The Mingrelian Conspiracy

Chapter 5

'Effendi,’ declared Selim, ‘this is the good life! Little did I think when I entered upon your service what riches it would lead me to! To sit in a cafe all day drinking coffee while those other poor bastards are out there walking round in the heat- this is bliss indeed!’

‘The man is not always upbraiding you?’

‘The man is always upbraiding me,’ conceded Selim, ‘but there are compensations.’

Owen did not like the sound of this.

‘Keep your hands off the woman!’ he said.

‘You told me to talk to her!’ protested Selim.

‘Talk, not touch.’

‘Well, Effendi,’ said Selim with a grin, ‘one thing leads to another.’

‘Let it not lead too far! Remember you are here for a purpose!’

‘Would I forget, Effendi?’ said Selim in wounded tones. ‘They have but to stick their heads in here and I will stamp on them!’

‘There were other things, too. Like keeping your eyes and ears open. Has anyone come secretly to Mustapha?’

‘One came yesterday and wanted to speak with him.’

‘What else?’

‘Effendi, I do not know. I would have listened but Mustapha sent me out to draw water from the pump. A man like me,’ said Selim, injured, ‘drawing water from the pump!’

‘Never mind that. Did Mustapha speak to you afterwards?’

‘He was a right bastard. He kept on at me all morning. And not just me, Mekhmet, too. He dealt Mekhmet a blow, and I thought he would strike me, too, only I rolled up my sleeves and he thought better of it.’

‘He said nothing about the man who had come to see him?’

‘No, Effendi. But afterwards he had a face like thunder.’

‘It is a pity he would not talk with you. You must be friendlier to him.’

‘I would rather be friendly with his wife,’ said Selim.

‘This is important. Find out about the man who came. Find out what was said. If Mustapha will not tell you, talk to his wife.’

‘Effendi, I will,’ promised Selim. ‘I will lure her with words of honey.’

‘No doubt. But let them be to the purpose. My purpose.’

‘You need not fear, Effendi,’ said Selim confidently. ‘I know how to set about it. In fact, I am already four-fifths there. I have told her how closely you and I have worked together against the gangs. Well, I know that is a little bit of an exaggeration, Effendi, since we haven’t worked together against the gangs yet, but the way things are going, it will soon be true. “I know how to handle them,” I said to her. “I am sure you do, Selim,” she said. “You are so big and strong”-’

‘OK, OK.’

‘ “-and have the ear of the Mamur Zapt,” ’ continued Selim, unabashed. “ ‘You have but to say a thing and he pays heed so if you tell him about this Black Scorpion Gang”-’

‘What was that?’

‘Black Scorpion Gang. You told me to find out, Effendi.’

‘Why the hell didn’t you-? That’s what she said? Black Scorpion?’

‘Yes, Effendi. And I said-you’ll like this, Effendi-I said, “If we’re talking about scorpions, how about a bit of a nip?” And then she slapped my hands-’

‘I just wanted to know which was priority, that was all,’ said Georgiades.

‘The Grand Duke is.’

‘I thought the cafes were. They were last week.’

‘Protection rackets are always with us. Grand Dukes come and go. Or so we hope.’

‘The Grand Duke is obviously priority,’ said Nikos, irritated. ‘He’s got to be, until it’s all over.’

Nikos was working on the security arrangements for the Duke’s visit. It was the sort of job he liked, abstract, systematic, programmable. His desk was covered with schedules, times down the left-hand side of the page, resources across the top, neatly ruled columns, neat multicoloured ticks. But how did colour fit into Nikos’s bloodless systems, wondered Owen? Sparingly, he decided, looking at the columns. Georgiades continued to grumble.

‘I was just getting somewhere on the cafes,’ he said. ‘That idea of Rosa’s was really smart.’

‘What idea was this?’ asked Nikos, picking up a green crayon and considering it.

‘I go round pretending to sell insurance. Against business loss. It works like a charm. They’re all interested. It really gets them talking.’

‘Do they talk to any purpose?’

‘They will,’ said Georgiades confidently. ‘But I’ve got to keep at them. That’s why I’m asking about priorities.’

Nikos put down the green crayon without using it.

