The Mamur Zapt and the Night of the Dog

CHAPTER 11

" I don’t understand it,” said Owen flatly.

“Me neither,” said Georgiades.

“I thought he was the man behind the organization on the Coptic side.”

“Well,” said Nikos, “he is. I don’t think there is any doubt about it.”

“Then why the hell is he the man behind the Moslem organization too?”

“He’s not exactly that, surely,” Nikos objected.

“He supplies the money, doesn’t he? And without that the Moslems wouldn’t be half as effective.”

“They’re not paying him interest, are they? I mean, he’s not doing it for money?”

“Osman? Pay interest? To a Copt?”

“Funnier things have happened. Like a Copt lending money to Osman.”

“Osman personally doesn’t have money enough even to pay the interest,” said Nikos.

“Friends?”

“We’re back to them again. And the only friend that’s appeared so far is Andrus.”

“Maybe he is a friend. In secret, I mean.”

“Of the Moslems? Of Osman? I don’t mind us looking at some funny ideas,” said Georgiades, “but let’s not go crazy.”

“That can’t be it,” said Nikos.

“No. Well, I’m not really suggesting that it is. I’m just reviewing all the possibilities.”

“While you’re doing that,” said Nikos, “think about this one: Andrus doesn’t know what the money is being used for.”

“That it’s going straight to Osman? He set it up, didn’t he?”

“Well, did he? It was set up that way, certainly, but was it set up by him?”

“He’s involved.”

“Oh yes, he’s involved. But does he know?”

“Someone else set it up and he’s just being used?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“OK. I’ll acknowledge it as a possibility.”

“I’ve got another question,” said Georgiades. “If he’s a secret friend of the Moslems, why doesn’t he just give them the money directly. Why does he have to go through Mordecai?”

“I can answer that one,” said Owen. “He’s had to go through Mordecai precisely because he is a Copt. The Moslems wouldn’t accept it if it came straight from him.”

“They think it comes from other Moslems?”

“Possibly. I can’t see Osman accepting it otherwise.”

“Well, I find it confusing,” said Georgiades. “I thought it was all straightforward, with Moslems cutting Copts’ throats, as they have always done, and Copts cutting Moslems’ throats, as usual. Now it’s got more complicated.”

“Let’s go back to basics,” said Owen. “First, are we wrong about Andrus being behind it all on the Copt side?”

“No!” said Nikos.

He went to his desk and produced a sheaf of agents’ reports.

“If you look at my map,” he said with a tinge of pride, “you will see that all the incidents are still within half a mile of the Bab es Zuweyla. Not only that, they’re not spontaneous, they’re organized. After each incident the men go back and report. I’ve had them followed. They always go to the same place. It’s a house just behind the Mar Girgis. It belongs to the church and is used by its laymen for committees and administering charity. The church has a large charity programme. Anyway, that’s where they all go to report. Not only that; that’s where they get their instructions, because sometimes some of them go out again for a second time to take part in another incident. I’ve had my people watching the house for some time now. That’s where they report before they start and that’s where they report after they’re finished.”

“Why don’t we smash it up?”

“Because then they’d report somewhere else. Anyway, I thought you wanted to be sure about who was organizing it.”

“I do. Who is?”

“It’s got to be Andrus. There are other people in the house from time to time, but he’s the only one who has been there throughout.”

“You haven’t been able to get anyone inside?”

“No, but I probably could. Do you want me to?”

“Yes. Let’s have some certainty about one thing, at any rate.”

“Why don’t we pick a few of them up,” said Georgiades, “as they’re going to and fro? Then we could ask them.”

“We could do that too. I’ve thought about it,” said Nikos, “but I was keeping to surveillance until I was told otherwise.”

Nikos was a stickler for the rules. Owen never ceased to marvel at the way in which he combined incredible ingenuity within the rules with total lack of curiosity as to what went on beyond them.

“You mean you’ve known all along where they were going?” asked Georgiades.

“Not till they got there. I’ve known they were going, that’s all.”

“And you’ve done nothing about it?”

“Of course I’ve done something about it. I’ve had them followed from the time they left the house. The moment it was clear where they were going I’ve had a message back. And then,” said Nikos with pride, “I’ve had our people there within minutes. That’s organization.”

“Yes, but it’s all unnecessary. You could have hit them the moment they left the house.”

“Can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re still on surveillance.”

“Christ!”

