The Mamur Zapt and the Night of the Dog

CHAPTER 12

The Mamur Zapt sat in his office, thinking. Nikos started to come into the room, stopped and withdrew unobserved. No one after that was allowed past the office. The bearers sensed the situation and stayed quietly in their office at the other end of the corridor. They were in any case somewhat subdued by Yussuf’s misfortunes. A sympathetic peace descended on the corridor.

In fact, Owen was thinking mostly about Zeinab. Since their visit to the opera relations between them had been distinctly cool, and Owen was feeling the effects of being deprived. He had decided that it was time to think things through and settle them once and for all, but whenever he started thinking about Zeinab thoughts became memories of touch and smell and look and emotion and he became most unsettled. He had to admit, too, that a certain drama had gone out of his life. He considered himself on the whole a pretty steady person, but the trouble with steadiness was that it could very easily become the humdrum. Zeinab, whatever else she might be, was definitely not humdrum. She had all an Arab’s volatility, added to which was an emphatic unpredictability which was all her own. Too strong-willed and forceful to remain easily in any slot into which a male-oriented Moslem society might force her, regarding marriage, certainly to a Moslem, as the ultimate form of prison, conducting life as a ceaseless battle for Home Rule and Independence, she sometimes found things too much for her and plunged into pits of despair, from which she would spring out again almost immediately with a soar and a vehemence which left Owen dazzled. He loved her both when she was cast down and when she was leaping up, and also in between when she was normal, although as far as Zeinab was concerned normality was a flexible concept. However, “love” was, for Owen, a strong word and one which needed thinking about. Particularly in view of Paul’s remarks and what he had said about Jane Postlethwaite.

Paul’s remarks first. There was no need for him to get married yet. Paul’s views notwithstanding, he was not old. On the other hand, Owen was uncomfortably aware, a lot of men were married. Especially senior men. You could safely disregard Paul’s opinion that marriage was a prerequisite of life at the top, because Owen could think of notable exceptions, Kitchener included. Yet there was no doubt that it helped. You fitted more snugly into society, especially, the tight little society around the Consul-General, if you were married and could take your wife along to dinner parties with you, instead of forever having to be fixed up with a stray aunt or somebody. Owen did not think of himself as ambitious. He had left India for Egypt because he wanted to get out, not up. He loved his work as Mamur Zapt. It was still new to him and he wanted to go on doing it. But there might come a time, there was no denying it, when he might have had enough, and then if he wanted to move it would have to be up. But what to? That opened up whole chains of other thoughts which he put resolutely away. He had enough to think about as it was.

But the thought of possible other careers brought him to Jane Postlethwaite. There was no doubt that she would be an asset. Certainly her uncle would. An influential politician would command patronage, although one didn’t like to think of it like that. Jane’s husband would find ways smoothed for him, things open to him. Paul was acute on such matters. Marrying Jane Postlethwaite would be good for his career.

But what about Jane herself? She had a mind of her own and what she wanted would in the end decide what was done. She might well reject him out of hand. It would be a very sensible thing to do and Jane Postlethwaite was a sensible girl. On the other hand, now he thought about it-that was one of the advantages of taking time out to think things through- there had been occasions when she had looked at him in a special way which made him think that she might not reject him.

However, evade and evade as he might, in the end he had to come to it: did he love Jane Postlethwaite? Enough to marry her? No, not enough to marry her, that was not it. Love her, full stop. Well, “love” was a strong word, etc., etc. Christ, he was going round in circles.

He needed some coffee.

That was another problem. He had to do something about Yussuf. Yussuf had been put in the cells to cool off and Owen had not long before been down to see him. Yussuf had been quite inconsolable.

“I have shamed the Mamur Zapt,” he said. “Release me from your service! I am not worthy.”

As Owen had not appointed Yussuf to his service in the first place but Yussuf had appointed himself, this seemed beside the point. However, he seemed suitably penitent, so Owen left him there while he tried to work out what to do with him.

On his way back from the cells one of the bearers had intercepted him. Yussuf’s ex-wife had come to the police station and would not go away. When Owen went out to see her she was squatting in the dust of the yard, her head covered, rocking to and fro in grief.

“My man is in prison, aiee-e,” she wailed.

“Be quiet, woman!” said one of the bearers. “You have caused enough trouble.”

“Aiee-e,” wailed the woman. “My husband has wronged the Mamur Zapt. He was bearer to the Mamur Zapt and forgot his place because of his foolish wife.”

