Fic: Stealth and Sudden Violence (Chapter 3)
Steve knew he was grinning like a fool, but he didn't care. The car was a sweet ride, even on the rough desert road, and he was already planning on driving it as much as possible. His dad's Model T Ford was okay, great even compared to the junkers in the Philippines, but Danny's Chevrolet Series C Classic Six was amazing. It handled like a dream and had a top speed of sixty five miles an hour. Not that he was doing anything like that speed on what was basically a camel track.
Danny hadn't been sure about handing over the keys to the car, but he'd grudgingly accepted Steve's reasoning that it was better for him to drive as he knew the way to Mamo's camp. Steve hadn't driven in Egypt before, but he'd driven in some pretty inhospitable terrain and he knew how to read the desert thanks to the summer he'd spent with the man they were going to visit.
They'd set off from Steve's house as the sky was beginning to show the first pale glimmers of dawn, Danny complaining bitterly about the early start until the coffee Kamekona had brewed for them had kicked in. Steve was pretty sure it was his companion's un-caffeinated state that had allowed Steve to get the keys off him as easily as he had.
It wasn't that far from Cairo to the camp, barely thirty miles, but Steve knew how difficult the roads or lack of them would make the trip. They'd filled a couple of two gallon gas cans, as well as the tank of the car, at the police depot, just in case they ran into trouble. Kamekona had found every canteen in the house and filled them with water. He'd packed a box of emergency rations, as he called them, that Danny had cracked open before they'd even left the suburbs of Cairo behind.
“You're enjoying this way too much,” Danny said, interrupting Steve's thoughts.
Steve glanced to his right, grinning at the other man's slightly incredulous expression because it was pointless to argue. He was enjoying himself. Steve could just make out Danny's eye roll behind his motoring goggles and let out a laugh. It was exhilarating. The desert stretched out around them, the pale morning light casting long shadows from the small rocks that littered the sandy basin they were speeding across. The hills that loomed in front of them were still hidden in shadow, the rising sun turning the sky to gold behind their peaks.
“You don't like this?” Steve asked, astounded that someone would see this and not fall in love with the country.
The landscape they were driving through wasn't as grand, maybe, as the huge, endless dunes of the Great Sand Sea in the Western Desert out past Kharga Oasis, but Steve thought it was even more beautiful. Pinky red sandstone hills and plateaus rose above hidden valleys and wadis, the sandy floor of which were littered with rocks of different sizes and colors. He supposed the light was too dim right then to appreciate the full splendor of the place, but it still filled Steve with joy.
“I like cities,” Danny said with a grimace and a little shrug. “I've not even been out to the pyramids yet.”
“What?” Steve demanded, turning to look at Danny.
“Eyes on the road, you maniac.”
“It's fine,” Steve reassured his passenger. “There's no one around.”
“That's right,” Danny agreed, but still gripped the side of the car like he feared for his life. “There is no one around. Ergo, when you crash the car we're going to be as dry as mummies before anyone finds us.”
“Ergo?” Steve repeated, his eyebrows going up.
“Do you need a dictionary, Steven?” the other man asked, before barreling on with his point, whatever it was, as though Steve hadn't said anything. “I want you to know that I will kill you for the last of the water. I have no intention of leaving my daughter without a father, even if that means sacrificing you for the greater good.”
“I'll bear that in mind,” Steve assured him as seriously as he could, but he couldn't make the smile leave his face completely.
“This is no laughing matter,” Danny yelled at him, his voice disappearing before he finished, victim of a sudden drop into a pot hole.
Steve, slightly shocked himself by the jolt, eased his foot off the gas and studiously looked only forward so he wouldn't have to see his partner glaring at him. He wasn't going to admit to Danny he'd been right to be worried, even if it was only a tiny risk, because he'd never hear the end of it. But Steve should have known better than to take chances in the desert. He was glad that his reminder had come in the form of a little bouncing around and not a patch of super soft sand that bogged them down and trapped them in the searing heat that would soon begin to bake the valley.