“Other reasons too,” Owen intervened. “There’s no point in picking up small fry. Not when there are so many of them. It’s big fry we’re after.”

“If you’d been out on the street”-Georgiades looked at Nikos-“instead of sitting on your ass in a cool office-”

“What I do,” said Nikos, “takes ability.”

“How did you get onto it in the first place?” Owen asked curiously.

“I had them followed back. After the first few incidents I began to suspect there was a pattern, so I tried to find it. You don’t get anything on this scale without communication lines, so I started looking for them.”

“Have you got it all worked out for the Moslems too?” asked Georgiades. “It’s not that I mind wasting my time, it’s just that I like to know that I’m wasting my time.”

“You’re not wasting your time,” said Owen pacifically.

“It’s not as clear-cut on the Moslem side,” said Nikos, “not as well organized. There’s no reporting back, for instance, so they don’t know how well they’ve done or what mistakes they make. But instructions have to be given, so again there are lines of communication.”

“Which you’re shadowing?”

Nikos nodded.

“They don’t always work. Some of the incidents are spontaneous. The other thing is that they have a general idea of what Osman wants so they don’t bother about instructions, they just go out and do it.”

“I think I may be a secret Moslem,” Georgiades said to Owen. “You didn’t know that, did you?”

“It all comes from Osman, does it?” asked Owen.

“Yes, Osman and Andrus. They’re the two.”

“They’re the one if it all comes back to Andrus.”

Georgiades went to the door and called for Yussuf. One of the other bearers shouted back encouragingly. In Yussuf’s present numb state they had taken to covering for him.

Owen sat there thinking. He couldn’t make any sense of it. The premise that everything started from was Andrus’s hostility to anything Moslem. It had been there right from the beginning, right from the night of the dog. It ran through everything. It had never wavered. He could not believe that it was wavering now. But how else to explain his actions? The money was definitely being brought to Mordecai; and Mordecai was definitely passing it on to Osman. Not only that; Mordecai was equally definite that he was merely doing as he had been instructed. And Owen believed him.

Andrus was part of it. About that there could be no doubt. But how extensive a part? Might Nikos be right and Andrus merely an unwitting accomplice, ignorant of for whom the money was intended? But then, Nikos was himself a Copt and, yes, under an obligation to Andrus; might not he be biased in Andrus’s favour? And then again, for all his brilliance at organization, Nikos sometimes overdid the speculation.

“Try another idea,” said Nikos. “Why don’t you apply the analysis you made of the Moslems to the Copts?”

“What analysis?”

“The political connection. You know, that there was a group of people at the top, ministers, perhaps, who had an interest in keeping relations between Copts and Moslems on the boil. You thought that might lie behind Mahmoud being brought back into the Zoser case. Keep the wound open. Copts against Moslems. I liked that analysis. It avoided the mistake that is so often made. People assume, the British especially, who appear to have a unique talent for combining sentimentality and intellectual evasion, that conflict, even massacre, is in no one’s interest. But they’re wrong. Sometimes it is in someone’s interest. And then if you want to find out the reason for the tension or how to stop it, what you have to do is look at the interests of those concerned. Perhaps the mistake we have been making is in applying that thinking to the Moslems but not to the Copts.”

Owen reached out his hand for the coffee a bearer had just brought in. A different bearer. Not Yussuf.

“Applying it, then, to the Copts,” said Owen, “what do we get?”

“Someone on the Coptic side wants to keep things on the boil, wants to stop agreement from being reached. To do that, they’re even prepared to give money to Moslems.”

“To be used against Copts?”

“All the more effective,” said Nikos, “if you wanted to keep things on the boil.”

Georgiades put his mug back on the tray.

“Someone’s a clever bastard,” he said. “Of course, it may just be you.”

“It fits,” said Owen. “It explains the money.”

“Not only that.”

“Yes,” said Owen. “It explains Andrus too.”

One of the bearers rushed into the office.

“Effendi! Come quickly. Yussuf has taken a knife!”

Owen ran down the corridor and into the bearers’ room. There were shocked faces everywhere but no Yussuf.

“Where is he?”

“He ran out, effendi. He said he would kill them.”

“Who?”

“Suleiman, effendi. And Fatima.”

One of the bearers plucked at his arm.

“He took my knife, effendi. He took my knife.”

“Where is Suleiman’s house?”

It was in the bazaar area.

“Take me there.”

The man ran out with Owen on his heels. Two of the other bearers followed.