Well, that’s something, at any rate, thought Owen. If Fatima was prepared to admit her foolishness something might yet be saved from the wreckage.

“Have mercy, effendi!” cried the woman, rocking to and fro.

“Have mercy and free this foolish man because of his foolish wife.”

The bearers looked embarrassed and tried to get her to go. The woman shrugged off their hands and remained sitting where she was.

“Have mercy, effendi.”

“I might have mercy,” said Owen, “if I thought there was any point in it.”

The woman stopped wailing.

“Why should there be no point in it, effendi?” she asked quietly, in a perfectly normal voice.

“Because his heart would still be troubled.”

“He loves me,” said the woman, slightly with surprise, slightly with satisfaction.

“He loves you and wants you back. Will you not return to him?”

The woman dropped the fold from her face and looked up at him seriously.

“I would, effendi,” she said, troubled. “Suleiman is a pig. All he wants is harem business. He keeps on all the time. A little, I don’t mind. It’s good for a woman. But this pig thinks of nothing else.”

“Yussuf is a good man,” said Owen. “He has his faults, but he is a good man.”

“A woman could do worse,” Fatima conceded, “as I have found, unfortunately.”

“Besides,” said Owen, “he might have learnt his lesson.”

The woman looked up at him. There was a glint in her eye.

“I think he might, effendi,” she said.

“Then what is to be done?”

“Suleiman will not agree to a divorce,” Fatima said, “unless you give him money. A lot of money. He thinks that because you are a good master you will want Yussuf to be happy and so will pay a lot.”

“She isn’t worth it,” said one of the bearers firmly.

“Do not let yourself be beguiled, effendi,” said another of the bearers. “Yussuf will be better off without her.”

“Suleiman will tire of her,” said another, “when he has had his fill.”

“The Mamur Zapt has more wisdom than you,” the woman retorted with spirit.

“I will think about this,” Owen had said.

And thinking was what he was doing, without success.

The trouble at the bottom was money. That was another thing he had to think about. The Curbash Compensation Fund was completely exhausted. He couldn’t pay for Yussuf. He couldn’t pay his agents. And he certainly couldn’t manage any of the substantial bribes on which the Mamur Zapt’s day-to-day management of the city depended. What was he to do? Even if he survived the present crisis with its unusually heavy demands on resources, there were still a few weeks to go before he received his allocation for the next year. He would have to cut back just when spending might be most needed. There was, after all, the Moulid coming up. He would have to pay for the policing of that out of this year’s money. With what?

If only John Postlethwaite would go away things could return to normal and he might be able to get some money as a special case in view of the emergency and the delicate state of politics. But what with Postlethwaite and the political situation there was absolutely no hope.

But if John Postlethwaite went he would take Jane Postlethwaite with him. Would that be a good thing or a bad thing? He was going to be leaving soon anyway so Owen would have to make up his mind about Jane. Oh Christ, there he was going round in a circle again.

Lastly, he thought about Andrus. He thought he understood now about Zoser. There had been no plot. Andrus had gone to Zoser and poured out his heart. Zoser, as rigid as Andrus and far less intelligent, had taken it upon himself to put right the wrong which had been done to his friend and his church. He could have learned who had perpetrated the deed either from Andrus or through the ordinary gossip of the bazaars. And once he had learned, for the uncomplicated Zoser there would have been no gap between decision and action.

Zoser, poor man, had seen to his own punishment. Andrus’s was still to come.

Over the killing of the Zikr, Andrus, though not blameless, was probably not very guilty. On the other matter, however, inciting unrest in the city which had already led to trouble between Moslem and Copt and might still lead to massacre, Andrus was, if not the prime mover, then definitely a prime mover, and for that he must be made to pay.

But that was not what Owen was thinking about. Nor was he thinking about who really was the prime mover, for he thought he knew that already. All he was waiting for was confirmation.

No, the problem which really preoccupied him, which he kept returning to from one direction after another, and one in which he never seemed to make headway, was how to use the information he had to bring the conflict between Copt and Moslem to an end. It had to be soon, it had to be quick, and so far he had seen no way of achieving it.

Not that he had made much progress on anything else. Even Yussuf, the simplest of the problems. He wished he could speak to Zeinab about it. Zeinab was quite good at that sort of thing. Zeinab-oh God, there he went again.

