The Mingrelian Conspiracy

Chapter 6

The extreme heat continued. In the Bab-el-Khalk next day nothing moved. The orderlies sat stupefied, in the orderly room when they were on duty, outside in the courtyard when they were off. From time to time, Yusef, Owen’s own orderly, would pad along the corridor with a fresh pitcher of water, oppressed at the capacity of ice to diminish even in the few yards between the orderly room and Owen’s office. Owen, dripping at his desk, was considering whether to change his shirt.

Selim, bandaged, poked his head round the door.

‘They’re coming now, Effendi.’

Owen could hear the feet at the other end of the corridor, heard, too, a few moments later, Selim’s muttered aside.

‘Right, you bastard, now you’re for it!’

Two slightly apprehensive police constables appeared in the doorway with, between them, rather more apprehensive, the man who had been taken the day before at the cafe.

Owen looked him over. Nothing very special, just an ordinary fellah in a blue galabeeyah. But that, actually, was significant. It made it less likely that they were dealing with a political club. The Arabs tended to recruit from students and young effendi, or office workers. This man had never seen the inside of a classroom or an office. His hands were big and awkward. Scarred, too. Owen leaned forward and pushed back the man’s sleeves. The forearms were scarred also, just where you would expect, and the face, yes, not tribal marks, knife wounds. A tough from the back streets. Owen was almost sure already that this was a criminal gang, not a political one.

The nervousness, too. Members of political clubs might well be nervous when they were brought before the Mamur Zapt but theirs was a different kind of nervousness from that of the ordinary fellah. They were used to the big imposing rooms and the long corridors, which were not so very different from the ones they knew at college or work. If they were nervous it was because of the anticipated consequences, not about the circumstances in which they found themselves.

For the ordinary street criminal it was exactly the reverse. The consequences when they came would be accepted with the immemorial resigned shrug of the fellahin. It was the shock of an environment completely new to their experience that was so disorienting.

Even the toughest of street toughs was put out by the Bab-el-Khalk. There was very little space where they came from. Everything was close, local, intimate. Here in the great open spaces of the Bab-el-Khalk they lost their bearings. Everything was alien to them: the men in their uniforms, the formality, the emotional coldness. Probably most alien of all was the white man they had been brought before.

It was this second kind of nervousness that the man was showing. His eyes flickered compulsively from side to side. It was all new to him. He couldn’t make sense of anything.

‘What is your name?’

The man looked at him as if he had not understood. As, indeed, probably he had not. Owen doubted if he was taking anything in just at the moment.

Selim leaned over and tapped the man on the shoulder.

‘Come on, bright eyes, what’s your name?’

What exactly Selim was doing there Owen was not sure. He had appeared shakily that morning and taken up a position in the corridor outside Owen’s office, announcing that he wanted to ‘see it through’. What ‘it’ was Owen didn’t know. He had an uneasy feeling that Selim was expecting summary execution.

The man, however, seemed to find Selim’s intervention reassuring. Perhaps he was used to big constables tapping him on the shoulder.

‘Ali,’ he said.

‘What’s the rest of it?’

‘There isn’t any more.’

‘Come on, light of my eyes, don’t you have a family?’ enquired Selim.

The man seemed bewildered.

‘Not as far as I know,’ he said.

‘You must have!’ said Selim. ‘You don’t suddenly get dropped in the streets.’

‘I did,’ said the man.

‘Don’t know your mother?’

‘Nor my father, either,’ said the man.

Selim turned to Owen.

‘Real bastard, isn’t he?’

‘Just keep quiet, will you?’ He was beginning to regret Selim’s presence. ‘All right, then, Ali, if you don’t have a name, do you have a place? Where do you live?’

Again the bewilderment.

‘I don’t live anywhere,’ said the man. Then, as Selim stirred, he added hurriedly: ‘I just move around.’

‘One woman after another? That it?’ said Selim.

‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘That’s about it.’

‘It’s all right for some!’ said Selim.

‘Shut up! Where did you sleep the night before last?’ asked Owen.

‘At Leila’s.’

‘And where will I find Leila?’

‘Now we’re talking!’ said Selim.

Owen wondered whether to throw him out. On the other hand, he did seem to get the man talking.

‘I don’t know the name of the street,’ Ali said.

‘Give me the quarter.’

‘The Fustat.’

‘The Fustat is a big place,’ observed Owen.

The man shrugged.

‘If I wanted to find you, Ali, where would I ask for you?’

‘At Leila’s,’ said the man promptly, risking a joke and looking to Selim for approval.