From the Bab el-Khalkh to the Bab es Zuweyla was about half a mile. A man would go faster than an arabeah, certainly if you took into account the time needed to explain it to the arabeah driver. The bearer set off along the wide, dusty street. He was one of the younger bearers and ran fast. Owen found it hard to keep up with him. Within a minute the sweat was pouring off him and his jacket sticking to his back.

The bearer slowed to let him come up with him.

“Run on!” said Owen. “Fast.”

This was how they could save time, catch up. Once they were through the Gate they wouldn’t be able to run at all. The streets would be too crowded.

The bearer drew away again. He was running barefoot and had the advantage over Owen in his heavy shoes. By the time they had reached the Gate he was a dozen or more yards ahead.

Owen dashed up almost blinded with sweat.

“On! Get on!” he managed to gasp.

The bearer plunged at once into the warren of tiny streets, alleyways and passages between stalls that made up the area loosely known as the bazaars. Every road, every lane, even the narrowest of alleys was taken up with stalls. And wherever there was a stall, inevitably the passage was blocked by the wares which spread out from it, covering the ground on all sides, stretching right across the thoroughfare so that there was indeed no thoroughfare but you had to pick your way among pots and pans, saddles, boots, baskets, melons, bales of cloth, onions, and canvases appliqued with texts from the Koran and crude copies of the tomb-paintings of the pharaohs.

And wherever there was a suggestion of a space there would be a craftsman bent over his work: a weaver over his loom, a metal-worker crouched over a dish of grey ash fanning a lump of live charcoal in its midst with a blowpipe, a basket-worker holding what he was making with his toes so as to leave his hands free, a turner doing his turning with a little bow which might have been used to shoot arrows, the man making pegs for the ornate wooden windows.

Owen was in despair. Not only could he find no space to put even one foot, but whenever he hesitated, hands reached up at him beckoning him to buy. He slowed almost to a halt.

The bearer kept looking back at him. Owen would have told the man to run on but without him he would have been lost at once. What had happened to the two other bearers who had started out with them he did not know.

The bearer pulled him into a passage so thin that even the narrowest of stalls could not wedge itself in. There was barely space for a person to pass. Halfway along they met a woman. She pushed herself back against the wall to avoid touching a man but as Owen pressed past her he was as conscious of her roundnesses and softnesses as if he had been in bed beside her.

They came out into a slightly wider passage where there were no stalls but children were playing and black-gowned women standing in doorways talking. They looked up at him in surprise and pulled their veils back across their faces. One or two snatched up their children and held them close, making signs to warn off the evil eye. This was mediaeval Cairo, mediaeval still.

They went up another narrow passageway, not so much a passage as a mere slit between houses, and came out suddenly into open space. After the darkness and coolness the light and heat struck him like a blow.

The bearer looked round. Everywhere was rubble. There wasn’t a single building standing for hundreds of yards. The ground was covered with crumbling mud-bricks, heaps of cracked white stone. A dog barked and was answered by another. Out in the rubble he saw others skulking.

Then he realized where they were: the Coptic Place of the Dead.

The bearer turned left along a line of houses they had just come out of. The big ones they had passed through gave way to smaller, two-storey ones built of mud-brick which the rains were gradually dissolving. Everything was crumbling, falling down. Here and there were gaps in the line where houses had collapsed completely.

There was a piercing whistle and a little boy ran across the rubble towards them.

“Effendi! Effendi!”

It was the boy he had met when Georgiades had taken him back to the Place of the Dead; Ali, Yussuf’s nephew.

“This way!”

He raced off across the rubble. Owen stumbled behind him, his feet sliding and tripping on the loose stones.

They came to a blank white stuccoed wall. Owen stopped abruptly. The boy had completely disappeared.

“Effendi! Here!”

To his left an urgent face, an arm beckoning. He ran across.

“Under here!”

There was a gap in the lower part of the wall big enough for a boy, hardly big enough for a man to squeeze through. He forced his way through it. They were in what had been a walled garden and was now just a mass of rubble. Ali turned immediately to his right and climbed over a broken-down wall. They were in another disused, rubble-filled space which might once have been a yard or garden.

Ali ran to the next wall.

“Effendi! Quickly!”

“Is he there?”

“Yes, but they have barred the door.”

Owen found a hole in the wall, used it as a stepping place and swung his leg over the top. Then he stopped.

