The Mamur Zapt and the Night of the Dog

CHAPTER 7

Didn’t you ever have a man on him?” said Owen incredulously.

Mahmoud flushed.

“I don’t have as many men as you,” he replied angrily.

“Even so!”

Owen was furious. He had counted on wrapping this up. With Zoser inside, at least he would have headed off trouble from the Moslems. Now he couldn’t count on that. And suppose they found out that a man had slipped through their fingers? It would be even worse. Mahmoud had bungled it. Not to pick Zoser up was fair enough, he had advocated that himself. But not to put a man on him. That was bloody stupid.

In fact, Mahmoud had put a man on Zoser but he preferred not to admit it. The man had gone to sleep, or at least that was what Mahmoud suspected, and that, to Mahmoud, was an even harder thing to admit than that he had not posted a man in the first place. Not being able to post a man was a matter of economics. Having one go to sleep on the job, well, that was just incompetence; and Mahmoud was very sensitive to the charge of Egyptian incompetence. Especially as, privately, he thought the charge was often justified.

It was in a case like this, too, that the weakness of the Egyptian system became apparent. The Parquet, the Department of Prosecution of the Ministry of Justice, which Mahmoud belonged to, and the Police were two entirely different and separate organizations. Mahmoud was responsible for collecting the evidence, deciding whether there was a case, and then carrying through prosecution. In doing so he had to rely on the police for manpower. Working to his instructions, they would collect evidence, do low-level questioning, keep people under surveillance, and if necessary arrest. The trouble was that since they were not directly under his control he was unable to ensure the quality of their work in the way that, for example, Owen could. What made matters worse was that the police were so badly paid that they could be recruited only from poor, country districts and lacked the sophistication, education and even, Mahmoud suspected at times, mother-wit of city people. Owen, because he could pay more, was able to draw his own men almost exclusively from the city. That was another thing that Mahmoud felt was wrong.

Owen’s reaction touched him on a sore spot; and it was made all the sorer by an angry feeling inside him that there had indeed been incompetence, Egyptian incompetence, that he, Mahmoud, was ultimately responsible for it-and that there was absolutely nothing that he could in practice do about it.

“There must have been a leak,” he said sullenly.

Owen was taken aback. This was something that had not occurred to him.

“A tip-off?”

“Yes. How else would he have known?”

“The church? The visit to the Scentmakers’ Bazaar? Your men’s inquiries?”

This upset Mahmoud still further. His men again.

“Their inquiries were general,” he said harshly. “They are always making such inquiries. There was nothing to link them directly to Zoser.”

“Surely they asked questions about Zoser?”

“And others.”

“That might have been enough. Or maybe, seeing us the second time, he might have suspected. Especially if he spotted that it was the third time, for Miss Postlethwaite and me.”

Mahmoud was silent.

“How much notice did you give your men?”

Mahmoud was now in one of those moods in which he found implied criticism hard to take. Owen half-realized this and if he had had any sense would have shut up, but Mahmoud’s moods blew up very suddenly out of an apparently clear sky and once again he was slow in reacting.

“They had no notice.”

Mahmoud did not say that this was because he did not trust them. “I made up my mind, collected them and went straight down.”

“Anyone else in your office know?”

“No. Anyway,” said Mahmoud, “I don’t have any Copts in my office. What about you?”

Nikos. Owen pushed the thought immediately aside.

“If I did,” he said, “they are people I can trust.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Owen. “I am quite sure.”

Mahmoud shrugged. The gesture came across offensively. In some way it conveyed utter disbelief.

Owen boiled over.

“Well,” he said, “now that you’ve lost him, you’d better find him.”

The way he put it made it sound like an order. Mahmoud turned on his heel and went off without a further word.

“Well,” said Georgiades, “he could be right, couldn’t he?”

“No,” said Owen, “he couldn’t.”

Georgiades spread his hands. Owen distrusted these Cairene gestures of openness.

“Look at it this way: two loyalties. One to you, one to his people. Both real, both genuine. If he can serve one without hurting the other too much, what the harm?”

“It would hurt me. It would hurt the department.”

“How much?”

“It hits at the work we do.”

“How much? Just this one instance?”

“It’s his people I’m trying to help.”

“And the Moslems.”

“I’m neutral.”

“He’s not.”

“He’s neutral when he works for me.”

“Mostly. Mostly.”

“Are you saying that in this case he’s playing a game of his own?”

“I’m only saying that he might be.”

Owen was silent. Before transferring to the Egyptian service he had been a regular-army officer in India and at times his military background reasserted itself. He liked things, or at least people, or at least those people near him, to be straightforward. He found it hard, almost impossible, to accept any deceit on Nikos’s part. Internally, that was. So far as the rest of the world was concerned he could conceive of almost any deception. But among themselves…

“It’s only a hypothesis,” he said.

