The Men Behind (17 page)

Owen was too. Zeinab was never a person to be overlooked, but she was more striking than conventionally pretty. She had a thin, bony face and a severe Arab nose. Seen in repose she looked rather ordinary.

But then, Zeinab was very seldom seen in repose. Her normal state was fired up. Then the big eyes would flash, the brow would furrow wrathfully, the lips would quiver and her beauty became formidable.

Owen was used to this and adored it. On the other hand it was sometimes a strain to live with. Sitting at the table in the Semiramis roof garden, with Zeinab’s face in the shadows and only the big eyes looking over the candles, with the moon already silvery on the river but with a touch of red and gold still lingering on the water in the west, with the big, red-sashed suffragis moving unobtrusively among the tables, Owen’s ever-impressionable Welsh heart plunged once again.

Zeinab, perfectly aware of this, was pleased. What she required was not so much Owen’s subservience as at least his total attention, which, in her view, she seldom got.

The meal proceeded in agreeable, leisurely fashion. In the center of the floor was a tiny space where couples were dancing. It was so small that however bad one’s dancing one could hardly come to grief; and Owen was sufficiently moved by the moonlight to take Zeinab onto the floor.

As they threaded their way through the tables they passed a large group of Europeans sitting solidly in a recess. It was the visiting delegation, escorted by the Consul-General himself, his wife and Paul. The whole delegation was there; including Roper.

He sat on the outskirts of the party, a little row of glasses already on the table in front of him, looking bored.

His eyes lit up when he saw Owen.

“You’re the lucky one,” he said, “what with her
and
that girl down in the desert.”

“Girl in the desert?” said Zeinab.

The rest of the evening was not a success.

From where he sat, high up on his horse, Owen had a good view. So far—and it had been a long distance, the speeches were in their fourth hour now—the demonstrations had been orderly. The square in front of the Palace was a sea of people, but all the faces were turned raptly towards the speaker on the hastily erected makeshift stand in front of the Palace railings and there had been no trouble.

If trouble came it would come from the fringes of the crowd where the zealots shook their banners. But there too, massed in the side streets, were policemen on foot, holding their clubs uneasily, and policemen on horse. The crack mounted police of the Cairo force, itching to display their prowess once again.

And less than half a mile away, in the huge barracks beside the river, waited the Army.

Owen intended them to wait a long time.

So far all was well. The procession had marched good-humoredly through the streets gathering support as it went. By the time it had passed the Law School it was immense. If Sa’ad Pasha was seeking to impress the Khedive by the scale of his popular support he was probably succeeding.

Not that the support, of course, was genuinely his. The demonstration would have gone ahead in much the same way if he had not been there at all. All that the Nationalist politicians had done was to insert themselves adroitly at the head of it.

Sa’ad, even more adroitly, had inserted himself at the head of
them
. His speech was the climax of the whole affair and he made the most of every bit of it.

He did not attack the Khedive directly but condemned his advisers, hinting that the Khedive himself was only too ready to place himself at the service of a Nationalist crusade but was held back and obstructed by men of the past. The Khedive would have liked that; Ali Osman wouldn’t.

His fiercest attacks were naturally reserved for the British. The technique lay in spacing them out so that they could be used to revive slumbering attention and quickly abandoned if they showed signs of creating too much heat.

At the beginning of his speech the incendiary passages had been well apart. Now they were following closely on each other. Sa’ad must be coming to the end. He would certainly finish on a major vituperative note.

And that, of course, would be when the trouble would break out.

Owen glanced along his forces. They were all ready.

As Sa’ad rose into his peroration the crowd began to chant with him. Experienced orator that he was, he was able to incorporate the chants into his own speech, posing a question, waiting for the returning chant, repeating it and making it his own, inviting them once again.

This was Sa’ad, expressing the will of the people.

On the fringes of the crowd little groups began to break away and try to scale the railings.

Owen raised his hand and the police moved in.

The chanting was continuous now. Sa’ad had come to a stop but no one noticed. The crowd surged forward.

But already the police had moved in between them and the railings, a solid, uniformed wall. The clubs were poised.

Someone mounted the stand and tried to urge the demonstrators to go home. His voice was lost in the roar.