And there was no rush to get to Mamo's camp, other than to avoid the glare of the sun. He was planning on spending the day there before driving back in the cooler evening. He had some really good memories of his time with Mamo, even though he'd still been mourning the loss of his mother. He hoped his long absence from Egypt, especially after he'd promised to come back and visit, would be forgiven by the man he thought of as a second father.
He also felt a strange nagging nervousness that he wasn't sure what he'd do if Mamo and Danny didn't get on. It shouldn't matter, Mamo was an old friend and Danny was a new work colleague, so they weren't likely to be meeting at all after today, but somehow he felt it was hugely important. He shook his head slightly and squashed the feelings down. He'd cross that bridge when he came to it, if he needed to, and until then he'd enjoy the drive to the camp, letting all the stress of the past few weeks blow away in the solitude of desert.
Danny was hot. No, he corrected himself, he was baking. Cooking to death. In an oven. He'd stripped off his jacket and vest, but he still felt like he was cooking. This was why the desert was such a terrible place. In a city when the temperature soared, you could go inside to get out of the blazing sun, instead of sitting in a car with the sun beating down on the top of the hat you had to keep on if you didn't want the sun to fry the skin off your head.
Steve had taken off his Norfolk jacket when they made a brief stop once the sun had cleared the tops of the hills, and he looked for all the world like he was completely unperturbed by the sizzling heat. The Panama hat Chin had put in the car for him hadn't been touched, but he'd produced a white Arab keffiyeh from somewhere and had that wound around his head and across his face. With his driving goggles in place the man looked like some kind of futuristic desert nomad.
Danny had his goggles on, but without the benefit of the cloth over his face, he felt like he was covered in sand. He could feel it like grit in his mouth and he was pretty sure if he sneezed about half a pound would deposit itself in his handkerchief. He'd realized he'd been a fool a while back and could have had the scrap of white cloth his mother had given him last Christmas over his face, but by that point they'd turned into a wadi that was mostly sheltered from the wind. He figured he'd be grateful of the clean cloth once they stopped.
He was drawn away from his thoughts of a cool bath and clean towels, something he knew was not waiting at the end of this journey, and back to the hot, dusty reality when he realized Steve had stopped the car. They were in a narrow, shadow-filled valley that snaked through a massive outcropping of red sandstone until it ended in front of them with a steep cliff. Danny was about to shout at Steve for getting them lost when a couple of mounds he had taken for rocks unfolded themselves into men. Danny was reaching for his gun before he even realized until Steve hand stilled him.
“As-Salāmu alaykumā,” Steve called in greeting, one of the only bits or Arabic Danny knew despite several lessons.
“Wa `alaykumā s-salām,” came the standard reply from one of the men, although Danny couldn't really tell which as they had their keffiyehs drawn about their faces, desert style.
Steve then launched into a long stream of Arabic that made Danny gape at him. He knew the man had grown up in the country, but most of the ex-pat children he'd met had no more interaction with the native Egyptians than someone who lived in London. Most never learned more than a few words, usually for ordering people to go away, so Steve's obvious fluency with the language was a shock. Although, now he thought about it, he was glad Steve did speak the language because he'd not even considered how they were going to communicate with people who didn't speak English. He couldn't believe he'd been so stupid.
Danny heard their names mentioned, obviously introductions were being made, and then one of the men unwound the cloth from his face a beamed as he spoke. “Steve McGarrett.”
Steve looked at the man blankly, until he said something Danny didn't understand, and then Steve was leaping out of the car to embrace the man. “Abdullah,” was the only word he caught in the ensuing steam of words, hugs and back slaps. The other guard looked on as bemusedly as Danny did.
Steve eventually had turned back to the car and introduced the man to Danny. “This is Abdullah, Mamo's nephew, who was eight years old the last time I saw him, and the fastest kid in the camp.”
Danny was about to attempt to say hello in his terrible Arabic, when the man surprised him by speaking English. “Good to meet you, Danny Williams.”