‘I can tell you what his priority is,’ he said. ‘It’s sitting in cafes. He’s never had a job like this.’

‘Don’t let the cafes go,’ said Owen. ‘Only fit your visits in around this business.’

‘I was afraid you were going to say that,’ said Georgiades.

‘Just get on down there!’ said Nikos.

Georgiades stood up.

‘Find out who organized it and whether there’s going to be any follow-up. That’s it, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

Georgiades still sought, however, to delay the evil hour; which lasted from about mid morning until the sun began to ease in the second half of the afternoon.

‘Tell me,’ he said; ‘is there any reason why we should treat this more seriously than any of the others?’

‘That’s what I’m hoping you’re going to find out,’ said Owen.

In fact, he had some sympathy with Georgiades, both over the heat-the Babylon was quite some distance away, although Georgiades would use the new electric tram for most of the journey-and over the general question of priorities. It always irritated him when something came up to disrupt the normal pattern of work, something to which others accorded priority. They nearly always had things the wrong way round. In Owen’s business, forestalling was a lot better than reacting, and forestalling was largely a matter of careful, continuous intelligence-gathering. Any diversion from that was, in his view, something to be resisted.

This visit of the Grand Duke, for instance, he could have done without. It was an extra. Why go in for extras when you had enough on your plate as it was? He guessed, though, that the Khedive did not see it like that. If you did not like what was on your daily plate you might be more inclined to go in for extras. The occasional circus was what helped you to stomach the bread.

Owen, in unusually puritanical mood, decided that he himself was a bread man rather than a circuses man; and bent his head grimly over a query from Finance.

Some time later Nikos appeared in the doorway. In this heat they always kept the door open. Besides, it improved communication. Owen could monitor what was going on in the office and Nikos could listen in when required to Owen’s conversations.

‘A Mr. Nicodemus to see you,’ he said.

‘What about?’

‘A tip-off, I think.’

‘Oh, right. Show him in.’

Mr. Nicodemus was a short, plump Levantine in the dark suit of the businessman and the normal red, tassled, flower-pot-like tarboosh of the Cairo effendi. He came forward with outstretched hand.

‘You won’t know me, Captain Owen, but I come to Cairo frequently on business. I am the Levant agent for a large European engineering company.’

He presented Owen with his card, French on one side, Arabic on the other. French was the normal language for business in Egypt, although English was catching on. Mr. Nicodemus spoke in English.

Owen motioned him to a chair and began the usual prolonged courteous enquiries as to health, fatigue and general condition which were the essential preliminary to any Arabic discussion of business. Another indispensable preliminary was the offer of hospitality. A suffragi brought in two little cups of Turkish coffee. Mr. Nicodemus sipped his coffee and praised God and Owen for the flavour; and then business could begin.

‘Some time ago,’ he said, ‘I was contacted and asked if I could supply an urgent order for a client in Egypt. The lack of client details, given the nature of the order, made me’- Mr. Nicodemus paused-‘uneasy.’

‘What was the nature of the order?’

‘It was for explosives.’

‘You are in the munitions trade?’

‘Yes. Among other things. A small part of our business, actually.’

‘And the purchaser?’

‘No sale was made. My company does not supply explosives to unknown clients. We said we were unable to supply and I thought no more about the matter. But then this week I learned that one of our competitors had also been approached and had agreed to supply.’

‘And that, of course, makes a difference.’

Mr. Nicodemus smiled.

‘It does, indeed. My company is all for virtue, Captain Owen, but it hates losing out to those who are less virtuous.’

‘Very reasonably. And so you thought you would have a word with me?’

‘Exactly!’

‘Well, I am interested, Mr. Nicodemus, I must admit. May I ask, though-it is best if we understand each other-are you offering this information…gratuit?. Or are you looking for…?’

Mr. Nicodemus shook his head hurriedly.

‘Oh, no, Captain Owen. Thank you, no. It is being offered purely disinterestedly. I just thought you might like to know.’

‘Indeed, I would. As I say, this kind of information interests me considerably. I wonder, though, would you perhaps add a little more detail? About the purchaser, for instance?’