Below him was another space which had once been a courtyard. It was filled now with heaps of brick and stone. These had perhaps once been outhouses which had long ago fallen down. Piles of rubble lay against the side of the house. There had once been an outside staircase leading up to the flat roof but that too had collapsed. There was a mud brick wall round the roof of the house, over which looked two agitated faces, those of a man and a woman. The wall was crumbling and there were great gaps in it. It offered no defence; and defence was needed, for on the opposite side of the yard a wall ran right up to the house and although it was lower than the roof an agile man might easily scramble from it up onto the roof itself. And along the wall a man was climbing. Yussuf.

“Yussuf!”

Yussuf stopped, startled. He looked round, saw Owen and hesitated.

“Yussuf! Come down at once.”

Yussuf almost started to obey. Then he shook his head and began to climb determinedly on. In between his teeth he was holding a huge knife.

The wall was narrow and missing many of its bricks. It was not easy to climb along it and he had to go slowly. He needed both hands as well as his toes.

Owen called again but Yussuf ignored him. The faces on the roof disappeared and then appeared again. A woman began screaming.

Owen threw himself over the wall and dropped down. He had hoped to find a door. There was one but it was blocked up. There was no other way in which he could get up to the roof.

“Have you a gun, effendi?”

He shook his head. He never carried one unless there was a special reason why he might have to use it. He would never have thought of bringing it out against Yussuf.

He looked round for a stick or prop which he could use to dislodge Yussuf. There wasn’t one. Wood was as scarce as silver in the poorer parts of Cairo.

He seized a brick desperately and threw it at Yussuf. It hit the wall four feet below him. Ali threw, more accurately. The brick hit Yussuf and jolted him but he shrugged it aside. The top of the wall was in better repair closer to the house and he scurried along it.

He had almost reached the house when another brick hit him. It would have struck him in the face if at the last moment, sensing it coming, he had not ducked his head. The movement threw him off balance. A brick beneath him crumbled and suddenly the whole wall began to sag. Yussuf tried to recover his balance, tried to jump, but the wall collapsed too fast. It subsided in a great cloud of dust. Yussuf was pitched off onto the other side. They heard the heavy thud as he fell.

Owen ran across. The dust was so thick that for a moment he could not see. Then, below him on the rubble, he made out Yussuf’s motionless body.

And beyond him, for some strange reason, on the other side of the neighbouring courtyard, was a totally amazed and bemused Mahmoud.

Owen slid down into the courtyard in a small shower of mud and masonry.

There was a woman standing beside Mahmoud. She had thrown her hands up over her face in shock. He could see the hands very clearly; well enough to notice the hand-painting.

“What the hell is this?” said Mahmoud. He rarely swore.

“My bearer,” said Owen briefly.

He knelt beside Yussuf. There was an ugly wound on his head. If he breathed it was imperceptible.

Ali came across and touched Yussuf with his foot.

“He is not dead,” he said.

Ali was an expert on such matters.

The woman brought water from the house, knelt down beside Yussuf and began to mop his wound. Ali went and sat in the shade.

Owen went across to Mahmoud.

“What’s she doing here?” He motioned to the woman kneeling beside Yussuf.

“Don’t you remember? You told me.”

“Christ, is this where she lives?”

“Where she lives now. She’s moved, if you remember.”

“Have you talked to her?”

“I was talking to her.”

“Did you find out anything?”

“Not much. A man certainly came that night but it was to see her, not her husband.”

“That late?”

“She wouldn’t see him before. It wouldn’t have been proper to have seen him alone. Her husband was out.”

“So the man waited till he got back?”

“He knew he would be late. Zoser was at the church.”

“Zoser says. She says. It would be worth checking.”

“It’s easily checked. Zoser occasionally stayed late to help with the charity dispensation. She was involved with that too. That was what the man came to see her about. There were some women he wanted her to take relief to. She often did that, she says. Of course, the men couldn’t go to the women themselves.”

“Did the man talk to her husband?”

“She doesn’t think so.”

The woman went into the house to get some water. Yussuf was beginning to stir. Mahmoud went across and picked the knife up out of the rubble.

Ali had been listening to the discussion.

“I know that woman,” he said.

“How do you know her?”

“She was at the house that night. The night of the dog.”

“The house of Andrus?”

“Yes.”

“She is a relative of Andrus?”

“No, no.” Ali was shocked that anyone could make a mistake so gross.

“She was there to cry.”