“You too,” Danny answered once he'd made his mouth work, and then got out of the car to shake the man's hand.
“This is my brother, Rashid,” Abdullah said, gesturing the other man forward. “But he does not speak English so well as I.”
Danny nodded his greeting, but Steve chattered at the other man, who also removed the keffiyeh from across his face, in a long stream of Arabic that made the younger man grin at his older brother, who was blushing furiously. Danny wondered what outlandish story he was telling to embarrass his old friend so much.
“No more,” Abdullah said, laughing, pushing Steve gently on the shoulder. “I'll take you in to the camp. Leave the car here.”
Danny looked about him, wondering if he was going to scale the cliffs that rose about them. Steve grabbed the bag he packed into the car that morning and followed Abdullah over to the side of the wadi, pretty much convincing Danny his worries were correct. He sighed and walked after them, hoping to God his bum knee held up.
He was surprised when both men seemed to disappear behind a large rock, and quickened his pace to catch them. Once he stepped around the rock, he realized the wadi turned sharply, and after a narrow section barely wide enough for a fully laden camel, opened out into a sheltered, flat bottomed valley.
He'd had an idea in his head about what a Bedouin camp would look like, something he blamed on his love of adventure stories as a child. He knew that it was stupid to still be surprised to find the pulp magazines he still enjoyed weren't accurate, something he'd confirmed when he finally became a cop, but still, the reality was disappointing. Instead of a huge nomadic city, filled with brightly colored, luxurious fabrics and bustling with people and camels, the wadi held a few drab black tents and was pretty much devoid of any signs of life.
“Huh!” he said, unable to keep his disappointment to himself.
Steve grinned at him, grabbing his arm and giving it a squeeze, as though he needed to share some of the excitement he seemed to be buzzing with. ”Not what you imagined?”
“Not so much, no,” Danny admitted, pretty sure Steve wouldn't be offended. “I kind of expected, I don't know, more?”
“It's a shame we're not here in the evening,” the other man said, looking more and more nervous as they approached the tents. “They stay out of the sun in the middle of the day, if they can, so the evening's full of life and... just... I was happy here.”
Danny glanced over at Steve, who was clearly seeing his past play out in the small wadi. He wondered what the Navy man would be like if his mother hadn't died or even if his father hadn't sent him away afterward. He was pretty sure that the part of Steve that seemed to be closed off and locked away even with his friends Chin and Kono, wouldn't be out of reach. Maybe he wouldn't look so sad when he remembered happy times.
Before Danny could say something to try to take the look of Steve's face, a small group of people emerged from the little curve of tents that pressed close to the cliffs. One of them, an old man with a wide smiling face, shouted something to Steve and threw his arms wide. Steve dropped the bag he was carrying and rushed to embrace the man.
Danny smiled at their obvious happiness. Steve had nearly picked up the man, who he assumed was Mamo, but managed to restrain himself, instead burying his face in the man's neck and hanging on for dear life. Mamo patted his shoulder, hugging him just as hard. The old man was whispering something to Steve, and even though Danny couldn't hear what was being said, or if it was even in English, he suddenly felt like he was intruding on their collective grief for Jack McGarrett. Danny bent and picked up the bag Steve had dropped to give himself something else to focus on.
“Mamo,” Steve croaked, pulling away from the hug and swiping his hand across his face. “Mamo, this is Detective Daniel Williams. He's been trying to investigate my father's death and now we're working together. Danny, this is Mansoor Ali Abdul Hassan, Sheikh of this family.”
“Good to meet you, sir,” Danny said, stretching out his right hand.
“Pah,” Mamo said dismissively, grabbing Danny's shoulders and kissing him on one cheek then the other before stepping back. “Any friend of Steve's is a friend of mine and my family's.”
“Thank you,” Danny said, a little stunned by his greeting. “And the same to you. Although, you'll have to go to New Jersey to meet more than my daughter.”