The front of the crowd was pressing against the police wall. Owen could see McPhee’s tall figure directing proceedings.

The crowd pushed but the wall held. On the wings, though, fighting broke out. Clubs began to rise and fall.

The crowd surged and the wall wavered. Clubs were in use all along the line now.

Another surge, and this time the wall almost gave.

Owen looked up. The mounted force, sensing that this was its moment, began to ease its way forward.

One or two hardy spirits had already succeeded in scaling the railings. It did them no good, for they were immediately seized by the men waiting there and hustled away.

The Khedive would complain tomorrow of the invasion of his premises. But he would complain anyway.

Part of the police wall caved in. The crowd was no longer surging in unity but milling as people fought to keep their feet.

Owen’s hand went up again.

A bugle sounded. The mounted force emerged from the side street and headed straight for the flank of the crowd. The crowd on that side broke.

The horses were halted by the sheer thickness of the crowd. The riders began to use their clubs.

Anther bugle sounded and a similar force crashed in on the other side.

The crowd wavered. People were beginning to run.

The pressure came off the wall of police at the railings and they began to move methodically forward, clubbing everyone in their way.

The two mounted detachments had maneuvered their way round so that they were pressing now not just from the flanks but from the front too.

The crowd was forced back.

Back again. The detachments regrouped and charged again, this time from the front.

The crowd was breaking up everywhere. The fighting was in little pockets now, except at one side of the square, where a mass of demonstrators was still struggling to reach the railings.

Owen rode over.

The fighting was at its fiercest here. All around the struggling mass of people men were lying, most of them students, judging from their clothes.

Other students came and helped them away.

The square was mostly clear now, but for this one large pocket. The foot police pulled back from general chasing and concentrated their efforts on this one large group.

The group suddenly split. Part of it, the larger part, was immediately engulfed by a sea of policemen.

The smaller part burst through the ring and headed straight for the railings. They threw themselves against the railings, shaking their fists and screaming threats and abuse.

If the Khedive was watching, he would have no doubt of the message.

The police rallied and plucked them one by one from the railings.

One or two of the most defiant climbed up the railings and for a long time hung there kicking their feet at the police below.

Owen urged his horse forward.

The police succeeded at last in dislodging them and hustled them away. Owen recognized two of them: Mahmoud and Georgiades.

OK, OK, OK,” said Paul soothingly. “He’s a pain in the ass, I know. But it’ll not be for much longer. The delegation has nearly finished its work. Another couple of weeks and they’ll be back in London, Roper included.”

“Every time we go anywhere he’s bloody there and says something that sets her going.”

“He won’t next time. Not if it’s in the next few days. He’s out of Cairo.”

“Where is he?”

“Oh Christ, I don’t know. In the desert somewhere. He and Plumley. It’s the best place for him.”

“The only drawback is he comes back.”

“When he comes back he’ll only have a very few days. Then Cairo will be safe again.”

Owen still felt aggrieved. However, he had been saying so to Paul for the past half-hour and thought it was probably time he stopped.

“Drink?”

He went off to the bar. By the time he came back Paul had thought of a diversion.

“The Old Man’s very pleased about the demonstration. Went off well, didn’t it?”

“Just about right,” Owen admitted, thinking of Mahmoud and Georgiades.

“No one hurt. The damage contained. The Khedive not too much affronted. Excellent!”

“And all without the Army,” said Owen pointedly.

“Oh yes, but the Army was the decisive factor, wasn’t it? Or so I’ve been telling them. I mean, it wouldn’t have gone off anything like so quietly if they hadn’t known that the moment they stepped out of line, there was the Army, ready to pounce.”

“Or so you’ve been telling them.”

“Quite so. Anyway, it’s much better to be told you’re a hero than to have to demonstrate it.”

Owen’s mind reverted.

“You don’t happen to know where exactly he’s gone, do you?”

“Roper? I wouldn’t have thought it was worth going to the lengths of tracking him down and killing him, if that’s what you have in mind.”

“No, no. But where he is, trouble usually is, and I’d like to be forewarned.”

“Somewhere down in Mina.”

“Not Hamada?”