Selim, however, did not approve.

‘ I’m the one that makes the jokes,’ he said.

The man tried another shrug, which, however, quickly lost confidence.

‘Where would I find you?’ asked Owen.

‘Near the ferry,’ said the man reluctantly.

‘If I asked for Ali with the scarred face, someone would know?’

‘Yes.’

‘I expect they’d all know,’ observed Owen. ‘A man like you!’ Ali responded to the invitation, lifting his shoulders proudly. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’m pretty well known down there.’

‘And what about your mates? Are they pretty well known down there, too?’

The man froze.

Owen tried a new tack.

‘It’s a long way to Babylon,’ he said conversationally. Babylon, where the Coptic Ders were, was at the far end of the Fustat. ‘What are you doing up here?’

‘This is where the money is.’

‘Is there not money in the Fustat?’

‘Not this kind of money.’

‘Still, it’s quite a way from the Fustat. Do you often come up here?’

‘No,’ admitted Ali. ‘We usually keep south of the Citadel.’

‘But not this time?’

‘No.’

‘Why not this time?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose we were offered a job.’

‘Ah, you were offered a job?’

Ali closed his lips firmly.

‘You wouldn’t like to tell me who offered it you, would you?’

‘No. I would not.’

‘I would be very grateful.’

‘My mates mightn’t be grateful,’ said Ali.

‘Ah, yes, but if you helped me you would be out a long time before they were.’

‘They would still come out.’

‘It would be a long time, though. Of course, you’re going to be in for a long time. If you don’t help me.’

The man shrugged.

‘Well, you think about it. You’ll have a bit of time before we get to the trial.’

‘I don’t even need to think about it,’ said Ali.

Owen was virtually certain now that he was dealing with a criminal gang and not a political one. What Ali had said had clinched it. The criminal gangs, as opposed to the political ones, tended to identify with a particular territory and seldom moved off it. And the political clubs, whose aims were more focused, rarely accepted commissions.

He should really now be handing this over to the Parquet. They handled all investigations that were purely criminal. They would have little trouble, he thought, with this one. If Ali was well known down by the docks, the chances were that the other members of the gang would be too. Criminal gangs were local not just in their operations but in their recruitment. Their members would all come from the same neighbourhood, probably from within a few streets of each other. They would make little secret of their membership; in fact, rather the reverse. Membership of a notorious gang was a matter of local pride-again, unlike the political clubs. ‘They’ll miss you, Ali,’ he said, ‘down in the Fustat.’

Ali flinched, as if he had received a blow. It was probably the first time that it had come home to him.

‘You should think over what I said, Ali. You’re going to be away for quite some time. So long that when you come out and go back to the Fustat it will be no good going down to the ferry and asking who knows Ali with the scarred face. Because no one will. As for the Black Scorpion-’

‘Black Scorpion?’ said Ali. ‘What have they got to do with it?’

‘That’s your lot, isn’t it?’

‘Is this some kind of trick?’ said Ali. ‘Look, you can’t get me for what someone else has done! That’s not fair! That’s not justice! Look, I’ve got my rights!’

‘If you’re not Black Scorpion,’ said Owen, ‘then who are you?’

‘You know who we are.’

‘Just say!’

‘The Edge of the Knife. Now are you satisfied?’

‘Black Scorpion is what she said,’ insisted Selim afterwards, irate. ‘Look, Effendi, who do you believe? An idle bastard who goes around hitting people on the head; or a woman so virtuous she goes to the mosque every day and won’t let a man put his hands on her?’

‘Are you sure that’s what she said?’

‘Effendi, would I make a mistake on a thing like this? When you had asked me especially?’

‘Well, maybe she made the mistake, then.’

‘Effendi, why waste time? Let me go in and have a talk with that stupid bastard. We’ll soon find out who’s made a mistake. And it’s my guess it’s him. As he’ll bloody soon discover!’

‘Enough! We will go and speak with Mustapha. He’s the one who will know. Maybe his wife got it wrong.’

‘Effendi-’

Selim fumed all the way to the cafe.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ said the proprietor unwelcomingly. ‘I didn’t think we’d be seeing you again. I thought they’d about finished you off.’

‘Next time,’ promised Selim, with a flash of white teeth, ‘they’re the ones who are going to be finished off.’

‘You’ll have to make a better job of it then than you did this time.’

‘It was four to one!’ protested Selim indignantly.

‘It was my mistake,’ said Owen. ‘I should have left you more men.’

‘What, drinking my coffee?’ said Mustapha. ‘No thanks!’