“Ah, children are a blessing indeed,” Mamo said, smiling, and gesturing to the group of people standing a little way off. “Come and meet my family, Daniel. We shall have coffee and work out how to catch the man who killed your father, Steve.”
Danny almost rubbed his hands in glee at the thought of Arabic coffee, thick, dark and fragrant. He rarely got to drink it, trapped in the ex-pat community and its determination to almost pretend Egyptian culture didn't exist. He still hated the desert, probably always would, but the prospect of a few tiny cups of good coffee might just make up for the early start and the sand in unspeakable places.
Steve felt relaxed for the first time in he didn't know how long. It was crazy, because even though the grief for his father felt closer to the surface here than at the house, he still felt loose and free. The hard shell he hadn't realized he'd constructed around himself was thinning, cracking in places, and it felt good. Mamo and his clan were his family, after a fashion, and somehow, even with Chin and Kono, he'd forgotten what that really meant.
Danny was sprawled on the cushions across from him, looking happy but with the edge of discomfort someone used to chairs always finds when faced with Bedouin seating arrangements. He'd had more coffee than was probably good for him and a sickening amount of sweet pastries Mamo's first wife had sent from the kitchen. All the caffeine and sugar were making him grin like a maniac at the stories Selim, Mamo's youngest son, was telling him. The boy was the same age as Danny's daughter and desperate to show off the English he'd been learning from his brothers.
Even though Danny's slightly manic happiness was contagious, he almost regretted bringing him. Steve was fairly sure if he had been on his own he would have been treated as a son, as he was when he was younger, and would've had the chance to socialize with the women, at least Mamo's wives. Maybe he'd ask Mamo if he could break protocol and go to the kitchen to speak to Alima, the oldest of the wives and the woman who'd let him cry on her shoulder for his mother all those years ago.
“You're thinking too much, Steve,” Mamo said to him in Arabic, dragging him back to the present. “You need to relax and let yourself just be.”
“I've got too much to do. The trail's already cold and we have no clue who killed him.”
“I know, my son,” Mamo said with a sad smile and a pat to Steve's knee. “We'll speak of that soon enough. But right now, let's plan for this evening.”
“This evening?” Steve asked, because he was planning to head back to Cairo as soon as he'd gotten the information he needed from Mamo.
“We'll have a fantasia,” Mamo said, with a grin. “I've already told the women. Alima's planning to make all your favorite dishes.”
“No, Mamo,” Steve protested, touched by the kindness but already itching to be away and chasing his father's killer. “It's too much.”
“Steve McGarrett,” Mamo said, suddenly serious and showing some of the sternness that made him the fearsome leader that people respected. “You are a son to me, and I've not seen you for nineteen years. Who knows how long it will be before I see you again, if I ever do, so you will stay and enjoy my hospitality for tonight.”
Steve couldn't argue with him. The man had cared for him, loved him, for the most important summer of his childhood, and turning away now was unthinkable. “I'll stay, but Danny may have to go back.”
“Detective Williams,” Mamo said switching to English, turning to Danny before Steve could speak to him. “Tonight we will have a fantasia for Steven's return. You will stay, will you not.”
“A fantasia?”
“A feast,” Steve explained, knowing it wasn't at all the right word to use to describe the party that was going to happen.
“A little more than that,” Mamo said with a smirk at Steve, who couldn't help but fidget under the man's gaze. He had a suspicion that the old man was planning on all kinds of things for Steve to get involved in, things he almost certainly hadn't done since he was sixteen.
“I haven't got anything planned for this evening, but I have a cranky landlady who likes to know if I'll be in for dinner.”
“Ah, I know the sort of woman,” Mamo said with a wink. “I shall send a message to her.”
“Err,” Danny started, looking at Steve with a frantic kind of embarrassment that didn't take a genius to figure out.
“His landlady is... very British,” Steve said for him, knowing Mamo would understand. Any Egyptian native at her door was likely to be treated as a nuisance.
