, which meant he would have nothing to offer when the small man with shifty eyes returned.