‘The person who contacted me claimed to be acting on behalf of an Egyptian quarrying company. But I deal with quite a few quarry companies, Captain Owen, and I know that they do not place orders like that.’

He leaned forward and gave Owen a small slip of paper. ‘That was the original specification,’ he said.

Owen glanced at it.

‘Small,’ he said. ‘About enough to demolish a small building.’

Mr. Nicodemus nodded.

‘I thought, perhaps, a tomb?’ he said.

Robbers were always breaking into tombs. Usually they dug their way in. Occasionally, however, they found their way blocked, and then they blasted.

‘Perhaps. Can you give me some more details? The delivery date, for instance?’

‘One month after signature of contract. But, Captain Owen, that was when they first approached me. They said then that delivery was urgent, so perhaps-’

‘Your rival might have agreed to a shorter delivery?’

Mr. Nicodemus nodded.

‘It is a small order,’ he said. ‘It could be supplied from stocks. Then it would be only a question of transport.’

‘And entry. It would have to come through customs.’

Mr. Nicodemus spread his hands.

‘These things are not always declared,’ he said.

Owen glanced at the piece of paper.

‘Where was it to be delivered to?’ he asked.

‘Suez. To await collection.’

‘The name?’

‘The name on the original specification,’ said Mr. Nicodemus, ‘was Dhondy. Of course, it may be different now.’

‘But Suez, anyway?’

‘That, too, might be different. I can, perhaps, help you a little. The name of the supplier is Herbst-Wickel.’

‘Your competitor?’

‘Exactly.’ Mr. Nicodemus gave a little smile.

‘Would it be on the shipment certificate?’

‘Not necessarily. Not unless they were very foolish.’

‘Old labels, perhaps,’ said Owen.

‘Perhaps. I can tell you one thing more. Herbst-Wickel is asking for payment in gold. It’s what you do,’ said Mr. Nicodemus deprecatingly, ‘when you have doubts about the client. Now, of course, gold can always be obtained, but it takes a little more time and it costs a little more money, and I gather that the client is, or was, having some difficulty.’ Mr. Nicodemus had no more information to impart and shortly afterwards rose to go. Owen thanked him for his helpfulness.

‘Not at all,’ said Mr. Nicodemus politely.

He hesitated, however, in the doorway.

‘It would be nice,’ he said, ‘if my helpfulness could be remembered. At some convenient moment.’

‘Had you a moment in mind?’ asked Owen.

‘Well,’ said Mr. Nicodemus, ‘it so happens that we shall shortly be tendering for a contract to supply arms to the Khedivial Army. It is a substantial contract.’

‘More substantial than a one-off contract to supply explosives to an unknown client?’

‘Certainly.’ Mr. Nicodemus smiled. ‘You see, I am open with you.’

‘It’s the best way. Well, I will be equally open with you. I am grateful for your information but I am unable to influence the award of the contract. That is a matter entirely for the Purchasing Department.’

‘Of course!’ said Mr. Nicodemus hurriedly. ‘Of course!’ Still smiling, however and still waiting.

At last Owen understood.

‘Are Herbst-Wickel also tendering?’

‘I believe they are,’ said Mr. Nicodemus, now turning definitely to go.

‘Were you listening?’ asked Owen.

‘Yes,’ said Nikos.

‘What do you think?’

‘Genuine.’

‘Think we should follow it up?’

Nikos nodded. They usually did with reports of this nature. Explosives was something the administration took seriously. The big users, the quarrying companies and the construction firms working on the dams, were obliged by law to keep explosives under lock and key and notify at once any loss. Others could obtain explosives only in limited quantities and from registered suppliers. All imports were against a licence and licences were normally granted only to registered suppliers. Any report of an illegal import was at once followed up.

But how were they to do it in this case? Owen’s resources were already stretched and this business of the Grand Duke was stretching them further. Nikos, who would normally have conducted the enquiry, was busy playing noughts and crosses with the schedules for the Duke’s visit. Georgiades, who would usually stand in if Nikos was not available, was already complaining about workloads and talking about priorities. There were others he could use but they were occupied too.

This was precisely the sort of enquiry that suffered when extra things like the Grand Duke came along.

‘Shall we leave it for the time being?’