“Sure!” Georgiades agreed quickly. “Sure.”

“You don’t know anything that makes it anything more?”

“No, I’m just figuring out all the angles.”

“It could be someone else.”

“It needn’t even be in this office.”

“OK, then.”

“If I were you,” said Georgiades, “I’d forget about it. Only…”

“Only what?”

“Be careful.”

Owen knew what he meant. While they were working on this case there were some things which Nikos had better not know.

“OK.”

Georgiades smiled cheerfully. He had just suggested that his closest colleague might be, in this at least, a traitor. But there was nothing personal in it. Nikos was still his friend. Georgiades still trusted him. As much as he trusted anybody.

Owen was going through the accounts with Nikos trying to find pockets of money which might still be emptied. They came to the end of one set. While Nikos was collecting the papers Owen said casually:

“When they went to find Zoser, he wasn’t at home.”

Nikos understood immediately.

“A tip-off?”

“It looks like it.”

Nikos’s mind began automatically to turn over the possibilities, as it always did.

“That’s funny,” he said.

“Why?”

“Zoser doesn’t strike me as the sort of person who would have contacts.”

“Maybe it was just a sympathizer.”

Nikos nodded.

“Yes. Perhaps you’d better review all Copts working in the office. Including me. Do the same with Mahmoud’s office.”

Owen did not say anything.

Nikos’s thoughts moved on to a different tack.

“He doesn’t have many friends. And they’re all Copts. He must be in one of the Coptic parts of the city.”

“And there are plenty of those.”

“Mahmoud will be checking his friends,” said Nikos. “That’s obvious.”

He frowned for a moment in concentration.

“The centre of Zoser’s life is the church,” he said. “I’ll get you a list of the people who go there regularly.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to?”

Nikos looked at him with scorn, scooped up the remaining papers and went out.

It was the old, normal Nikos. Owen was a hundred per cent sure that he was OK.

Well, ninety-nine per cent.

Owen had other fish to fry and for the next two days he was busy on other things. He kept his men off the case, too. Mahmoud would be going over Zoser’s contacts with a fine-tooth comb and, especially after their last exchange, Owen did not want to queer his pitch.

There were developments, however. He was sitting at his desk on the second morning when Nikos stuck his head through the door.

“Here they are again,” he said.

“They” were the assistant kadi and the two sheikhs who had been before. This time it was the kadi who did most of the talking.

“It’s about that murder,” he said. “My friends are concerned that nothing seems to be happening.”

“Oh, a lot is happening,” Owen assured him. “It’s just that we need to be absolutely sure before proceeding. Especially in a case like this.”

“Not ‘absolutely sure,’ ” said the kadi legalistically. “ ‘Reasonably certain’ will do.”

“Reasonably certain, then,” Owen amended.

“And you are not in that position yet?”

“Pretty nearly, I would say. Of course, the case is in the hands of the Parquet.”

“It is just that my friends are coming under great pressure from their communities over the incident.”

The two sheikhs nodded in unison.

“I am sorry that should be so,” said Owen. “I can assure them that we are making every effort. And, as I said, I think that we shall shortly be in a position to proceed against someone.”

“Rumour has it,” said the kadi, “that the Parquet sought to arrest someone and were unsuccessful.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask the Parquet about that.”

“The trouble is,” said the kadi, “that apparently the man was a Copt. That makes it especially difficult for my friends. You see, there is word in the bazaar that perhaps the man heard beforehand that the Parquet were coming. And the communities are asking whether that was, perhaps, because he was a Copt.”

“On that at least I can set your friends’ minds at rest. Whether the man was Copt or Moslem would make no difference.”

“So there was a man?”

“I was speaking hypothetically. If there was a man, it would make no difference whether he was Copt or Moslem. The Mamur Zapt is even-handed.”

The two sheikhs looked a little perturbed. One of them tried to say something. The kadi affected not to notice and went smoothly on.

“I am sure of that,” he said. “The doubt was rather about the impartiality of the offices. There are a lot of Copts in them.”

“I am sure they are loyal and honest servants of the Khedive.”

“I hope so. But things like this make one doubt, don’t you think?”

Owen judged it best to make no reply. He just smiled winningly.

The sheikh, now, would not be restrained.

“This is a bad man,” he said, “and he must be punished.”

“He will be. Of that I can assure you.”

“My people are angry. They say that the Government is not even-handed.”

“Tell your people that the Government seeks to stamp out wrongdoing wherever it is found.”

“We have told them that,” said the other sheikh unexpectedly, “but they will not listen to us.”

“My friends are coming under great pressure,” said the kadi.

“I appreciate that. And I will do what I can. But one must not hasten justice at the expense of justice.”