‘Shame on you!’ said his wife. ‘When the man was ready to lay down his life for you!’

She went across to Selim and gently touched his bandaged head.

‘How are you?’ she said, concerned. ‘It was a grievous wound.’

‘Pretty grievous,’ Selim acknowledged.

‘And you have walked all this way in the heat?’

‘Well, yes,’ Selim had to admit.

‘Oh, Effendi! The man is still weak from his wounds!’

‘I do feel a bit weak,’ Selim conceded, putting a hand to his head.

‘So do I,’ said Mustapha. ‘Any moment now she’ll be giving him my money.’

The woman flashed him an indignant glance.

‘Come and sit down,’ she said to Selim.

‘I could do with a drink,’ said Selim.

‘Water or coffee?’

‘There you are!’ cried Mustapha. ‘There goes my money!’

‘Coffee, please,’ said Selim.

She led him off into the kitchen.

‘You haven’t got any more men outside, have you?’ asked Mustapha. ‘I mean, I might as well feed the whole Bab-el-Khalk while I’m at it.’

His wife poked her head back into the room.

‘God looks after the hospitable,’ she said reprovingly.

‘Well, I wish He’d make a start, then.’

Mustapha sat down gloomily at a table and motioned to Owen to join him.

‘This is very bad for business, you know. People don’t like to come here if they think there’s a chance of them being knocked on the head.’

‘Custom falling off?’

‘Not so far,’ Mustapha admitted. ‘But I’m having to work extra hard to keep it up. I used to get a storyteller in only on slack days. Now I’m paying for one all the time.’

‘Eats into profits?’

‘Increases the losses. Now there’s a thing. Had a chap in this week offering to insure against losses. A fat Greek.’

Owen winced.

‘Tempting!’ said Mustapha. ‘Especially when you’re in my position. I said, did it include losses caused by standing out against protection? Certainly, he said. Well, I mean, it’s tempting. I mean, we’re not getting far as we are, are we?’

‘Oh, yes, we are,’ said Owen. ‘Getting that man yesterday was a breakthrough. Once you’ve got one member of a gang, it’s generally easy to get the others.’

‘You think so? You really think so?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Well…well, I hope you’re right.’

Mustapha cheered up.

‘How about some coffee? Mekhmet! Where are you, you idle bastard? Some coffee for the Effendi! And for me, too, while you’re at it!’

He looked around the cafe with satisfaction.

‘Soon get things moving again.’

‘I’m sure of that.’

‘And you really reckon things might be coming to an end?’

‘Yes. He’s beginning to talk.’

‘Good. Well, take my advice and kick the bastard’s balls through the back of his ass. Make sure he talks on!’

‘Yes, he’s saying things already,’ said Owen. ‘But one of them has surprised us. I’d just like to check it with you. It’s the name of the gang. What was it you told us?’

‘I didn’t tell you,’ said Mustapha.

‘But we heard all the same. Black Scorpion?’

Mustapha nodded.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Look, Effendi, you don’t make mistakes on things like that. “Oh dear, sorry, paid the wrong gang. Made a mistake!” It’s not like that, Effendi, believe me!’

‘I just wanted to be sure.’

‘They even wrote it down. The first time. Just so as I would know.’

‘Got the note?’

Mustapha heaved himself painfully off his seat and disappeared upstairs. A minute or two later he was back, holding a scruffy piece of paper in his hand.

Owen looked at it.

‘This is puzzling,’ he said.

‘Oh, why? It’s the Black Scorpion, isn’t it? Look, there!’ He pointed with a grubby forefinger.

‘Yes. But the man we’ve got, the men who came yesterday, were not from the Black Scorpion gang. They were from another one.’

Mustapha sat down heavily.

‘ Another one?’

‘So he says. The Edge of the Knife.’

Mustapha was silent for quite some time.

‘Two of them,’ he said at last. ‘ Two of them. God, how many more?’

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” cried the names as the blind man landed on top of them. The blind man felt the bag with his hands “Got you!” he said triumphantly. There was a long silence, about as long as it takes for a dog to drink a bowl of water, and then one of the names said: “Got who?” “Why, Rice Pudding’s new name, of course!” said the blind man. “Ah, yes, but how will you know which one of us it is?” Well, the blind man thought and thought-’

The storyteller was seated on the stone mastaba, or bench, which ran along the front of the cafe. Around him, some sitting on the mastaba beside him, others on the ground, yet others, detained by the story as they passed by, standing in the street, was a circle of listeners. At the back of the crowd, engrossed, was Selim. Owen edged his way round towards him.