‘No, no, no!’

Nikos hated loose ends. If this were not followed up, it would gnaw at him for months.

‘It’s relatively hot,’ he said. ‘If we leave it, it will go cold.’

‘It’s a question of priorities,’ said Owen. Heavens, it was catching! ‘How important is this?’

‘There are some things about it I don’t like,’ said Nikos.

‘Such as?’

‘Size. Big enough to blow up a small house. What would it be needed for?’

‘Ordinary demolition work?’

‘Then why the secrecy?’

‘Tomb?’

‘All they need for that is a couple of sticks of dynamite.’

‘What else, then?’

‘A cafe? A recalcitrant cafe?’ Nikos spread his hands. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I’m uneasy. It doesn’t fall into any of the usual patterns.’

This, for Nikos, was the most heinous fault of all.

‘Who’s buying it, for instance?’ he said.

‘One of the clubs?’

‘They’ve usually got their own supplies.’

‘A new one, then?’

‘Well,’ said Nikos, ‘if that’s so, and they’re going straight for explosives, that’s very worrying. It’s all the more reason why we should follow it up. Look, I could at least ring round and see if any of the regular suppliers know anything about it.’

‘Well, I’ll tackle Customs,’ said Owen. ‘But that’s all!’ he said warningly. ‘We have to keep a sense of priorities.’

Jesus, there he was again! It was a disease.

Owen thought about it hard, then took the train to Port Suez. It would cost him, there and back, two days of valuable time. Two days! And there he was complaining about his resources being stretched! But in Egypt if you wanted to get anywhere you simply had to use a personal approach. Most of the departments were now equipped with telephones and Customs, which was one of the most efficient, would certainly have one. But people were not used to them yet and anyway it wasn’t quite the same. Face to face was what it always came down to; so train it was, much to Zeinab’s disgust, who had had other things in mind for the following evening.

The train left early, at four, and for the first hour he watched the spectacular sunrise. The sun came up over the desert in a great red ball and chased colours for a while across the sand. But then the colours and the redness disappeared and everything settled down to a steady monochrome, made more so by the way in which the tinted windows of the carriage filtered out the light. The landscape, too, settled down to monotonous, stony desert, the heat increased, and after that it was a case of grimly hanging on.

It was a relief when at last they got to Suez and he was able to climb down into the fresher, saltier air of the docks.

Abdul Shafei, the local Head of Customs, was still in his office. He shrugged.

‘We’ve got a couple of boats coming in,’ he said.

He knew Owen by repute and eyed him curiously.

‘It’s not often that the Mamur Zapt appears in these parts,’ he said.

‘Cairo’s my beat,’ said Owen. ‘It’s not often that I have the chance to get away.’

Water had been brought with the coffee and he drank copiously. Although the air seemed fresher, he found himself sweating profusely. The humidity, he supposed.

He put the glass down and turned to business. Abdul Shafei pulled a pad towards him.

‘It should be declared on the certificates,’ he said. ‘If they do that, there’ll be no problem. But what if they don’t?’

‘Do you open everything?’

‘No. There’s so much coming in. We open a sample. If it’s not in the certification we’ll need other identification.’

‘Could be difficult.’

‘The name of the consignee?’

‘It was Dhondy at one time.’

Abdul Shafei made a note.

‘But it could have changed. The supplier of the order is a firm named Herbst-Wickel. But, of course, they may be using a shipping agent.’

‘You don’t know the agent?’

‘I could find out the ones they normally use.’

‘Please. Anything would help. I’ll make a note of the supplier. There may be old labels. Anything else you can tell us?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

Abdul Shafei looked doubtful.

‘We’ll do our best,’ he said. ‘But-’

‘If you could. This is important.’

‘Explosives!’ Abdul Shafei grimaced.

‘Not very nice.’

‘Not very nice for us, either,’ said Abdul Shafei, ‘when we’re unloading them and don’t know we’re handling explosives.’

‘The dockers, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

Abdul Shafei hesitated.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I shouldn’t be saying this, but…have you thought of talking to the dockers? They know most of what comes into the port. In fact, they probably know it better than we do.’