“Of course,” the old man agreed sadly, waving over his nephew, Abdullah. “Send a message to Kamekona to tell him Steven will be here for tonight. Ask him to let Daniel's landlady know the detective won't be at home for dinner.”
“Someone's going to go all the way to Cairo?” Danny asked, shocked and obviously uncomfortable about forcing someone to take a journey he himself hated.
“They will take their horses and be back before the fantasia,” Mamo reassured Danny, visibly pleased that the detective didn't automatically assume Egyptians should carry out his every wish. “And I'm sure there are supplies that will be needed from Cairo.”
“Okay,” Danny agreed, still looking uneasy about forcing people to ride to Cairo. “As long as it's no trouble.”
Mamo laughed, a deep rumble of happiness. “Daniel, the desert is not something we suffer. It is a place of beauty, a cleansing of the soul, a place of God. You will see tonight how the desert offers us all that we need and want.”
“I'll have to take your word for it,” Danny said, letting go his unease in the face of Mamo's humor. “I'm a city boy, I'm afraid, and the desert makes me nervous.”
“Steven can teach you to survive there,” Mamo said, flashing Steve a proud little smile before he settled his gaze on the robed figure walking towards the open front of the tent. “But first I think there is someone who wants to greet him properly.”
Steve followed the old man's gaze and realized the person approaching was a woman carrying another plate of pastries from the kitchen area. Steve couldn't see her face under her veil, but he was fairly sure it was Alima, even if her gait was a little stiffer and her figure a little fuller than the last time he'd seen her. He scrambled to get his feet under him, about to run out and greet her before he remembered his manners. He looked down at Mamo, who was grinning up at him, obviously knowing exactly what Steve was thinking.
“Go on,” he said, shooing Steve away. “The tent next door is private.”
“Thank you,” Steve said, still staggered that he was granted the privilege of family to see a woman without her veil.
“A'ila,” Mamo said, using the Arabic word for family to convey all the things Steve would never say himself. “And when you return we will speak of your father.”
Danny watched Steve dash out from the tent and take the dish the woman carried, handing it to Selim who Mamo had instructed to follow with little more than a nod. Steve didn't hug the woman, although Danny could tell he wanted to, but followed her out of sight, grinning the whole way. Danny couldn't help the smile that formed on his own face in return. Seeing Steve happy and relaxed was a revelation and gave Danny a clue to just how much his parents' deaths had affected the other man, even if he hid it all away.
“Steven found much comfort in Alima when his mother died,” Mamo said, drawing Danny's thoughts back to the present. “And she found much comfort in him after the loss of her only son.”
“I'm sorry for your loss,” Danny said, hoping that he was right to assume Alima's son was Mamo's, too. “No parent should outlive their children.”
“You are a kind man,” Mamo said after a moment's consideration. “I am glad Steven has found you. I think he will need a true friend in the times ahead.”
“The times ahead?” Danny asked, wondering just what Mamo knew about Steve's father's death.
“The war in Europe will come to Egypt,” the old man said with a terrible finality. “The Turks want this land back and the Germans want the Suez Canal.”
“Will they win?” Danny asked, fairly certain that this old man sat in a tent in the desert knew more about the prospects for war than most of the British officers he'd spoken to.
“Ah, now there's a question,” Mamo said, sitting back and taking a draw on the hookah pipe. “The British are well armed and they've got numbers on their side at the moment. But they're overconfident and, at least in public, ignoring the threats from within the country.”
“Egyptian nationalists?” Danny asked, wondering if the badly organized groups he'd come across could really be any threat.
“Aiwa, yes,” Mamo said, watching Danny to gauge his reaction. “They want freedom from British rule and some of them have fallen for the lies the Ottomans have told them. They don't see they'll be exchanging one oppressor for another. A crueler one at that.”
“Haven't most of them been rounded up and shipped off to India?”
“Some, yes,” Mamo said, with another draw on his pipe. “But others like Wardini remain.”