“True.” The sheikhs nodded agreement.

“But,” one of them said, “it is important that no one who has done wrong should escape justice.”

“I will see,” said Owen, “that he doesn’t.”

The sheikhs suddenly looked satisfied. Owen realized that was what they had come for. The personal assurance of the Mamur Zapt. In a society that was still traditional and oral, personal promises counted for a lot. In a way it was flattering that they should take his word. However, he knew that if he failed to live up to it they would not take his word again.

The kadi rose to his feet.

“Thank you for seeing us. My friends are very anxious that there should be no difference between their people and the Mamur Zapt, and will do all they can to see that things go no further, at least for the time being. Unfortunately”-he caught Owen’s eye meaningfully-“they cannot answer for others.”

With the usual extended Arabic farewells, the party was shown out. Owen accompanied them to the front entrance himself. He wanted to keep Nikos in the background.

The two sheikhs managed to keep control in their communities but in other ones there were disturbing incidents. Shops owned by Copts were attacked and wrecked and there were increasing instances of individual Copts being set upon in the streets. Zeinab became involved in one of these.

She frequently made use of Coptic craftsmen and one of them, a leather-worker, who had been repairing a handbag she was particularly fond of, was bringing it to her flat with his small son when he was attacked by a gang of youths. The boy ran on to the flats where Zeinab lived and rushed in at the entrance. Two of his attackers followed him and caught him and were about to drag him back out into the street when Zeinab came down the stairs. Zeinab had no great love of Copts but she wasn’t having anyone attacked in the entrance of her building and pitched into the youths with such fury that they ran off.

The boy, weeping and bleeding, recognized Zeinab as the lady they were coming to see and managed to stammer out the story of the attack on his father. Zeinab, who tended to see things in personal terms and who, having been brought up in her father’s house, had something of the great lady in her, took it into her head to protect her servants and rushed out into the street in a passion. She came upon the leather-worker further along the street surrounded by a mob of youths who were beating and kicking him.

Without thinking, she plunged into the mob, caught hold of the leather-worker and tried to drag him away from his assailants. The youths, being Moslems, were not having this from any woman, even if she were a great lady, and things would have gone ill for Zeinab if Owen had not arrived at that moment, on his way to her flat.

He caught hold of the two nearest him and knocked their heads together, kicked two more and grabbed the ringleaders. The others, thinking there was more of him, fled. Fortunately, none of them were armed. If they had been, it might have been a different story, for Owen himself only carried arms when he had reason to believe he might need them.

He put a neck-lock on the youth he was holding and looked around for help.

Now the fighting was over there was plenty forthcoming. He got some of the men to carry the leather-worker to Zeinab’s flat. Others went to fetch a policeman. When, some time later, one appeared, Owen handed the youth over to him with strict instructions to keep him in the local caracol until Owen would question him. Then he went to Zeinab’s flat.

Zeinab was sponging the boy’s face. His father had already been attended to and lay quiet and grateful on one of Zeinab’s sofas.

“You’re going to have to do something about this,” said Zeinab, looking up at him.

The caracol, one of the old ones, consisted of a single room underground. It was hot and foetid in there and Owen had the ringleader brought upstairs for questioning.

The boy was about fourteen years old and had the long, fuzzy hair of the dervish. He looked scared, not so much, Owen judged, because he was in the hands of the police but rather because he was in different surroundings from those he was used to, the modern, built-up, Europeanized part of the city and not the warren of tiny mediaeval streets he normally inhabited.

Owen sat on a chair in the cramped little office and made the boy stand in front of him.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Daouad.”

“Where are you from?”

“I am from near the Sukkariya,” the boy growled.

“Well, Daouad, you will not see the Sukkariya again for a long time unless you answer my questions.”

The boy looked around like a trapped animal.

“Whose man are you?”

“I am no man’s man.”

“You come from the Sukkariya. You are a dervish. Who is your sheikh?”

“The Sheikh Osman Rahman,” the boy said reluctantly.

“Did he tell you to do this?”

The boy was silent.

“Will he be angry if I tell him what you have done?”

“No,” said the boy proudly. “He will be pleased.”

“Because you have done his bidding?”

“Because I have done what he wants.”

“How do you know it is what he wants?”

The boy would not say. After a moment, though, he looked away and muttered: “It was only a pig of a Copt.”

“There are always Copts. Why attack one now?”

“To avenge!” the boy said hotly. “To avenge the blow against one of ours! A death for a death!”

“Is that what the sheikh says?”

“It is what we all say.”

“There are other sheikhs who do not say it.”

“They turn the cheek,” the boy said, “when they should set their face in anger. They fold their arms when they should lift their hand in wrath. They let the faithless strike them when they should strike the faithless.”

The words had the ring of preacher’s rhetoric.