‘I was hoping to keep this fairly quiet. Then I might be able to pick up whoever-it-is when he comes to collect the explosives.’

‘Which is more important? Catching the men or catching the explosives?’

‘Catching the explosives, I suppose. You reckon it might be worth talking to the dockers?’

‘If you really want to be sure,’ said Abdul Shafei, ‘then talk to the dockers and offer a reward. They open most things that come into the port. There is,’ he hesitated, ‘well, quite a lot of pilfering. Not more than at other ports, but…I mean, at any port you’ll find…’

‘Is there some person I should talk to?’

Abdul Shafei looked at him.

‘I’m sure there is,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know him.’

Owen walked down to the waterfront, enjoying the smell of sea and tar, the scrunch of pebbles, a different sand. The sea sucked around great wooden posts, gulls cried overhead. As the heat of the day lifted he felt part of a newer, fresher world.

In theory, the Mamur Zapt’s writ ran even to Suez. In practice it was confined to Cairo. Cairo was where it all happened. There was a buzz, a life about the city that Owen found it hard to tear himself away from. It was part of an older, more Arab world; cosmopolitan, it was true, but not in the way of Alexandria or the port cities. Suez was hardly a city, still not much more than a bunker port, although growing rapidly. He had no agents here.

He would have to find someone. Nikos normally looked after that side and no doubt would find someone in time. But had they got time?

He sat down on a bollard and watched some dockers unloading a large, seagoing dhow. They were carrying sacks up out of the hold, huge, heavy sacks that bulged. Filled with grain, probably. But why was Egypt importing grain when it had all the fertile land of the Delta?

The men’s faces were streaked with sweat. It was hard, hot work. Everything was done by hand. There was an intimacy between the men and the load. That was why they knew the goods so well.

A small boy appeared beside him.

‘Effendi, I have a beautiful sister. So ve-ery beautiful!’ The boy’s hands described improbable shapes. ‘Would you like to meet her?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Ve-ery good! She make wonderful bump-bump. You like?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘You prefer boy? I have brother. Handsome! Not like me, Effendi.’

‘No, thanks.’

‘No boy?’

‘No, nor girl, either.’

The urchin was temporarily silenced, while he considered the restricted possibilities.

‘Effendi,’ he said at last, ‘I know a special house. All sorts. You want something different, can do. Dog, perhaps? Donkey? You want donkey?’

Owen turned to give the urchin his full attention.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Sidi, Effendi.’

‘Sidi, I am surprised at you. Is this the only way you can make money? I would have thought a resourceful boy like you would be growing fat on the pickings from the docks.’

‘Effendi,’ said the boy indignantly, ‘I am. I get my share. But it is only a small one. Ibrahim says it will be bigger when I can carry a load myself. The men who carry the loads get first choice of the pickings. It wouldn’t be fair otherwise. But, Effendi,’-(confidingly)-‘I would prefer not to carry the loads. The sacks are heavy and in the sun it is hard work. I would prefer to share in the pickings and not carry the loads.’

‘Wouldn’t we all. Tell me about your friend, Ibrahim.’

‘He carries the loads, Effendi, two, perhaps three, times a week.’

‘I would like to meet him. It could be to his advantage.’

‘Effendi, I don’t know-’

‘And yours.’

Owen put his hand in his pocket and jingled some coins. ‘Oh, well, Effendi, that’s different!’

The boy slipped away and returned some ten minutes later with a thin, wiry man in an embroidered skull cap. Sweat was running down his face and he was mopping his neck with a dirty handkerchief.

‘Hard work!’ said Owen sympathetically.

‘Effendi, I will not deny it.’

‘And for not much money.’

‘That, too, I will not deny.’

‘Even with the pickings.’

‘They are few, Effendi. A burst sack, a broken packing case. And then, besides, most of the regular work is with coal and there is not much reward in that.’

‘I think I could add to your rewards.’

‘What is it you had in mind, Effendi?’

‘I need to know if a certain consignment comes in.’

‘Will not the office tell you?’

‘The consignment I speak of is not likely to be known in the office.’

‘It is hidden goods, then?’

‘It is likely to have been concealed.’

‘That may make it difficult.’

‘The reward will be commensurate.’