Yussuf. Well, at least he had learned his lesson. He would never do that again. He was absolutely ashamed of himself. And as Owen reflected on Yussuf, and on the effects of shame, the glimmerings of an idea began to come to him.

He became aware of someone in the room. It was Nikos.

“He has come back,” he said.

“Did he see where Andrus went?”

“Yes.”

After the interview Andrus, much to his surprise, had been released; but when he left Mahmoud’s office one of Owen’s agents had followed on behind him.

“Who did he go to?”

“Sesostris,” said Nikos. “As you expected.”

“What do you want?” said Andrus.

“I want you to withdraw all your people from the streets, to send them home and to tell them to stay at home, until at least after the Moulid. You are to instruct them not to respond to Moslem provocation. There won’t be any after tomorrow, but if there is they are not to respond to it. They are to take special pains not to offend Moslem susceptibilities. Above all, they are not to use any violence. If they do, I expect you to tell me their names and I will deal with them.”

Andrus laughed incredulously.

“Is that all you want?” he demanded. “You must be mad.”

“It’s not quite all,” said Owen, “but it will do for a start.”

“If you think I’m going to do any of these things,” said Andrus, “let alone all of them, you must be crazy.”

“I think not.”

“Well, I’m not going to do them. Not any of them.”

“Oh, but you are.”

“If you think you can frighten me,” said Andrus, “you are mistaken.”

“I don’t.”

“Then what makes you think I am going to do them?”

“Because if you don’t,” said Owen, “I shall let it be generally known that Andrus has been giving money to the Moslems for them to use against Copts.”

“No one would believe you,” said Andrus, but his face went pale.

“Won’t they? Even when they hear the evidence?”

“They will believe it to be a trick.”

“Even when they hear the evidence? Mordecai?”

“Mordecai would never dare.”

“Mordecai has already agreed.”

“But-but it wasn’t like that.”

“Will anyone believe you? Anyone?”

Andrus licked his lips.

“I cannot,” he whispered. “I cannot.”

“You can,” said Owen, “and will.”

“Take me to prison.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“If I take you to prison,” said Owen, “people will say: ‘There goes Andrus, the enemy of the Moslems.’ But you are not their enemy. You are their friend. You give money to them to use against Copts. Therefore go free.”

Andrus looked at him, stunned. He sat like that for a long time. Then he buried his face in his hands.

“Very well,” he said in a choked voice. “Very well. I will do it.”

He stood up and almost tottered. He had suddenly aged.

“That is not all,” said Owen.

“Not all?”

Andrus seemed totally bewildered. His hands trembled.

“Sit down.”

It was as if Andrus’s legs had given way under him.

“What more do you want?” he whispered.

“You are to send a message to Sesostris. You are to tell him that you have to see him urgently. You will tell him that it must be in secret and that it is very, very important. And then you will tell him to come to a place that I will tell you of and at a time that I will tell you. And there you will meet him and say what I tell you.”

As realization dawned, Andrus blanched.

“I cannot,” he said. “You ask too much.”

“Think of this,” said Owen, “as payment. Payment for the two men who died because of you and the many who might have died.”

“I cannot. I would be ashamed.”

“If you do not, the shame will be not just on you but on your father’s house. ‘There is Andrus,’ they will say, ‘the man who gave money to the Moslems to use against the Copts.’ ”

Andrus buried his face in his hands again.

“Either way there is shame,” said Owen, “but one way the shame is yours and yours alone. The other way the shame is on your father too.”

Andrus sat for a long time. Owen let him sit. When at last Andrus looked up, his face was haggard.

“I will do what you wish,” he said.

“What do you want?” said Osman suspiciously.

“I want you to withdraw all your people from the streets, to send them home and to tell them to stay at home. That is, at least until after the Moulid. They are not to let themselves be provoked by the Copts. After today the Copts will be very anxious not to provoke you, but should some foolish man do so then you are to instruct your people not to respond.”

“What?” said Osman, unbelieving.

“You are to confine yourself to a mosque until after the Moulid. You will not go out in the streets and you will not say anything in public. There are to be no speeches and no sermons. Not until after the Moulid.”

“I shall say what I like and go where I like,” said Osman. “As for the Copts, I will cut their throats and dance in their blood.”

“You will not,” said Owen, who took an equable view of Arab rhetoric.

“No?” said Osman belligerently. “Why won’t I?”