“He's only supposed to have a few followers,” Danny said, repeating what he'd been told by his superiors. “Surely he's not much of a threat.”
“I wonder why then the police are so keen to catch him,” Mamo said, using his finger to stab home his point on Danny's knee. “And why the Ottoman agents are round him like flies on camel dung?”
“Huh?” Danny managed, wondering what else the brass had lied to him about.
“And the Senussi in the Western Desert are openly speaking of revolt against the British and the Italians. They are more dangerous, I think.”
“No one's even talking about them in Cairo,” Danny said, a spark of doubt forming about Mamo's information.
“I think that's what the British want,” Mamo replied, drawing on his pipe again. “They're not all idiots, although unfortunately Harvey Pasha is a fool and horse's ass. He shouldn't be in charge of a tea party, let alone the police. I think Russell knows just what's going on though.”
“How do you know all this?” Danny asked, the need to get an answer outweighing his manners.
“Because my father told him,” Steve said, silently stepping around the flap of the tent and making Danny start with surprise.
He didn't meet Danny's eyes, instead focusing on Mamo, but the detective could tell his eyes were red-rimmed and his lashes wet. Danny was surprised at the strength of the need he felt to offer comfort to the man and stamped down on it hard.
“You are as quick witted as your father,” Mamo said, giving Steve a fond, gentle smile. He said something in Arabic, glancing briefly at Danny, and then drawing on his pipe as if he was giving Steve time to think of an answer.
“Anything you say to me you can say to Danny,” Steve replied right away in English, making it obvious what Mamo had asked him.
“Very well,” Mamo agreed, laying down his pipe before he spoke in Arabic to the men and boys who still lounged in the tent. They stood and left, going to the other tents Danny assumed.
“Mamo,” Steve began, before taking a deep breath and blowing it out. “This is big, isn't it? That's why you sent them away.”
“I don't want to put anyone in the position of knowing things that can get them killed,” the old man answered, and Danny felt something flutter in his chest. Excitement, possibly, and a little fear. All the talk of war and agents should have given him a clue that Steve's dad was into more than just helping tourists.
“And my father put you in danger?”
“He wanted someone to know everything,” Mamo said, sitting forward and touching Steve's knee, offering some comfort. “In case the worst happened.”
“I... the thought of him knowing it was coming and not reaching out to me,” Steve managed, his jaw tight and his eyes full of pain. “I... why didn't he, Mamo?”
“He was a proud man, a hard man sometimes, and he felt that he treated you badly when your mother died. He didn't know how to tell you he was sorry, that he was so proud of all that you'd achieved despite all his attempts to keep you from harm. Most of all he was trying to keep you safe again.”
“I didn't need to be kept safe then,” Steve snapped, swiping his hand over his eyes. “I certainly don't need it now.”
Danny didn't speak, even though he wanted to defend Jack McGarrett, explain that being a father was the most difficult and terrifying role a man could have. Steve was feeling everything that he'd felt as a teenager and he didn't need someone who he barely knew telling him the man he still resented as much as he loved him was actually right.
“It is the prerogative of a father who loves his son very much,” Mamo said, his voice sad.
Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to control of himself. “You're right, Mamo, I'm sorry. I know you would do anything to have had more time with...”
“That's not what I meant, Steven,” Mamo interrupted, giving Danny another reason to like the guy. Steve's emotional dam seemed to have broken and the detective was certain that when he got himself back under control he would be mortified by half the things he'd said.
“Can you tell us what Mr. McGarrett was investigating?” Danny asked, doing his own bit to help out his partner.
“Yes and no,” Mamo said, making Danny want to take back all the kind thoughts he'd had about the man. “I can tell you what he told me, which may not be as much as you hope, and I have a package of files he left for safe keeping.”
“Files?” Steve asked, his face serious and his attention fully focused on the old man.
“And his diaries,” Mamo admitted with obvious understanding of what it would mean to Steve. “I have read none of them.”
“Were you going to give them to me?” Steve asked, the edge of anger and hurt obvious in his voice.