“Is that what the Sheikh Osman says?”

“Yes,” said the boy defiantly.

Owen had him taken back to the underground room. In a few days he would release him. There was no point in acting against him.

The Sheikh Osman Rahman, however, was a different matter.

Owen came up with him that evening. It was in a tiny square of the Old City. There was a dais on one side of the square on which the Sheikh Osman sat cross-legged. All around him, squatting on the ground, were his followers; and beyond them, around the outskirts and blocking up the mouths of the little streets which gave on to the square, was a wider, more disinterested audience. Those nearest the dais carried raised torches in their hands, so that the dais was illuminated and the sheikh clearly visible to all.

Owen stayed in one of the side streets and listened. The sheikh was only just getting into his stride. He spoke vehemently but quietly. He was expounding a sura, one of the parable-like stories of the Koran, extracting from it lessons for the faithful. As he pointed up the moral, contrasting the way of the good with the way of the bad, his voice deepened and became more indignant. Almost imperceptibly the exposition became a harangue. The crowd stirred and became involved. There were sympathetic cries. The sheikh now had moved into denunciation: of the wrongdoer, the infidel, those who mocked Islam. Of those who protected the infidel from the just wrath of the servants of Allah.

Owen waited for the words which would justify his own intervention. They came. Incitation to riot. His men, who knew the law as well as he, looked at him expectantly.

“Not yet.”

He did not want to do it in front of the crowd. That might provoke a riot, the very thing he was trying to avoid. He did sometimes break up meetings but that was usually when they were political. Religion you handled with kid gloves.

Afterwards. When the crowd was beginning to disperse.

He could sense his men fidgeting. This was always the difficult time. They were disciplined, though, Sudanis, hand-picked ex-soldiers from the south. They would do what they were told.

The sheikh began a final exhortation. The last part of his serman, or speech was accompanied by continuous cries from his followers. His voice rose to a howl and drew the audience up with it into an excited, almost exalted, crescendo.

And then it stopped. The shouting went on, though, for several minutes. People leapt to their feet and milled around excitedly. This was the moment when, sometimes, a procession formed and they would march off to take action. If they did on this occasion Owen would be ready. His men drew their truncheons.

For a moment or two it seemed as if that was what would happen. A little group of men had got together and appeared to be trying to enlist others into a formation of some kind. There was so much untidy milling about, however, that in the confines of the tiny space they found it hard to organize themselves and eventually seemed to abandon the attempt.

The excitement died away and the crowd began to drift off down the side streets. The throng in front of Owen melted away, leaving his men exposed, so he drew them back into the shadows. In the square the torches began to go out, until there were only one or two left near the dais.

The Sheikh Osman sat on, relaxed now. A few of his followers had joined him on the dais.

Then he, too, rose to his feet. The square was quite empty by now and he and the little group of men with him made their way across it without difficulty. They disappeared down one of the side streets. Owen’s men moved unhurriedly after them.

They came up with Osman just where the street joined up with two others. The street was wider there and Owen’s men found it easy to slip round the sheikh, separating him from his followers and surrounding him.

The sheikh looked up, startled.

“What is this?”

Owen stepped forward.

“Come with me,” he said.

Then Osman understood.

He opened his mouth to shout. One of Owen’s Sudanis put a hand over his mouth, preventing him. There was a little struggle and Osman half-dragged himself free.

“There will be blood!” he shouted.

“It will be yours,” said Owen, and signalled to his men.

They closed round Osman and now he was silent. Muffled and tied, he was quickly shepherded away. For good measure Owen took several of his followers too. The others were left, startled and winded. One lay on the ground.

The passers-by at the end of the street had not even noticed.

Osman was taken to one of the cells beneath Owen’s office in the Bab el-Khalkh. The building was the Police Headquarters and well away from the Old City. It was also big and strong. Just in case.

Owen, though, did not expect any difficulty. It would take some time for the news to get around. Osman’s followers would have to get together; and Owen would see that they did not find that very easy. He had warned the Assistant Commissioner, McPhee, and together they would ensure that for the next two or three days the city was flooded with agents who would alert them at once to an assembly. By then perhaps Zoser would be caught. The crowd would have other things on its mind and Osman could be released.

It might even be possible to scare him into silence, although when he was brought to Owen’s office in the early hours of the morning that did not seem very likely.

“There will be blood,” he said again as he came through the door.

“There has been too much of that already,” said Owen. “That is why you are here.”

“There will be more,” Osman promised.

“It is bad there is blood,” said Owen, “either Moslem or Copt.”

“Where there is a blood debt,” said Osman, “there must be blood.”

“There was no debt originally,” said Owen. “There was just a foolish act.”

Osman did not reply.