“Because if you do,” said Owen, “I will tell everyone that you are the man who receives money from Copts.”

“I?” said Osman. “I? I receive no money from Copts.”

“You go to Mordecai, don’t you?”

“He is not a Copt. He is a Jew.”

“And where do you think he gets the money from?”

“Not from Copts?” said Osman, with a sinking heart.

“He is just the man in the middle. The Copts bring the money and Osman takes it. Every Friday. On the Sabbath.”

Osman reeled.

“Do you swear this?” he said thickly.

“On the Book.”

Osman shook his heavy, turbanned head from side to side as if bemused.

“I did not know it came from them!” he muttered. “How was I to know? A man came to me and said there were friends with money. They wished to keep themselves secret and therefore I was to go to Mordecai. But how can they be Copts? Copts would not give money for use against Copts. Unless-”

He smashed his great fists on the table.

“They have tricked me. It was a trap. And I fell into it. Fool that I am!” He buried his head in his arms and rolled about the table in his agony. “Fool! Fool!”

“Osman takes money from Copts. So it will be known.”

“Fool! Fool!” groaned Osman. “Oh, the cunning devils! They have beaten me. How shall I show my face? Osman takes Copt money! Oh, the shame of it!”

“If you do as I say,” said Owen, “you will be able to show your face. No one will know about it.”

“The Copts will tell,” groaned Osman.

“They won’t,” said Owen.

Something in his voice made Osman look at him.

“How do you know?”

“I have talked with them.”

“Do not believe them. They are cunning devils.”

“On this occasion,” said Owen, “I think they may be believed.”

“You do not know them like I do,” said Osman.

“They have no choice,” said Owen. “They are in a trap as deep as yours.”

“A trap?” Osman began to sound hopeful. “Of your devising?”

“Yes.”

Osman pounded the desk joyfully.

“They are in a trap. The Mamur Zapt has tricked them. They have tricked me but have themselves been tricked.”

“That’s about it.”

“You swear it? On the Book?”

“On the Book.”

“Then I will go happily to prison.”

“You are not going to prison. You are going to take your people off the streets. Remember?”

“I can’t do that,” said Osman in consternation.

“You must do it. Or I will see to it that everyone in Cairo knows who is the sheikh who takes money from Copts.”

There was a short silence.

“If I do what you ask,” said Osman, “can I be sure that the Copts will do the same?”

“You can be sure.”

“I do not like it.”

“Nor do they.”

“No,” said Osman, beginning to smile. “Of that one can be confident.”

He struck his fist on the table.

“I will do it!” he said.

“At once. Tonight,” said Owen.

Osman nodded.

“At once,” he agreed. “So it shall be.”

He left looking quite pleased. Owen was not sure that whatever lesson Osman had learned had been quite the right one.

Later in the morning Owen paid one of his infrequent visits to the Ministry of Finance. As he was walking along one of the long, green-painted corridors he ran into John Postlethwaite.

“Hello, lad,” said John Postlethwaite. “What are you doing here? Come for a bit of pocket money?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Owen. “Not personally, but for the office.”

“You’ll be lucky. What have you been up to?”

“Not been up to anything. It’s all this trouble between Copts and Moslems. It costs money.”

“Too true. That’s only too true,” John Postlethwaite agreed enthusiastically. “That’s what I’m always saying. However you look at it, it costs money. These colonies are millstones around our necks, as a noble lord of my acquaintance once said. Mind you, he’s a millstone round our necks too, him and all the other lords.”

Owen thought that Paul might not like the turn the conversation was taking so hastily shifted tack.

“The real problem is the levy,” he said.

“Levy?” said John Postlethwaite sharply. “I’ve not heard about that.”

Owen explained.

“A levy is a mistake,” said John Postlethwaite. “It’s bad accounting principle. It’s a one-off business, you see. You do it once and then that’s an end to it. What you want is a charge on something that regularly recurs. You can go on forever then.”

“The Khedive’s insisting on it. He needs the money.”

“What does he need it for?”

Owen thought he hadn’t better mention Monte Carlo.

“Oh, a special function he has in mind, I think,” he said vaguely.

“If it’s an unusual item, then maybe the best thing is a straightforward loan,” said John Postlethwaite. “I don’t normally approve of loans, unless I’m lending, of course, but sometimes they’re the answer.”

At the other end of the corridor Owen saw Ramses come out of a door. He began to edge away.