Owen thought he understood. She must be a professional mourner. When a significant person died, women were sometimes hired to weep during the funeral ceremonies.

“Andrus paid her?”

“No,” said the woman, returning with the water. “No one paid me. Much. I do it out of friendship.”

“For Andrus?”

“Not for him especially. I do it for all of the community. Other families were in the Place of the Dead that night. I was with Sesostris. He sent me to Andrus in the early part of the night because he knew Andrus lacked women.”

“In the early part of the night? Did you go past the tomb of Andrus?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see anything untoward?”

“Only the shadows,” said the woman. “I saw the shadows and was frightened. It is the night that the spirits return.”

“And did you see them about the tomb?”

“Yes, and I was frightened and hurried on. When I reached the house of Andrus I spoke of it to the other women and we said a prayer. And when I left, I looked again, and there were no shadows, so I knew our prayer had been heard.”

“That was in the morning? Before the dawn?”

“No. It was in the middle of the night. I had to mourn for Sesostris so I went back to his house.”

“You only spent part of the night with Andrus?”

“The early part. Then I went to Sesostris. And then at dawn I went to Zakatellos. I had promised him I would be there for the visit.”

She bent over Yussuf and splashed water on his face. He opened his eyes, saw her and struggled to sit up.

“Away, woman!” he said. “I have no need of Copts.”

“You have a need of someone,” she said, “whoever it be.”

“Was your husband with you?” asked Owen.

“No. He was keeping vigil at the church.”

“And you were at the houses. Were you with Andrus when he went to the tomb?”

“No.”

“So you did not know about the dog?”

“Not till later. I was with Sesostris when one ran and told us.”

“And you told your husband?”

“When I got home.”

“And did he speak with Andrus?”

“Not then. Later. When Andrus came to visit me.”

“Thank you,” said Owen.

“I’ve done the checking you wanted,” said Georgiades, “and it’s not been easy, I can tell you. I went first to his business premises. It’s not a bad little business. He does all right. Nothing huge, small to medium. Nowhere near big enough for him to finance the war on his own, especially as he gives such a lot to charity. And he does give it to charity. There’s no doubt about that. I’ve talked to his personal clerk. Steady sums, increasing over the years as he’s become more pious. The clerk is secretary to the charity programme of the church and knows the recipients.”

“Zoser?”

“I don’t think so. Not in money. In kind, perhaps. Favours, maybe. He does people quite a lot of those.”

“And they do him some. Go back to the money. Does he finance the charitable programme himself?”

“The church’s? No, they all chip in. Andrus put in a fair amount but bigger boys give more.”

“OK. So after living expenses and charity there’s not a lot left over. Not enough to finance all the agitation on the Coptic side, let alone the Moslems as well.”

“Nowhere near enough.”

“So the money he gives to Osman must come from somewhere else. Does he have a bank for his business or does he just use cash?”

“He’s got to have a bank. His business is international, remember. He sometimes needs quite sophisticated credit arrangements.”

“Do you know which one?”

“Yes. He is a small businessman and he likes to deal with small bankers. They’ve got to be Coptic, of course, and preferably someone he’s met through the church. He goes to Sesostris.”

“So he could be getting the money there?”

“Don’t rush me. Next, I checked on his movements on Fridays. That’s the day, remember, when he takes the money to Mordecai. It’s the Moslem Sabbath, of course, so a good day for Copts to do business on. Well, it’s hard to check the whole day, as you can imagine. But that is the day, it appears, when he regularly goes to his own bank. He’s been doing it for years. So far as I can tell, and that’s not as far as I’d like, on the last few Fridays he’s not been going to any other bank or finance house. Nor is there any single person whom he’s been visiting regularly.”

“Anyone come to see him?”

“Not at the business. Nor at home, as far as I can tell from his servants. Possibly at the church house, where, as you know, he’s been spending a lot of time recently.”

“So it could very well be the bank?”

“That’s what I thought too. So then I went to the bank and asked politely in the name of the Mamur Zapt if I could check Andrus’s account. Sesostris said no.”

“He can’t say no. Not if it’s the Mamur Zapt.”

“Well, I said it was the Mamur Zapt and he said no. He wants proper legal notification.”

“I’ll bloody notify him. Deliver it personally. In the cell.”

“He’s an awkward bugger. Andrus and he are two of a kind.