“A sacrilegious act,” Owen pursued, “which you, as a holy man, ought to have done your best to prevent. Instead of encouraging it. And perhaps instigating it.”

“I did not instigate it,” said Osman haughtily.

“But you knew about it. He was one of your men.”

Osman shrugged.

“He was his own man,” he said, “in this.”

“But you knew. And could have stopped.”

“Why should I stop? It was only a Copt. Besides, have not the Copts-”

“Be quiet!” said Owen. “Such talk will not help you now. You allowed this thing to happen and so must bear some of the guilt.”

“There is no guilt.”

“You treated heavy things lightly,” said Owen, “and that does not accord with the Book.”

“You quote the Book at me?” Osman glared at him.

“I do. Where the Book itself is taken lightly the offender is not worthy of respect.”

Osman was plainly taken aback. He had not expected things to go like this. Owen pursued his advantage.

“You have done wrong,” he said, “and you must put things right.”

“I?” said Osman. “I?”

“You.”

“I have struck no blow.”

“You have caused many to be struck. It must be stopped before someone is killed.”

“Someone has been killed,” said Osman. “A Moslem. By a Copt.”

“That is for me,” said Owen. “Not for you.”

“There is a debt.”

“Which I will see is paid.”

“The Christians protect the Christians.”

“And the Moslems too.”

Osman looked at him.

“See that it is so,” he said.

Owen did not reply. After a moment Osman said: “Why have you taken me?”

“While I am pursuing the offender I do not want blood on the streets.”

“If you take me, there will be blood on the streets.”

“It will be Moslem blood,” said Owen, “and I would not have it so.”

“What do you want?” asked Osman.

“I want you to hold your hand,” said Owen, “for a time.”

“Why should I do that?”

“I suggest you go to some holy place, preferably out of the city, and pray for forgiveness for the levity which started this business.”

“What if I don’t?”

“You will stay here. And if there is blood you will have to pray for forgiveness for that also.”

Owen sent him back down to the cells to think about it. He did not expect Osman openly to agree but he thought it quite likely that the sheikh might indicate his willingness to accept Owen’s proposition. He thought he saw in Osman, beneath the intransigence and fanaticism, a certain uneasiness as to his own role in the affair. “Lightness” was not an easy charge for a religious sheikh to bear, especially if he felt there was some justification for the charge; and in his heart of hearts, away from the public arena, Osman might well accept the need for some self-examination. Owen hoped so. He would probably try releasing Osman even if he gave no outward sign of acquiescence. That might, in fact, make it easier for him. And, of course, if he did stir up trouble he could always be put inside again. However, Owen did not want to do that if it could be avoided. It would be better if the sheikh went away quietly by himself.

The attacks on the Copts brought, as Owen had expected they would, bitter representations from the Coptic community. Among the leaders who came to complain was Andrus.

“If you do not take action,” he said, “we shall.”

“You have said that to me before.”

“And you took no action.”

“I took action. But so did you.”

Andrus looked shaken.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you not take action?” Owen pressed him.

“If we did,” said Andrus, “who can blame us?”

“I blame you,” said Owen. “Without your action there would not have been blood, Coptic blood, on the streets.”

“I do not know what is this action you refer to.”

“Don’t you?” said Owen, looking him straight in the eye.

“No,” said Andrus, returning the look.

Owen was not sure. The contradiction was direct and on the whole he believed Andrus to be an honest man. But he sensed an unease beneath the directness. Perhaps although Andrus had not been personally involved, he knew more than he pretended.

Andrus returned to the burden of his present complaints. They were the same as last time but with, probably, more justification. And whereas previously, under the shock of the immediate offense, he had been fiercely indignant, now there was a savage bitterness which was in a way more alarming.

He answered Andrus, as he had done the other Copts, with assurances and counsels of patience; and with a touch of iron.

“Do not be drawn into reprisals,” he said as Andrus left, “or there will be trouble.”

“Do you think we should just sit back and take it?” asked Andrus.

“There won’t be any taking it. I’ll see to that.”

“I hope you will,” said Andrus. “I hope you will.”

Andrus’s name, of course, appeared on the list that Nikos compiled. Owen was surprised to see how extensive the list was. The church seemed to be a microcosm of Coptic society, with representatives of all social layers. Perhaps because it was conveniently placed on the edge of the Old City closest to the modern, developed parts where the more well-to-do lived, there were surprisingly wealthy people in its congregation. The Zosers rubbed shoulders with men with a hundred times their income. Another way in which the church was comprehensive was in the range of cultural levels among its members. Primitive fundamentalists like Zoser stood alongside sophisticated civil servants like Sesostris and Ramses. Sesostris Owen could understand; he was a fundamentalist too. But Ramses?

He asked Nikos about it.

“It’s a very old church,” Nikos said. “Lots of people prefer it.”