“Come and see us sometime,” said John Postlethwaite. “I know Jane would like to see you. She gets a bit cooped up in that hotel.”

“Hello,” said Ramses. “What are you after? Still in trouble with the Compensation Fund? I might be able to do something for you next year but there’s not much chance this year, I’m afraid. We’re still stuck in our log-jam.”

“Postlethwaite thinks the levy’s a bad idea.”

“Same here. Unfortunately-”

“He thinks a loan might be better.”

“So it might,” said Ramses, “if anyone could be found stupid enough to lend to the Khedive.”

“I was wondering,” said Owen, “if, in return for the levy being abandoned-”

“A loan? You wouldn’t get your money back.”

“Suppose,” said Owen, “somebody made a loan, and the idea of the levy was withdrawn, and Patros became Prime Minister, couldn’t he raise taxes?”

“He certainly could and almost certainly will.”

“Then the loan could be repaid out of the increase in taxes.”

“Why,” said Ramses admiringly, “you’re beginning to think just like an accountant! Yes, in principle it could be done. I could get a few Copt bankers to club together to find a sufficient sum. It would have to be a loan to the Government, mind, not to the Khedive personally. A special loan so that, say, all the statues in Cairo can be cleaned on time for the Khedive’s birthday. They wouldn’t be cleaned, of course, but no one would know. A public loan like that would have the added advantage of showing the Khedive what loyal subjects we Copts are and how greatly we admire him.”

“You think you could stitch that up?”

“Yes. On condition that the levy were withdrawn. Patros would have to become Prime Minister, too, so that we could be sure that the money would be repaid. Incidentally, I see problems there.”

“The Consul-General will agree.”

“Yes, but some of our side won’t be very happy. As you probably know, there’s a strong party among the Copts who are utterly opposed to any Coptic participation in the Government, even on a personal basis.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Owen, “I think you may find that in future that party is not quite as strong as it has been.”

Before leaving the Ministry, Owen rang Paul at the Consul-General’s Residency.

“Oh yes,” said Paul. “I think that can be managed. I’ll have a word with the Old Man. But do you think the Copts will really deliver?”

“I think they will if you can get the Old Man to twist the Khedive’s arm enough to persuade him to withdraw the levy.”

“OK,” said Paul. “I’ll see he gets twisting.”

Instead of going to the Club as he usually did for lunch, Owen went to Zeinab’s apartment. She was surprised and pleased to see him. Afterwards, as she lay drowsily in his arms, she said:

“How is your little Nonconformiste?”

“All right, I think. I haven’t seen her since the opera.”

“I’m not jealous,” Zeinab assured him. “If you want her, you can have her.”

“She may have her own views about that.”

“Are you taking her to the Moulid?”

“Paul wants me to.”

Zeinab was quiet for a moment or two.

“Have you ever been to the Moulid?” she asked.

“Not this one.”

“Ah. Then you must take her. Yes, you must certainly take her.”

“Perhaps I will,” said Owen innocently.

Later, as Zeinab sat brushing her hair, she said:

“How is Yussuf?”

“In the cells.”

“Poor man. It is time you let him out.”

“I would if I was sure he wouldn’t go straight back and do it again.”

“He ought to remarry Fatima.”

“That’s what I’m trying to achieve.”

“Have you talked to the man, the one who married her?”

“Suleiman? No. I’ve talked to Fatima, though. She says that Suleiman will want money.”

“Of course.”

“Yes, but I haven’t any. The Compensation Fund is exhausted. Anyway, it’s a bad accounting principle.”

“Accounting principle?” said Zeinab, surprised.

“Yes. Give him some and they’ll all be doing it.”

“That is accounting principle?”

“More or less. Financial control, anyway.”

Zeinab shrugged. One of her shoulders emerged from her gown and Owen went across and kissed it.

“I have been thinking,” said Zeinab, laying down her brush. “Has Fatima any family?”

“I don’t know. I expect so. Why?”

“It is one thing taking a woman into your house,” said Zeinab. “It is another thing taking her family.”

“So?”

“If she has a large family and some of them are unprovided for, say, for instance, she has unmarried sisters and aunts and nieces, then it is only right, since her husband has married into the family, that he should provide for them, too.”

“Yes, but will he see it like that?”

“It is a duty to provide for your wife’s family as for your own. Why don’t you suggest it to Fatima? She sounds the sort of woman who wouldn’t like to let things slip.”