‘I could not do it on my own, Effendi.’

‘If the word were spread,’ said Owen, ‘and what I seek, found, you would take your share. For the finder, the reward would be great. So great that he might not even have to carry loads any more.’

‘That indeed would be a reward worth earning.’

Ibrahim stood for some time considering the matter. The sweat was still running down his face. From time to time he dabbed at it with his handkerchief.

‘Well, Effendi,’ he said at last, ‘there is nothing to be lost by doing what you ask and there could be much to gain. I will do it. What is it you ask?’

After he had gone, Owen became aware that the urchin was still standing by him.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said, and put his hand in his pocket.

Sidi took the coins with surprising inattention.

‘Effendi,’ he said, ‘that reward you mentioned: would it apply to me?’

‘If you found what I want, yes.’

‘I would buy donkeys,’ said Sidi. ‘It would be better if they carried the loads, not me.’

‘With such an abundance of management insight, Sidi, you are bound to prosper.’

‘I hope so, Effendi. Now, about my sister: are you sure-?’

In the Bab-el-Khalk, the headquarters of the Cairo Police, the heat was stupefying. Owen, working at his desk, had wedged a sheet of blotting paper beneath his writing hand to soak up the persistent trickles of sweat that ran down his arm and threatened to turn everything he wrote into an indecipherable damp smudge. The water in the glass beside him was lukewarm again; only a few minutes before, his orderly had come round to fill the glass with ice. Yusef had said the ice was melting even in the ice house. It had been melting, he said, even when the cart arrived and the men had carried the ice loaves, each tenderly wrapped in sacking, down into the cellar.

The Bab-el-Khalk was as quiet as a morgue. Christ, what would the morgue be doing if the ice was melting! He decided not to think about that. Instead, he changed the image. As quiet as a tomb. Yes, he quite liked that. As quiet as a tomb and as dark as a tomb, with all the shutters closed against the sun, as they had been since early morning.

But not so quiet! Voices, feet running. Someone running along the corridor. The pad of bare feet, the slap of slippers.

Yusef burst into the room.

‘Effendi! Effendi! A man-’

A man with his galabeeyah hoisted up round his knees, the better to run, his feet bare, his turban dishevelled, exposing his skull cap, his face running with sweat-’

‘Effendi! Mustapha is being attacked again!’

‘Mustapha?’

‘The cafe! Oh, Effendi, come quickly! It is terrible!’

Owen jumped to his feet, grabbed his topee-better than a tarboosh if there was a prospect of being hit on the head-and ran out of the room. He found the man running beside him.

‘Quick, Effendi! Oh, quick!’

Well, yes, but how? Arabeah? There was a line of the horse-drawn carriages in front of the Bab-el-Khalk but no one would describe them as speedy. Donkey? There would be donkeys tied up in the courtyard, but somehow-Got it! The Aalim-Zapt’s bicycle! He ran down into the courtyard. There it was, green, gleaming, modern!

‘Tell the Aalim-Zapt!’ he shouted, as he sped through the gate.

He hurtled across the Place Bab-el-Khalk. That was easy. It was when he came to the more crowded streets of the native city that he ran into trouble. A massive stone cart was almost entirely blocking the thoroughfare, useless to shout, a little gap at one side-Christ, another one just behind! Another gap, at the expense of a chicken, Jesus, stalls all over the road, onions, tomatoes a few more onions and tomatoes when he’d finished, and now a bloody Passover sheep! Fat, obtuse and in the way! A flock of turkeys, a man carrying a bed, a line of forage camels, three great loads of berseem flopping up and down on either side-steer clear of them-and now a donkey with a rolled-up carpet stretched across its back, the two ends sticking out right across the street, a man sitting on top-! Or was he on top, still? Owen did not dare to look.

He became aware of someone running beside him.

‘Nearly there, Effendi!’ said the messenger indomitably.

One last street, a crowd outside, well, you’d expect that. He jumped off the bicycle.

‘Out of the way! Out of the way!’ he shouted.

‘Make way! Make way for the Mamur Zapt!’ shouted the storyteller.

He pushed his way through. Hands helped as well as hindered.

Suddenly he was through, popped out the front, like a cork out of a bottle.