Georgiades had another explanation.

“They all stick together,” he said.

Owen could also understand that. A minority which believed itself to be persecuted might well stick together. It would look after its members, even erring ones like Zoser, especially if the grounds for the offence were ostensibly religious ones. Zoser appeared to be a man of few friends. Even so, in the diffuse community which centered on the church there might be those willing to shelter him.

It was worth checking. But he would have to go through them all one by one. That was a task to stretch even the Mamur Zapt’s resources (especially with the Curbash Compensation Fund so depleted). There were so many of them. Where to start?

The obvious place to start was with the known agitators and trouble-makers. But when he asked Nikos to check the congregation against his other lists, Nikos said:

“That’s no good. You won’t find any. They’re all respectable people.”

“How do you know?” asked Georgiades.

“They’re all Copts,” said Nikos, but went to look in his files.

Georgiades sighed.

“Unfortunately, he’s right,” he said.

Copts were law-abiding. Their crime rate was far lower than that of any other community. Even with Owen’s political definition, they came out below other national and ethnic groups. On the whole they saw the British as allies from the point of view of protection, as insurance against massacre, and as offering opportunities for advancement. They flocked into government service. Just as Jews, in other countries, were traditionally identified with financial services, so the Copts, in Egypt, were identified with the civil service. Their critics said there was no need for them to break the law; they made it. They were on the inside.

Like Nikos. A thought struck him. Nikos made the lists. He had drawn up the list of church members and he maintained the other lists too. Any name that was on the list was there because Nikos had put it there. Would it be surprising if some names were not on the lists?

A feeling of helplessness came over him. All investigations, no matter what the books said, depended on bureaucratic processes. Especially his kind of investigation. It was only partly the men he had out on the streets and in the bazaars, the special agents like Georgiades. All these would be useless without record-keeping and, more than that, record-keeping of the intelligent sort that Nikos provided. If you couldn’t rely on that, how could you even start?

He came to a decision. He would start with Nikos’s list. Until Nikos was found wanting Owen would continue to trust him.

But he might ask Georgiades to do a little independent checking.

Because of the heat all work stopped about lunch-time and the city came to a halt. The streets emptied, the shops shut, the donkey boys retreated into the shade, and government offices closed. Most people took a siesta. A few British officials, however, in whom northern habits died hard, preferred to go to one of the clubs and have a drink and lunch there. Owen was one of these.

He was unable to sleep during the day, and used the dead time to keep up with the newspapers and journals in the reading-room and to swim in the club pool while it was comparatively empty. Afterwards, about five, when the club started to fill up with people arriving for the daily hockey and cricket matches, played always, by personal decree of the Consul-General, in the cool of the evening, he returned to his office. The buildings were empty except for the occasional orderly and the Assistant Commissioner at the other end of the corridor, and sometimes Nikos working late, and he was able to get a lot of work done.

His friends, however, were familiar with his habits, so Mahmoud knew where to find him. Mahmoud was another one who didn’t take a siesta and just at the moment, still simmering over the way Zoser had slipped through his fingers, he was driving his men hard. Even Mahmoud, however, could not get them to work in the afternoons and he too, like Owen, normally used the afternoons to catch up on desk work and reading. This afternoon, though, he had been unable to concentrate on the case he was preparing. His thoughts kept drifting back to Zoser. He kept analysing and re-analysing the probabilities. And then he had his idea.

“It’s logical,” he insisted to Owen when they met. “When he’s not at home and he’s not working, that’s where he is. Why shouldn’t he be there now?”

They were sitting outside at their usual table. The heat was beginning to go off the streets and the shadows were creeping out from the walls. It was still early, however, and they were the only ones at the tables.

“There are lots of places he might be,” Owen objected. “He could be anywhere. He might have left the city altogether.”

“No, he wouldn’t have done that,” said Mahmoud. “He’s never been out of the city in his life. He would be frightened.”

“OK, but there are lots of places in the city.”

“He’s a creature of habit,” said Mahmoud, “and very rigid. He has a few basic routines which he sticks to. He keeps to the places he knows, the ones he feels confident in. That’s why he could be there.”

“Someone would be sure to come across him.”

“They might not say if they did. Anyway, they might not come across him. It’s always dark, there are lots of little odd corners and he probably knows it well.”

“It’s a possibility,” Owen conceded.

“You see,” said Mahmoud, “we’ve been assuming somebody is helping him and we’ve been going round all his contacts. It’s easy because there are very few of them. Well, we’ve drawn a blank. We could have missed it, I know.” Mahmoud thought of the way Zoser had escaped before and wavered slightly. “But I don’t think we have,” he said determinedly. “Not this time. We’ve not found anything because there isn’t anyone else involved.”

