It was well into night as Agent Hamed sat typing up his report. The Ministry had emptied early as it always did on a Thursday before the Friday weekend. With the crowds still celebrating in the streets, most of the staff had left well before sunset. Granting suffrage to women had not been a universal sentiment. But now that it was done, hardly a person could be found who had before opposed it. Cairenes were odd that way, part of a city that loved anything which trumpeted its vaunted modernity.
He had sent Onsi off, despite protestations to stay and help. Hamed had insisted. Who wanted to spend the night after completing their first big case typing up reports? There’d be paperwork enough next week. There was always more paperwork. He read over the review he’d written about the Ministry’s latest recruit, using words like “commendable” and “exceeds expectations.” Maybe this partner thing wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Pausing in his work, he picked up the copy of Al-Masri he kept nearby. The front of the evening daily read in bold letters: EGYPT’S LADIES GET THE VOTE! Beneath was a photo of two women holding up victory signs. Much of the newspaper was dedicated to the day’s big happenings, but Hamed turned several pages to another story.
In a corner at the bottom of page four, a photo showed him and Onsi. Still in their dresses and quite veiled, they stood on either side of the grimacing al. The photographer who had captured the image had promised he’d do his best to see it make the paper. There was no story attached, just the words beneath reading: Ministry Agents Capture Ramses Station Fiend. But for Hamed that was more than enough. He smiled as he looked over the grainy image, and pondered whether perhaps he should have it framed. Or would that be too vain? A rap on his door made him hurriedly close the newspaper, looking up to find a familiar but unexpected figure.
Agent Fatma el-Sha’arawi stood in his doorway. She was resplendent as ever, in a lavender Englishman’s suit and matching vest with a white shirt and a deep purple tie, topped off with a black bowler no less.
“Good evening, Agent Hamed,” she greeted him pleasantly. “Am I bothering you?”
“Evening to you, Agent Fatma,” Hamed said, standing and unconsciously straightening his uniform. “And no, not a bother at all. Please, come in.” The smaller woman smiled, strolling in on a pair of black and tan wingtips. Hamed fidgeted at his uniform again.
“I wondered if you were a fan of basbousa?” she asked. Hamed looked to her outstretched hand, only then noticing the small golden cake she held, topped with sugary almonds.
He smiled back with nod. “I love basbousa.”
“Great! I thought I’d have to try and eat this all myself.” Whipping off her bowler, she hung it on a peg and pulled up a chair to the front of his desk. Hamed cleared a space and found some clean spoons. In moments, the two were digging into the sweet cake that tasted faintly of orange.
“I figured you’d be out celebrating tonight,” he said, trying to make appropriate conversation. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d spoken more than greetings.
Fatma nodded a head of cropped black curls. “That’s what this cake was for. I was supposed to be heading downtown to meet a friend, but had a case that kept me over. And now . . .” She gestured to the report sheets spread about his desk.
“Paperwork,” they both said at once.
“What was the case?” he asked, unable to help himself.
She rolled her eyes, digging out another piece of cake. “Some necromancer thought it’d be a brilliant idea to reanimate a sorcerer buried in the Valley of the Kings, hoping to learn some arcane knowledge. Instead, he brings back the corpse of an ancient pharaoh. I mean it’s called the Valley of the Kings for a reason, right? So, turns out this ancient king is a megalomaniac, and now that he’s back, wants to raise an army of the dead from their tombs and conquer the country. Or the world. I forget. Anyway, managed to seal the dead god-emperor back in his sarcophagus and arrested the necromancer. I hope they charge him with stupidity. That took up the whole day.” She made a face of disgust, then stopped to look at Hamed inquiringly. “How about you? What was your case about?”
He gaped at her, dazed. God-emperors and armies of the dead?
“We solved a haunting on a tram,” he answered, feeling silly for even saying it. He expected her to give him a polite look of feigned interest. But instead, her face lit up.
“That was you? At Ramses Station? In the dress?”
Hamed nodded sheepishly, pulling out the paper and flipping to page four. “The other one’s Agent Onsi. One of our new recruits.”
Fatma looked over the photo, shaking her head. “Everyone’s been trying to figure out who this was. First we heard the story, then it was in the evening paper. Never would have guessed it was you. They say you fought the spirit right there on the station floor with a knife—hand to hand!”
That wasn’t precisely what happened, but why dispute? “It was harrowing,” he replied.
They spent a long while thereafter, eating cake and talking, trading stories.
“ . . . so anyway,” Hamed related, as they drank some warm mint tea, “there are authorities flying in from Armenia to take the al back. The Ministry wants me to try to recruit one of them to update our records on folklore in the region. There’s even talk of Onsi and myself heading up a special unit handling cases on lesser-known supernatural entities.”
“Congratulations!” Fatma said, lifting her cup. “To more paperwork!”
Hamed joined her, returning the toast.
“Seems we’ve all been busy since joining the Ministry,” she mused after taking a sip. “Wrapped up in our own cases. We should take some time out—do things like this more often.”
“We should,” Hamed agreed, and quite meant it. He paused, deciding to take a risk. “There’s been some rumors floating about the Ministry about a case of yours this past summer. It’s all the new recruits can talk about. Something to do with the Angelic Council . . . ?”
Fatma’s face went flat, and she stared at him without expression.
“My apologies,” he said at once, feeling abashed. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I know those files are sealed.”
“They are sealed, Agent Hamed,” she replied in a serious tone. Then she leaned forward, a smirk playing on her lips as she whispered: “And I’ve been waiting for someone to just come out and ask me so I can tell it anyway! Now, you can’t repeat this. You know how those supposed angels are about their secrecy. But it all started when I was called in about a dead djinn . . .”
As Hamed listened to the tale with growing awe, he could only think that Onsi was going to hate missing this.