The cafe was a scene of destruction. Chairs, tables, hookahs lay all over the floor. In the middle of the room, prone on his face, lay Selim.

Mustapha’s wife was on her knees beside him. There was blood all over her burka.

‘A lion!’ she kept saying tearfully. ‘A lion!’

Owen bent down. There was a huge gash on the back of Selim’s head. Owen bent closer.

‘He breathes,’ he said.

‘A lion!’ said the woman, in tears. ‘A wounded lion!’

The wounded lion groaned.

‘Water!’ said the woman. ‘Bring water!’

Mekhmet, terrified, plucked at her sleeve.

‘Lady,’ he said. ‘Lady!’

‘Fetch water.’

‘But, Lady-’

‘Go on, you stupid bastard!’ said a voice from across the room. It was the owner of the cafe, Mustapha, pale and limp, sitting exhaustedly on the bottom of the stairs. ‘Fetch water, can’t you?’

Mekhmet looked around in despair, saw Owen and clutched his arm.

‘Effendi! Oh, Effendi!’

‘It’s all right,’ said Owen. ‘It’s over now.’

‘But, Effendi-’

‘Get some water, can’t you? And after that, some coffee. For me and the Effendi. I bloody need it!’

‘Effendi!’ pleaded Mekhmet.

‘Move your ass!’

Mekhmet fled into the kitchen. Mustapha prised himself up and limped across to Owen.

‘A fine bloody job he’s done!’ he said bitterly, looking down at Selim. ‘My cafe’s wrecked! And what did he do about it?’

‘He fought like a lion!’ said the woman indignantly.

‘Maybe, but he fell down like a sheep when they knocked him on the head.’

‘And where were you? Under the bed!’

‘I’ve got a broken leg, haven’t I? Isn’t that enough for you? Or do you want me to get a broken skull as well?’

‘It is not for you to chide the one who fought!’ said the woman angrily.

‘Well, that’s his job, isn’t it? Fighting? I just wish he’d made a better job of it, that’s all.’

‘Shame on you!’ said the woman. ‘While he lies there bleeding!’

‘Well, it didn’t work, did it? He was supposed to stop this from happening. That was the idea of it, wasn’t it? Well, look around you,’ he said to Owen. ‘A fat lot of use he’s been! Protection? Protection, my ass! The only thing he’s good for is drinking coffee. You know what? She was more use than he was. Threw boiling water over them!’

‘God forgive me!’ said the woman.

‘God is all-merciful,’ replied Mustapha automatically, and then started. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘I hope He doesn’t carry it to extremes. We don’t want Him forgiving the bastards who wrecked my cafe!’

Mekhmet appeared from the kitchen with a bowl of water. He put it down and then plucked Owen by the sleeve.

‘Effendi,’ he said anxiously.

‘What about that coffee?’ said Mustapha. He picked up a chair and sat down on it heavily. ‘There’s another for you!’ he said to Owen. ‘That Mekhmet! Idle as the other one and even more useless! Go and get some coffee, can’t you?’

‘But, Effendi-’ said Mekhmet desperately.

‘Coffee!’ said Mustapha peremptorily.

Mekhmet looked this way and that and then fled to the kitchen.

Owen turned Selim on to his back. The woman took his head gently on to her knees and began sponging it.

‘That’s more like it!’ murmured Selim.

Suddenly his eyes opened.

‘Those bastards!’ he said, trying to get up.

The woman pulled him back.

‘Well-’ said Selim, yielding.

His eyes opened again.

‘At least I got one of them!’ he said.

Owen glanced around.

‘He’s not here. They must have taken him away,’ he said.

Mekhmet shot gibbering out of the kitchen.

‘Effendi-!’

‘I threw him in there,’ said Selim faintly. ‘After I had broken his neck.’

Owen went across to have a look.

‘Effendi, he stirs!’ said Mekhmet.

‘What’s that?’ said Selim.

‘I tried to tell you, but-’

A man was lying among the great jars used for storing water. As Owen looked, a foot twitched.

‘Effendi, he lives!’

‘Does he?’ said Selim, trying to get up. ‘I’ll soon see about that!’