“There must have been someone else involved at some point. Someone put him up to it.”

“Well, do we know that? Are we sure? Maybe he just heard about the Andrus business and took it into his head to avenge it. All by himself.”

Mahmoud happily following a logical trail was a different Mahmoud from the one sensitive to charges of Egyptian incompetence. He had forgotten all about his previous difference with Owen and was now totally caught up with his argument.

“It’s a possibility,” said Owen. “I don’t know I’d go any further.”

The intuitive, Welsh side of Owen always responded to Mahmoud’s Arab inspirationalism; the pragmatic English side damped it down.

“But do you think it’s worth trying?”

“Well-yes.”

“OK, then,” said Mahmoud. “Will you help me?”

The Parquet, true to its French origins, was completely secular and made no distinctions among Cairo’s many religions. Mahmoud, however, like most of the Parquet lawyers, was Moslem. Usually this didn’t matter because the Parquet confined itself to criminal offences and there was no religious dimension involved. Occasionally, however, there was and then, Cairo being Cairo, the Parquet trod very carefully. Mahmoud clearly thought this was one of those times.

“You see,” he said, “it’s the church.”

How would it look if a Moslem took his men into a Christian church on the pretext, as the Copts would see it, of conducting a search? Wouldn’t it come perilously close to desecration? Almost as close, say, as putting a dog in a tomb?

But would it look any better if a Christian Mamur Zapt were to do it? In Cairo there was almost as much difference between Christian and Christian as there was between Christian and Moslem. And the Mamur Zapt wasn’t even an Egyptian Christian.

There was another thing, too. So far he had been able to maintain a claim to even-handedness on the grounds that he treated both sides, Moslems and Copts, with equal severity. Wouldn’t this be seen as tipping the balance?

Mahmoud was watching him anxiously.

If Zoser was hiding in the church and they caught him it would be worth it. But suppose he wasn’t? They would have stirred up trouble for nothing. Just at a time when the Copts were especially sensitive.

Wouldn’t it be better if Mahmoud did it? After all, it was the Parquet’s business. Treat it as he would any ordinary issue and any ordinary criminal. If it had been a brothel or a gaming club Mahmoud wouldn’t have hesitated. He would have sent his men in at once. Why couldn’t he do that now?

But as soon as he posed the question, Owen knew the answer. Mahmoud was quite right. He couldn’t do it. The Copts would object very strongly if Owen were to invade the church; but if Mahmoud did it they would riot.

“OK,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

They moved fast.

This time they were taking no chances. Owen did not even go back to his office. He got Georgiades to bring his men to the Bab es Zuweyla and only then told Georgiades what he had in mind.

“OK,” said Georgiades instantly.

He looked at Mahmoud.

“How many men have you got?”

“Ten.”

“Get some more. Enough to put a ring round the church.”

“I’ve got enough to watch the roads.”

“Yes,” said Georgiades, “but he won’t use those.”

Mahmoud found some more men and Georgiades showed him where to station them. Mahmoud was quite content to follow Georgiades on this. Good investigator though he was, he preferred to leave this side of the business to others. Georgiades would handle it better.

“If he comes running out,” said Georgiades, “at least they’ll see him now. Though whether they’ll be able to do anything about it if they do see him…”

Georgiades had no high opinion of the police.

He gathered his own men into a little bunch and gave them careful instructions. He had used them before and they knew what to do. Intelligence was the thing in a case like this, not brawn. Intelligence-and speed. It would have to be done quickly. The more time they took, the more time there was for a crowd to gather. What Owen wanted was to be in and out fast.

The men rushed in and fanned out quickly. At least there wasn’t a service going on. A few black-gowned priests looked up startled. For a moment or two they couldn’t understand what was happening. Then one of them rushed off.

One of Georgiades’s men intercepted him.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To fetch the Father,” the priest snapped at him.

“You stay here,” said the man.

The priests were shepherded into a little knot. They seemed completely bewildered. Bewildered first and then angry. It was not long before they began to complain.

As the angry voices rose higher and higher other black-gowned figures came in. Among them was an impressively-dressed figure whom Owen recognized to be the Father of the church. He went across to him.

“I am sorry, Father, that this should be so,” he said. “We will not be long.”

“Why are you here?”

“We are looking for an evil man.”

“Here? In the church?”

“I am afraid so.”

“But why here? What reason have you to look here?”

“One has told us.”

It was easier to put it that way. To say that they were here only because of a hunch would not do at all.

“It is an outrage!” the Father said angrily.

“We will not be long.”

Owen walked away. The Father joined the other priests. They crowded round him and began to talk excitedly.

“Have you thought what the Metropolitan will say?” said Georgiades in an aside as he hurried past.

The Metropolitan was the head of the Coptic Church in Egypt. He would not be pleased.