Difficult sods, both. However, mere refusal does not stop me. I talked to the tellers. They said yes, Andrus did come on Fridays and had been doing so for years. Any especially big drawings lately? Well, they said, they wouldn’t know, since he always went straight in to Sesostris. Again, his pattern for years. No change here. Also it’s the way the bank works. Sesostris does it all personally. The Copts like that. It’s always man-to-man stuff with them. Funny, considering how they also like to put it all down on paper.”

“Are you saying Sesostris hands over the cash personally?”

“No. The cashier does that. Andrus just pops in to see Sesostris and they have a bit of a chat, not a long one, they don’t even have a cup of coffee, mean bastards, both of them, and then Andrus goes on to the cashier presumably with Sesostris’s authorization and the cashier takes the money out of the safe and gives it to him. I tried to have a word with the cashier but he wasn’t talking. More than his job’s worth, I suppose, though these Copts are always tight-mouthed as well as tight-fisted. Well, not all of them. I got something out of the tellers. One of them said that Andrus normally took his money away in a small bag, one he could conceal under his gown, it’s safer that way. But for the last week or two he’s had to use a bigger bag. The charity programme’s been growing. Actually it has, though whether by enough to require a bigger bag I haven’t been able to make out.”

“It would be interesting to see the account.”

“That wouldn’t tell you much. It will either show he’s overdrawn or that money has been credited. If it’s been credited, then the only person who will be able to tell you where it comes from is Sesostris.”

“Is he involved, do you think? Personally, I mean?”

“They’re all involved. You see, the way the Copts work is that if they decide on something, like a campaign of trouble-making and agitation, the first thing they do is set up an organization. Then they set up resourcing arrangements, just as they would do for any other business operation they undertook. They would arrange drawing facilities, appoint a local agent, etc. Sesostris may be just another mechanism, like Mordecai.”

“Like Andrus?”

“Could be. The local agent. On the other hand, if you were Andrus and for some reason you decided to start a campaign of your own, and you were, like him, a Copt, the first thing you would do would be to go to a bank and make proper financial arrangements. And when I say proper, I mean proper. You wouldn’t go to anyone else, because banks are where you go for finance, and you wouldn’t go to a shady one, because that’s not sound business practise.”

“You think he might be doing it on his own?”

Georgiades hesitated.

“Well, it could be. He’s strong enough, he’s got a grudge, he’s doing something about it. He’s the one who’s actually masterminding the campaign.”

“I agree with all that,” said Owen. “But.”

“But what?”

“Remember what Nikos said: apply the analysis not to the Moslems but to the Copts. Not Osman, but Osman plus money. Not Andrus, but Andrus plus money. Where does it come from?”

“Sympathizers. There are a lot of Copts who agree with him. They’re subscribing.”

“Using the bank as a collecting point? Well, you might be right. But I’m sticking with the analysis.”

“Test it out,” Georgiades invited. “Talk to him.”

“Andrus? I might just do that.”

“After all,” said Georgiades, “you’ve got an excuse.”

“What?”

“Zoser. He talked to Zoser the night before the killing. Remember?”

Mahmoud leaned forward in his chair. Since it was ostensibly in connection with the Zoser case, it was his business, and they met in his office.

“So on that night,” he said, “the night before the Zikr was killed, you talked only about the money she was to give out?”

“Why do you ask me these questions?” asked Andrus. “What have I to do with the Zikr?”

“You talked only about the money she was to give out?”

“Yes. As I said.”

“Did you have any money with you?”

“No. It is best not to carry money in Cairo at night. She was to collect it from the church house in the morning.”

“Where you would give it her?”

“Yes.”

“Did you give it her?”

“Of course.”

“Personally?”

“Yes. I was there when she came.”

“You are there a lot,” said Owen, “these days.”

It was the first time he had spoken. Andrus gave him a hostile look.

“Yes. I am. The church has a considerable charity programme which I administer. There is nothing wrong with that, surely?”

“Not with that, no.”

“You talked that night about the people she was to give the money to,” said Mahmoud. “Their names?”

“Their names?”

“Yes. Could you tell me the names, please.”

“Why should I tell you their names? What business is it of yours?”

“I need to know them.”

“I forget them.”

Mahmoud sighed and made a note with his pencil. He would check the names with the woman. If there were any names.

“You talked with the woman,” he said. “Did you also talk with her husband?”

“With Zoser?”

“Yes, Zoser.”

“Whom you killed,” said Andrus, looking at Owen.

“He killed himself. And someone else.”