‘ “I know,” he said at last. “I’ll feel you.” And he put his hand in the bag and caught hold of one of the names. “Get your hands off me, you great, rude, dirty fellow!” said a shrill little voice. “That doesn’t sound like Rice Pudding’s new name,” said the blind man, “and it doesn’t feel like Rice Pudding’s new name, either. It’s all hard and sharp.” And he dropped the name back in the bag and caught hold of another one. This one was soft and round. “Hello, big boy!” it said in a low, husky voice-’

‘This is beginning to get interesting,’ said Selim.

‘Now the blind man knew very well that this was not Rice Pudding’s new name but he allowed himself to be beguiled. “I’ll just have another feel to make sure,” he said to himself-’

‘Very sensible,’ said Selim, ignoring Owen’s signals.

‘-when, all of a sudden, something wriggled out of the bag and ran off down the street. The blind man made a grab for it but it was too late. Even worse, he had left the top of the bag open and all the other names began to scramble out and run away. All sorts of names came scrambling out of the bag. There were red names and green names, fat names and thin names, old ones and young ones. There were men’s names and women’s names; and there were names from all the peoples of the world.’

‘In the bag?’ said someone in the front row.

‘Yes.’

‘All the peoples in the world?’

‘Yes.’

‘Including English?’

‘Certainly.’

‘That doesn’t seem right,’ objected someone in the second row.

‘You’ve got to draw the line somewhere!’ declared a man at the back.

Owen at last succeeded in prising Selim away.

‘I’ve got to go,’ said Owen. ‘Will you be all right on your own for a bit?’

‘Oh, yes, Effendi,’ Selim assured him, with a glance over his shoulder towards the kitchen.

‘I’ll send some more men down. I can only spare two for the moment, unfortunately. We’re very stretched just now.’

‘Send Abdul, Effendi. He’s simple but strong. And Fazal. He’s a mean bastard, just the man.’

‘I’ll do my best. I don’t think they’d better be actively in the cafe, though. It would be too noticeable. Perhaps they’d better hang around outside. Not in uniform, obviously.’ Selim didn’t like this.

‘Effendi, it’s bad for those idle bastards to have nothing to do. Especially when I’m working. Look, I’ve got a better idea. My wife’s got a cousin, he’s a Nubian wrestler, big, really big, half savage, too, they’re all like that down there. It’s all right in the women, adds a bit of something, you know- where was I? Oh, yes, Babakr. Well, as I say, he’d break your back as soon as look at you. Now, for a few piastres-’

‘So,’ said Mahmoud, ‘you think it’s a criminal gang, do you?’

Owen nodded.

‘Pretty sure. It’s based on the Fustat. The man we took yesterday comes from near the ferry and I wouldn’t be surprised if the rest did too. They don’t operate outside the Fustat much, which is another thing that makes me think they’re not a club. The clubs stick mostly to the schools and El Azhar all in the modern city, and that’s where the targets are, too. This chap said they kept south of the Citadel.’

‘What were they doing up here, then?’

‘Someone asked them to do a job for him. Actually, I’d like to know about that. Who asked them and why? It could still be political.’

Mahmoud nodded. In principle-and Mahmoud was the sort of man for whom principles stick up all over the place- the distinction Owen was making was one that he could not accept. The Parquet, in his view, should be responsible for all judicial investigation and he objected strongly to the Mamur Zapt having reserved powers in cases where a political dimension was suspected. In practice, he understood the distinction very well.

‘So,’ he said, ‘what is it that you are proposing?’

‘Well, in the ordinary way of things, if I thought something was criminal, I’d pass it over to the Parquet. But there’s a question mark about this.’

‘Who commissioned the job?’

‘Yes. But not just that.’

He told Mahmoud about the possibility that a second gang was involved.

‘I suppose I ought to hang on to it until I’m sure, but the fact is I’ve got a lot on at the moment and if it’s just criminal I’d rather hand it over to the Parquet right away. There’s work to be done on it and if we hang around it might all go cold.’

‘Pass it on, by all means,’ said Mahmoud amiably.

‘The trouble is, I’m not absolutely sure. The other gang, you see, if there is another gang, might turn out to be a political club. I was wondering-is there any possibility of your taking this on yourself? Then if there turned out to be a political dimension we could probably handle it between us, and if there wasn’t, well, so much the better.’

Mahmoud considered. In principle he was against this kind of thing. It blurred lines of responsibility; by agreeing you suggested that you condoned the system; and it was all horribly pragmatic. Mahmoud, again on principle, was against pragmatism. There was too much of it about and it mucked up system. And system was what Egypt all too plainly needed.