“Steven,” Mamo said calmly, his hand on the younger man's knee. “When did you arrive in Cairo?”
“The day before yesterday,” Steve answered, confusion clouding his face.
“And do you think I should have been at your door the second you returned?” Mamo asked.
Steve deflated visibly, looking so sad and lost that Danny wanted to protect him from the world almost as much as he did Grace. “No, Mamo. I'm sorry.”
“I'll tell you what I know and then you will relax and enjoy yourself at the fantasia,” Mamo said in a tone that said he expected to be obeyed. “Then you can get a good night's sleep before you return to Cairo with your father's things.”
Danny could see Steve wanted to argue, wanted to get on with the search for his father's killer, and he could understand that. But even he could see Steve was about an inch away from falling to pieces completely. He suspected the man hadn't slept well since he'd been told of his dad's death and the exhaustion was catching up with him, making cracks appear in the thick walls he obviously kept everything behind.
Danny thought coming here was probably the best and worst thing Steve could have done. He was going to get the chance to work through a little of the grief and anger he felt about his father's death, and probably that of his mother too, surrounded by people who loved him like he was family. But Danny wasn't entirely sure how well Steve was going to hold it all together once they had to return to Cairo.
He hoped Steve got some real sleep tonight and managed to enjoy himself at this fantasia, whatever that was. He also hoped Steve would forgive him for being there to see him at his most vulnerable.
Mamo took a leisurely sip of his tea, making Steve want to dash it out of his hands and shake the man. He was doing this on purpose. Some kind of torture for not visiting him in all the years since his dad had sent him away. Mamo was a wily old man and he surely knew just how much being kept waiting while tea was requested and brought to the tent was killing him.
“Let's just dial it down a notch, shall we?” Danny suggested conversationally, his eyebrow raised, challenging Steve to argue with him.
Steve glared at him and Danny didn't even blink, just met his gaze with a calm, knowing look. Steve heard a creaking noise and realized it was his teeth grinding. Huh, maybe his partner had a point. He was wound a little tight. Maybe Mamo had a point, too.
Steve took a breath, blowing it out and forcibly making his muscles relax. He closed his eyes, concentrating on his breathing and heart rate just like the Indian yogi had taught him. He knew he had only a few moments before the two men in the tent began to think he was mad. He took another breath, centering himself, hoping he would be able to get himself in the right frame of mind to listen to Mamo. And maybe to apologize for being a boor.
“Your father did more than help lost American souls,” Mamo said, as soon as Steve opened his eyes. “But I am sure you've guessed that. I suspect many would call him a spy, but he was more of an agent for your country, actively seeking out threats to its citizens and interests. I'm sure he was not the only person acting for your government here, but he was the most visible as he was officially able to investigate matters involving American citizens.”
“Do the British know he was a spy?” Danny asked before Steve could even get his thoughts in order.
His dad had been a spy. He had guessed, at least part of it, just as Mamo said, but hearing it spoken aloud was still shocking. Steve had done his fair share of covert missions, dabbling in the murky world of guerrilla fighters and political agitators, but being a spy was something else.
He suddenly wondered if his dad had already been a spy back when he'd sent his children away. Had his father feared for their lives? Had someone threatened them? A part of him wanted so much for it to be true, needing desperately to find some reason for his father's actions, that it almost hurt. Another part of him hoped his dad hadn't been so blinded by duty as to risk the lives of his wife and kids by becoming a spy in the first place.
“They do, and they trusted him,” Mamo said to Danny, interrupting Steve's thoughts. “I know he has worked with Russell and has the utmost respect for him. In fact, he seemed to trust him more than anyone else, even the ambassador.”
“Doesn't that seem a little odd?” Danny asked before Steve could, the detective's brows drawing together in a frown.
“Perhaps,” Mamo agreed, taking another sip of his tea. “But I think it's more to do with them being the same kind of man than with some sort of mistrust of Ambassador Jameson. They're both policemen, through and through, even if Jack had become something more.”