“I might do that.”

“Yes. If you did,” said Zeinab, “you might even find Suleiman ready to think again.”

Owen had taken a house in the old part of the city not far from the Mar Girgis. Through the heavy fretwork of its top windows he could see the towering minarets of the Bab es Zuweyla, and from the box window of the storey below, where he was standing when Sesostris approached, he had a good view along the street in both directions.

It was dark and the lamps were lit and they might not have seen Sesostris if he had not had to step aside to avoid a porter with a heavy bundle on his back and stand for a moment in the light from a shopfront. They watched him come to the door.

Owen had had the house cleared and the servant who let Sesostris in was one of his own men. They heard the door close and the footsteps begin to climb the stairs.

In the room Andrus twisted his hands nervously. He was a shell of the man he had been previously. Owen gave him a warning glance. He did not want things to go wrong at this stage.

He glanced round the room to make sure all was in order. It was a modest but comfortably furnished room with a divan, low tables and large leather cushions on the floor. The walls were covered with fine red carpets. Georgiades held one of these aside and stood waiting.

Behind the carpet was a shallow recess in which the bedding was normally stored. When Georgiades and he were standing inside it and the carpet replaced, the wall looked like any other wall.

Sesostris came into the room.

“Well, Andrus?” they heard him say.

“Greetings, Sesostris,” Andrus said with difficulty.

“Why have you brought me here?”

“Because it is safest,” said Andrus, as they had agreed. “They are watching our houses. My house-and yours.”

“Mine?”

“They have found out. The Mamur Zapt knows.”

“What does he know? And how do you know that he knows?”

“I have a man in his office. Nikos.”

Owen winced. He thought that an unnecessary touch of Georgiades’s.

“He has told me.”

“How much does the Mamur Zapt know?”

“He knows about the money. And to whom it goes.”

“If he knows, why has he not moved?”

“To know is one thing. To be able to prove is another. That is why he is having the houses watched.”

“So he is not confident yet. Well, that is useful to know.”

Sesostris did not speak for some time. They heard him moving. He seemed to be walking up and down.

“It gives me a chance,” they heard him mutter, as much to himself as to Andrus. “The question is whether to stop now or go on.”

“I think we should stop, Sesostris,” Andrus squeaked uneasily. This part had not been in the script.

“It would be a pity to stop now, just when we are nearly there. A few more days, a week perhaps, would be sufficient. Two weeks at the outside.”

“The Mamur Zapt knows.”

“But cannot prove. Let us make sure that for the next two weeks he still cannot prove.”

“How can we do that?”

“We will not meet. I will get the money to you in some other way.”

“That is all right for you,” said Andrus with an unexpected flash of his old spirit, “but what about me? He knows I am the organization.”

“The church house is watched too?” Sesostris was silent for a moment. “Then you must move somewhere else,” he said with decision.

“They will find out.”

“But not at once. A week is all we need.”

“Is it so close?”

“The Khedive has to decide this week. While there is trouble between Copt and Moslem he cannot offer it to a Copt nor a Copt take it.”

“So he will have to offer it to someone other than Patros?”

“Yes.”

“That will be a Moslem,” said Andrus doubtfully.

“That suits us,” said Sesostris with extra definiteness.

“He will impose the levy.”

“And that suits us too. It is the only thing that will stir our sleeping brethren, the only thing that will make them fight and not cooperate. It is time,” said Sesostris, “to make a stand.”

“Yes,” said Andrus, with less than his usual certainty.

There was a little silence. Then Sesostris said:

“You are tired, old friend. It has been a hard battle and you have borne the brunt of it. Keep going for just a little longer and then I will have someone else take over.”

“I wish you had not given the money to the Moslems.”

“It was necessary. They would not have responded on such a scale otherwise. It had to be big, Andrus, for the Khedive to notice and be influenced.”

“But for them to use it against our own people!”

“It is hard, I know. But it was necessary. How else are we to break through the effects of centuries of compliance and make the Copts erect and independent once again?”

Again there was a silence. This time it was Andrus who broke it.

“Will there ever be an end to the trouble between Copts and Moslems?” he asked wearily.

“Yes. But on our terms.”

“I hope you are right. You play a dangerous game, Sesostris.” The two men talked for a little longer. Andrus was the first to leave. Owen waited, as he had agreed, until the door closed behind him. Then he stepped out from behind the hangings.