On the other hand, the system was clearly mucked up and you had to do what you could.

‘Well,’ he said, weakening, ‘I suppose you could say I’m already involved.’

‘Already?’

‘So far as cafes are concerned. Those soldiers the other night,’ he supplemented.

‘You’re still on that?’

‘I certainly am. There is a major issue of principle-yes, well, I’m still pursuing it. But as to getting your case assigned to me if you transferred it-well, I could probably arrange it-’

They got down to details. Ali, it was agreed, would be handed over to Mahmoud as soon as the case was formally transferred. Selim would be left for the moment where he was. As for reinforcements, Mahmoud, to Owen’s surprise, favoured the Nubian wrestler.

‘It’s only a few piastres,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t your budget stand it?’

‘Well, yes, but-’

Experience had, however, given Mahmoud a realistic sense of the rival merits in a brawl of the average Cairo constable and a Nubian wrestler.

‘The Nubian wrestler every time,’ he said, ‘especially if Selim has a few more friends like him. Besides, it’s better if they’re not too obviously policemen.’

Owen promised to have a word with Selim.

At the end they sat back.

‘Of course,’ said Mahmoud, ‘this doesn’t alter the principle.’

‘Principle?’

‘That there should be just one body responsible for investigation.’

‘That’s what the Army thinks too,’ said Owen.

Back in his office, Owen felt pleased. He would have liked to have kept the cafe business to himself just a little longer, but Mahmoud would handle it all right and meanwhile he really ought to be concentrating on the Grand Duke’s visit. Nikos was finalizing arrangements but they would need to be talked through with the people concerned and he himself would have to do that. The procession remained the real problem, the time when Duke Nicholas would be most at risk, but Owen had cunningly delegated entire responsibility for that to the Army. ‘Unified command,’ he had muttered, and Shearer, dumb idiot that he was, had nodded agreement. So if anything went wrong he was the one who would get it in the neck.

In fact, judging by the reports of Owen’s agents, the various protest meetings were unlikely to issue in anything serious. The groups which had come together had promptly fallen apart. Only down in the Babylon, according to Georgiades, were there still rumours of action. The committee formed there after the public meeting which Owen had witnessed was still divided over its terms of reference. However, some of the more vehement members, including Sorgos, had walked out and it was rumoured that they had set up a caucus which was pressing ahead with ideas for action. Owen decided to go and see Sorgos.

It was not Sorgos, however, who opened the door but Katarina.

‘The Mamur Zapt?’ she said, surprised.

‘Again!’ said Owen.

‘My grandfather is not in.’

‘That may not be a bad thing.’

‘Oh?’

She looked at him suspiciously.

‘What sort of visit is this?’ she demanded.

‘It’s not matrimonial, anyway.’

Katarina started to smile, then caught her lip.

‘He has been to the bazaars. I am expecting him back at any moment,’ she said. ‘You may come in.’

All over the floor were papers.

‘What are these?’ asked Owen.

‘Stories.’

‘Stories?’

‘I handle that side of the business while my father is away. Are you interested in stories?’

‘There is one I especially like. It is one of the Sultan Baybars stories. Its chief character is a man named John. He’s a Europeanized Christian who happens to have studied Muslim law. On the strength of this he wangles his way into being Kadi of Cairo and then from this position as supreme Law Giver he proceeds to subvert all the laws. A sort of Mamur Zapt figure.’

Katarina giggled.

‘I recognize the story,’ she said. ‘Just.’

‘Allow for a little subversion,’ said Owen.

Things were getting promising but just then there were sounds at the door.

‘My young friend from the mountains!’ cried Sorgos delightedly.

Katarina scuttled out, all confusion. Sorgos looked at her retreating back in surprise; then with sudden miscomprehension.

‘Ah!’ he said, pleased. ‘I have returned too soon!’

‘Not at all! Not at all!’ said Owen hastily.

Sorgos came into the room. As he stepped forward without his stick he stumbled slightly, overbalanced by the large bag he was carrying.

Owen sprang forward.

‘Let me assist you!’ he said, putting his hand under the old man’s arm and taking the bag from him.

‘It is nothing,’ said Sorgos, letting Owen’s arm take his weight, however.

Owen helped him to the divan and eased him gently down on it.

Sorgos looked at the bag a trifle anxiously and Owen put it down beside him. It was extraordinarily heavy. But that was not surprising. For Owen had looked inside the bag and seen what it contained. Gold dust.