“The ambassador's asked me to take over my father's job,” Steve told Mamo, watching the man's eyes widen in surprise. “Not that he mentioned the spying. Just the investigation part of things. And Russell was there when he made me the offer.”
Mamo didn't say anything at first, just pursed his lips, obviously thinking what he should say. Steve felt the need for approval from this man so strongly that it almost hurt. He knew he was never going to resolve things with his father, but Mamo was someone who mattered too. He'd neglected friends and family in his anger towards his father, but now he had a chance to try to mend the bridges he'd thought were long burned.
“Your father was investigating an enemy agent who killed an American businessman,” Mamo said, when he eventually spoke. “He's a weapons dealer, primarily, but he's not above fomenting conflict to further his own ends, and he's aligned himself with the Germans. At least he has here in Egypt. Allah knows what he's done in other places. He's not a political ideologue, he's in his business purely for money and because, I think, he enjoys violence.”
Steve couldn't speak, couldn't even breathe, in case Mamo stopped speaking. This was it, he was sure of it. This was the reason his father had been killed. They would finally have a lead to follow.
“All your father had was a name. Victor Hesse,” Mamo continued, watching Steve reactions.
Steve had no idea what was showing on his face. He was used to being able to compartmentalize things, lock his feelings up in little boxes and get on with the job at hand. But right now, he was pretty sure there wasn't a box big enough to contain the hatred, the anger he had, towards this man, this Victor Hesse.
“I assume McGarrett didn't have enough evidence to arrest him?” Danny asked, looking right at Steve, like the detective knew that he wanted to jump in the car and race back to Cairo to tear the city apart looking for Hesse.
“Worse than that,” Mamo replied, also watching Steve to gauge what he might do with the news. “He only had the name, no description, no address, no real clue as to who the man is.”
“Perfect,” Danny said, his shoulders slumping a little and Steve realized his partner was almost as invested in this as he was. For reasons he couldn't fathom, Steve found that Danny's obvious emotional involvement, his unvoiced support, was the thing that let him focus on what really needed to be done, not the anger he was feeling.
“But it's a start,” Steve said, his mind clear and his voice steady.
“It is indeed, Steven,” Mamo said, with a smile. “And he had more information too, in his files, and maybe your fresh eyes will see something he missed.”
“I just wish I'd had this information to begin with,” Danny griped, taking a sip of the tea in his glass and grimacing. “I could have been tracking him down while the leads were still hot.”
“I don't think Hesse leaves many clues,” Mamo said sadly, looking suddenly very old. “Jack suspected the man he killed was a loose end. And I think I shall move the camp now I've passed on the information to you.”
“You think it's that dangerous?” Danny asked, and Steve knew, with a sudden stab of guilt, that he was thinking about his daughter.
“You're worrying about your daughter?” Mamo guessed.
“And my ex-wife,” Danny admitted, even though he looked like it pained him to do so. “I might not be married to her any more, I might even be so angry with her that I can barely see straight most of the time, but I did love her once and that counts for something, doesn't it?”
Steve blinked. He'd never met anyone like Danny before. A cop, a detective, capable and tough enough to work the infamous Black Hand kidnapping and extortion cases in New Jersey, at least according to the file Russell had shown him. But he'd traveled halfway around the world just to be near his daughter, and when he spoke about her his face softened, revealing whole other side to him, one that Steve wished his own father had had. He loved her, wanted to be near her, and he didn't care who knew it. And obviously he wasn't afraid to tell people about his marital difficulties either, something social mores usually kept behind closed doors.
“If you think for even one second that your family is in danger, then you send them to me,” Mamo told him, his reassuring hand on Danny's knee. “I'll keep them safe, even if we have to take to the deep desert.”
“Thank you,” Danny said, obviously genuinely moved by the offer, before he laughed a little bitterly. “Although you might not thank me when you hear my ex-wife complain about being in the desert.”
Chapter 4