City of the Sun Read Online Free PDF

inched their way back to her ambulance and carefully deposited Sidi in the rear seat.
    “We’ll leave as soon as my friend comes out,” she said before putting two fingers in her mouth and jolting everyone with a piercing whistle. She leaned against the ambulance and crossed her arms. “So, you were just taking a stroll in the desert?” She grinned impishly while tossing a lock of blond hair from her eyes.
    “Something like that.”
    A plump redhead wearing the same uniform as Sally came out. After a brief introduction, she settled into the passenger seat.
    “Maybe we’ll bump into one another again,” Mickey said as he opened the driver’s door for Sally.
    “I’m sure we will bump into one another,” she said, taking a step closer and tossing a hip into Mickey’s. She looked up at him with sparkling blue eyes. “We’re going to Cairo soon. The city is very small. You run into the same people in the same old places all the time.” She slipped into her seat.
    “Then I look forward to bumping into you there,” he said with a wink and leaned in to say good-bye to Sidi. The man would probably be out of work for a few weeks. Mickey unhooked his watch and handed it to him. “Here, to tide you over.” He slammed the door shut over Sidi’s protests and tapped twice on the vehicle as it started off.
    By the time Mickey made it back to Siwa and returned the Jeep he’d rented, the sun was setting and the heat had finally begun to recede. He was beyond filthy and couldn’t wait to get back to his hotel and out of his clothes. He also couldn’t wait to get to his typewriter. The Brits had to be helped in spite of themselves. There was no way they could prevail in North Africa against the Germans’ new Panzer IVs with their 75 mm guns. They needed better arms and a better plan. He would tell the American people what was going on—assuming he could get his article out of the country. He knew how tight-assed the guys in the Censorship Bureau could be. They’d rejected the first story he wrote after arriving, a benign account of his impressions of Cairo. He had found the metropolis alive with glamour and exuberance, not a city paralyzed with fear and suffering, as he had expected. He’d entitled the piece “The Sweet Life.” It had no military implications whatsoever, but the censors feared that back home in England—where rationing had rendered an orange an extravagance and the blackouts and bombings had made socializing impossible—reading about opulent parties in chic Cairo might be offensive. He knew he would have to smuggle this new story out of the country if he wanted it published. And he knew what he would name it—“SOS”

    The next morning Mickey awoke to the creaking of the slow-turning ceiling fan. He lay still for a few moments in that languid state between sleep and consciousness when the memory of yesterday’s events flooded his mind. His eyes popped wide open. No, he hadn’t dreamed it. His desert clothes lay torn and filthy on a chair and the ashtray next to his typewriter was brimming with cigarette butts. He let out a long, dejected sigh.
    The sun outside was at its zenith. He tried to sit up and winced.His body was as stiff as cardboard. His left arm was bandaged, but was still a little tender and his scratched hands were still smarting.
    A loud knock on the door jolted him. “Telegram for you,” a man’s voice boomed. It was the desk clerk. “It says ‘Urgent.’ It came just now, sir. Right this minute.”
    Mickey’s first thought was that something had happened to his father. What else could be urgent? A stubborn union man with a twenty-five-year career as a welder for General Motors, Patrick Connolly had so far been lucky enough to avoid having any accidents with his blowtorch, especially since he had lately developed a tremor in his hands from his drinking.
    Mickey stumbled out of bed, slipped into his trousers, and opened the door just wide enough to retrieve the envelope.