“And the Patriarch?” said Georgiades, the next time he went past.

The Patriarch. Owen had forgotten about him. The Patriarch was head of the whole Coptic Church, including the Abyssinian one, which was Coptic too. Abyssinian. There could be an international complaint. The Patriarch would use the country’s ambassadors. They might go straight to the Foreign Office. The British Government would have to respond. And the British Government, churchgoers like Postlethwaite, would hardly be likely to take kindly to one of its servants invading a church. A Christian church, too.

Owen cursed himself for having been so foolhardy as to get involved in this affair. Why hadn’t he stayed out of it? Got Mahmoud to go in? Even if Mahmoud had refused, would it have mattered so much? They could always have had the church watched and perhaps picked up Zoser when he came out. If he was there, that was. He might not even be there and the whole thing would have been for nothing and all he would have got out of it would have been kicks. This, he told himself, is a big mistake.

It began to look increasingly like it. Georgiades had split his force into two. The first group had taken up position in all the key intersections so that they could control anyone who attempted to pass. The second group had moved immediately into the hekals, the Coptic apses, of which there were many, screened off from the rest of the church by fine, heavily-pictured screens. Beyond there was the baptistery and beyond this a whole host of little rooms used by the priests. The men went methodically through these. They knew what to do. They were used to the job. They performed similar raids every week; not on churches, admittedly, but on printers’ premises, warehouses, gambling dens, brothels and private houses. Garvin himself, before he became Commandant, had been responsible for training them. He had needed expert searchers for his battle against the drug traffic. There were none and he had had to train them. Once trained, they could be used for other things too.

Georgiades went past again. This time he didn’t say anything. His brow was furrowed in concentration. The sweat ran down his face in streams.

His men were beginning to return from their searches. They came and stood in a little group, disciplined and obedient. Owen didn’t need to ask. They had found nothing.

Georgiades, vexed, went off on a search of his own. His second-in-command re-divided the men and sent them back for a second search of the places they had searched before. Owen had hoped to avoid this. It all took time.

He went to the door of the church and looked out. Already a little crowd had gathered. He saw Mahmoud, who caught his eye questioningly. Owen shook his head.

Back in the church the priests were shouting angrily at the men. The men, who were mostly Sudanis from the south, ignored them but looked uneasy.

Georgiades came back mopping his face. He stood in the centre of the church beneath the great dome and began to look carefully all round him.

The men, returned from the second time, stood waiting.

“Have you done the crypt?”

Georgiades nodded without speaking. His eyes were now on the roof.

The Father broke away from the knot of priests, shrugging off the efforts of the men to restrain him, and came across to Owen.

“I am not having this,” he said.

Owen ignored him. He thought he could hear a growing murmur outside.

“You have no right!” the Father said hotly.

“The Mamur Zapt has the right,” said Owen.

Strictly speaking, he was correct. The Mamur Zapt had right of entry to all premises in Cairo. However, it was a right which it was sometimes wise not to use.

“This is sacrilege!”

“My men have been very careful.”

He turned away. The Father hesitated, looked for a moment as if he was going to come after him, then shrugged and rejoined the knot.

The door of the church opened. The murmur of the crowd became more distinct. Mahmoud came in.

“Soon,” said Owen.

He would not be able to hold them for long.

Mahmoud went out. The door closed firmly behind him. He would hold the crowd as long as he could. Owen had no doubts on that score. But he was a Moslem and the crowd would be Copt. Owen himself would have to go out soon.

Georgiades made a sudden dart. There were no towers to the church, no staircases going upwards. But there would be access to the roof, if only for care and maintenance.

Georgiades had found out. It was a series of pegs in the wall going upwards. He began to climb. Two of his men followed him.

Georgiades was a bulky man, not good at this sort of thing. It would have been better to have let the men go first. He could see Georgiades stop to catch his breath. No doubt he was thinking the same thing. He went grimly on.

The pegs went up to the level of the bottom of the big dome. Now Owen looked, he could see a thin gallery running round it. It could be no more than a foot wide. In the darkness it was hard to see but it looked as if there wasn’t even a railing.

“Light the lamps!” Owen said.

The men ran round the church seizing any lamp they could find. Some of them brought candles and torches. There were indignant shouts from the priests.

As the lamps were raised, the shadows chased back towards the top of the dome. In the less than half light Owen saw that Georgiades had come out onto the gallery.

There was a sudden shout. Below Georgiades his men leapt up the last few pegs. Georgiades began to go one way round the gallery, his men the other. Their shadows loomed grotesquely on the sides of the dome.

And with them another shadow, smaller, hunched, desperate.

The shadows converged.

And then, before they quite met, the smaller shadow seemed to detach itself from the wall and move out into space. It hung there for a moment. Then it fell.