Andrus looked as if he was going to say something, then changed his mind.

“Answer my question!” said Mahmoud.

Andrus looked at him with undisguised fury. Owen suddenly remembered that Mahmoud was a Moslem.

“Of course I talked to him,” said Andrus.

“What about?”

“How can I remember?”

“Did you talk to him about what happened at your father’s tomb?”

“I may have done. I do not know.”

“And what was his response?”

Andrus did not reply. He seemed to be looking into space. Perhaps it was the reference to his father’s tomb. Owen suddenly felt unexpectedly sorry for him. It came home to him for the first time that what had seemed to him a trivial event, a stupid joke, was something genuinely much bigger to Andrus. It had touched him on a raw spot. That harsh, unaccommodating man had clearly loved his father, perhaps had loved him alone. Owen felt a twinge of pity.

“And what was his response?” Mahmoud prompted softly.

Andrus came back from space and looked at him bitterly.

“I do not know why I should tell you,” he said. “However, I will tell you. He was shocked and horrified. He felt for me as would anyone of a right mind. And then he was angry. That this should happen to one he knew and an elder of the church. At first he could not comprehend it. But then he realized. This blow was not aimed at me but at the Church. It was struck not at the weak man who suffered it but at the strong God who was the man’s master. And he said to himself: ‘That man is weak indeed who lets his master suffer such an insult. We looked for redress from the Mamur Zapt and received none. But that was right. We were wrong to look for redress from others when we should be taking the wrong done to our master upon ourselves.’ That was Zoser’s response.”

“That was what you told him,” said Owen.

“That was what he said,” said Andrus.

And almost certainly believed it. When he had finished he sat glaring at them in defiance and pride. Owen could believe that he had poured out all the wound and hurt that was in his heart when he spoke to Zoser. And he could believe that although Zoser might not have said these things he had actually felt them. And if he had felt them, might have done something about them.

Had Andrus intended that Zoser should do something about them?

“You told him these things,” said Owen, “in order to inflame him.”

“I did not.”

“You killed Zoser,” said Owen. “Not I.”

For the barest second Andrus seemed to flinch. Then the moment passed and the certainty returned.

“God is great,” said Andrus, “and will not desert his servant.”

“There is a law of man, too,” said Mahmoud, “and that too must be obeyed.”

He probed on, and Owen was glad, for it gave him time to think. He needed to think, because although he was sure that Andrus had been speaking the truth, and that he had not deliberately incited Zoser to kill, he still felt puzzled. If everything he had projected onto Zoser was true, or a true picture of his own feelings, why had he not taken the action upon himself?

As Mahmoud continued with his patient questions, and Andrus continued with his impatient replies, an answer began to come to him. Andrus, for all his faults, was, politics aside (and no Egyptian would accept that politics had anything to do with morality), a moral man. He would not kill. On the other hand, his wound went so deep and he was such a vengeful man that he had wanted his wounder dead. When he had spoken to Zoser something of this had come across, perhaps not consciously but perhaps not completely unconsciously either. He had said it speaking what he believed to be truth and justice, said it and left it. If Zoser picked it up, then that was God’s will. If Zoser did not pick it up, then that was God’s will. There had been an act but he, Andrus, had not acted. He had done nothing inconsistent with his morality.

Listening to Andrus now, Owen felt again his immense moral rigidity. He had to have absolute certainty. There was no room for doubt, least of all self-doubt. Mahmoud’s barbs, and there were plenty of them now, for Mahmoud was getting irritated, bounced off his massive self-assurance like wooden arrows off a rock of granite.

If they were going to get anywhere with Andrus, not on the Zoser business, Owen was satisfied about that, but on the other, then that granite surface must be undermined. Somehow or other they had to get beneath the certainty and feed the seeds of doubt.

“Tell me, Andrus,” said Owen, “why do you spend all day and every day at the church house?”

“I am doing God’s work,” said Andrus, caught rather off guard.

“Are you sure that God would own it?”

There was a little silence.

“Why should he not own it?”

Owen did not reply, merely waited.

“God loves charity,” said Andrus, with slightly less than his usual self-assurance.

“No doubt, but what is that to do with what you are doing?”

“What are you accusing me of? Why don’t you speak out?” Andrus began to grow angry. “Do you think I am frightened of you?”

Owen took no notice.

“You are spending a lot of time there,” he said almost conversationally. “Have you given up your business?”

“My business is no concern of yours.”

“I thought you might have given it up. You spend so much time at the church house.”

“Have you been spying on me?”

“I would have thought you needed the money.”

“My business is doing well,” said Andrus, “and I have no need of money.”

“For what you are doing at the church house, I mean,” Owen explained.

“I give to charity what I can afford.”

“Yes, but the other things.”

“What other things?”

“The other things you do at the church house.”

“I do not know what you mean,” said Andrus. “I do God’s work.”

“Oh no. God is a god of peace.”

Andrus was brought up short. After a moment he said to Owen:

“You are mistaken. He is a god of war. Ask him.” He pointed to Mahmoud. “He is a Moslem and will tell you.”

Mahmoud looked uncomfortable.

“God is a god of neither peace nor war,” he said. “It is man who makes war and man who makes peace.”

Andrus stood up.

“Are you going to take me?” he said to Owen.

“Perhaps.”

“I am not frightened of you.”

“Why should you be,” asked Owen, “when all you will get is justice?”

“Your justice.”

“Egyptian justice.”

“Does a Copt ever get justice,” asked Andrus, “in Egypt?” He turned impatiently towards the door. “Come! Take me!”

“Sit down!”

If he took Andrus now it would be no good. The Copts would merely regroup without him. And Andrus would be untouched, impregnable behind his rigid simplicities. His world was still certain.

“Why do the British hate the Copts?” asked Andrus.

“We do not hate the Copts. We are neutral between Copts and Moslems.”

“How can a Christian be a Christian and be neutral?”

“We are all servants of the Khedive,” said Owen, correct in form if not in substance, “British as well as Copt, Copt as well as Moslem.”

“I do not understand,” said Andrus, “how a Christian can voluntarily choose to serve a Moslem.”

“Many do,” Owen pointed out, “including many Copts.”

For some reason this seemed to irritate Andrus particularly.

“They are traitors!” he said passionately. “They are traitors to the Coptic cause.”

“To try to provide good government to the people of Egypt is hardly to be a traitor.”

“The people of Egypt! Who are the people of Egypt? We are. The Copts. And for two thousand years we have had a government not our own. And why is that? Because we Copts have let others govern us. We have even helped them to govern. We have worked with the Government when we should have been working against it. For two thousand years we have done that. And for two thousand years every government has been that of an invader.”

Where had he heard that before?

“You are a Moslem,” Andrus said to Mahmoud, “and you are an invader. You are invaders too,” he said to Owen, “but you are Christian. When the British came we thought that they would lift the Moslem yoke from off our backs. But Christian turned against Christian. They supported the Moslems instead of sweeping them away.”

The moment of doubt, if there had been one, had gone. Andrus was back in his old self-confident stride. He would go to prison, if he had to go to prison, convinced of his rightness, proud of his martyrdom.

It was time to move in.

“Andrus,” said Owen, “you surprise me. You hate the Moslems. Why then do you support them?”

Andrus stopped.

“Support them?”

“Yes. Against your own people, too.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Andrus declared flatly.

“Sheikh Osman. You give him money.”

“Nonsense!”

“All the money that Sheikh Osman has used in the past few weeks in his war against the Copts is money that you have given him.”

“Nonsense!” said Andrus. “I have given him no money. How would I give him money? You invent these things to trick me.”

“Every week,” said Owen, “every Friday, you take money to Mordecai.”

“Well,” said Andrus, “what of it?”

“Which he gives to Osman.”

“That is just a lie,” said Andrus. “Why do you bother with such tricks?”

“I will bring Mordecai to you if you wish, and he will confirm what I say.”

“You have told him what to say.”

“I will show you the evidence that Osman goes to him every Friday and comes away with the money you have given him.”

“But-but this cannot be.”

“All the money that has been used against the Copts has been supplied by you. And you talk of traitors!”

“Mordecai is the traitor. How dare he do this thing?”

“He does only what he has been told.”

“The money was brought for another purpose.”

“What purpose, Andrus?”

Andrus was silent.

“You brought the money, Andrus, and gave it to Mordecai to be used against the Copts. Against your own people. Why did you do that, Andrus?”

“I did not bring it for that purpose,” said Andrus hoarsely. “Mordecai has tricked me.”

“Not Mordecai. It is not Mordecai who has tricked you. Mordecai has only carried out instructions. Whose instructions were they, Andrus? If they were not yours, whose were they?” Andrus would not reply.