“I think that’s the name of the place.”

“Funny.”

“Why?”

Owen told him.

“I wouldn’t have thought it meant anything. He’s probably just got unfinished business there.”

“Yes,” said Owen, “and I’m beginning to wonder what that business is.”

Mahmoud and Georgiades were held for twenty-four hours, like most of the others who had caused trouble at the demonstration, and then released. The Government did not bother to press any charges.

Georgiades was a bit of a hero among the students afterwards, though very modest.

Mahmoud had attracted attention too. The students had not really noticed him before because he wasn’t attending the normal undergraduate course—he was, indeed, already a graduate—but just a few specialist courses to refresh his knowledge in the areas. However, Georgiades had had a chance to talk to him while they were in prison together and was able to tell the students something of his unfortunate background.

Apparently he’d fallen foul of the British. They’d not liked the way he’d tackled a case—had accused him of political bias, in fact, which was a bit rich, coming from them. They’d more or less insisted he be given a country posting.

That was the absolute kiss of death for any ambitious young official and Mahmoud had quite rightly objected. When they had overruled him, he’d walked out.

Now he was going to try and earn a living pleading in the Mixed Courts. But that was a bit specialist and he’d needed to brush up his knowledge of international law first. A law lecturer friend had suggested he apply for special dispensation to attend selected lectures and, somewhat to his surprise, it had been agreed.

The Dean of the Law School had, it seemed, been particularly sympathetic. Perhaps, a hundred years ago, he’d had his own troubles with the British. Anyway, he’d pushed the dispensation through virtually on his own say-so. The students hadn’t thought he’d had it in him.

After their experience in prison together, Mahmoud and Georgiades kept in touch. They often went to a café together, along with other student friends, and talked law and politics.

Mahmoud, as a matter of fact, was pretty helpful on the law. He even managed to explain some of it to Georgiades. It was quite useful just listening in. You picked up something yourself.

On politics both of them were, not surprisingly, bitter.

Mahmoud, who obviously knew quite a lot about the law, pointed out that the British action at the demonstration had been extra-judicial and therefore inadmissible in constitutional terms. You couldn’t quite follow all the points that he made—some of his arguments were definitely final-year stuff—but you could see how the way he’d been treated had really got to him.

Even Georgiades, who was a mild, uncritical sort of chap, seemed stirred up. The students, on reflection, put this down as a clear case of consciousness-raising.

One day someone introduced them to a sympathetic member of the staff of the Faculty. They got into the way of going to a café together after lectures.

He seemed really interested in what they had to say. Students were, he remarked, often closer to the issues of the day than staff were. There were others, too, who would be interested. He suggested one evening that they might like to go with him to a meeting of a debating club he was a member of.

They went, and certainly there were a lot of people who seemed to feel like them. The tone of the discussion was, well, pretty fierce. Mahmoud spoke really well. Georgiades was a bit lost.

Afterwards, they went on to another café with just a handful of the people who had been at the debate and continued the discussion.

Meanwhile, the constitutional crisis continued. Ali Osman was definitely back in favor. Sa’ad’s brilliance at the demonstration hadn’t quite convinced the Khedive. It had, in fact, alarmed him. Anyone who had such a masterful relationship to the mob was potentially dangerous. You wouldn’t want to give him too much power.

Besides, Ali Osman had a way with money. He seemed able to conjure it up in vast quantities. The Khedive thought that a very desirable quality in a Minister; certainly one of his Ministers.

The massive demonstration had, however, one unlooked-for effect. It seemed for the moment to have bled off some of the Nationalist pressure. For several days afterwards the streets were relatively quiet.

There were no more cases of following and no more attacks.

That could, of course, be for other reasons. There was a huge police presence on the streets. Owen had retained some of the provincial police he had brought in for the demonstration and was using them very conspicuously in the city.

More to the point, perhaps, his agents were everywhere. Rewards, really large rewards, were advertised for information. Descriptions of men the police wanted to interview were widely circulated. The two men who had followed Jullians would hardly recognize themselves in the descriptions but perhaps it had made them wary, for as the days went by there was no further incident.

Owen knew it wouldn’t last. But the longer it lasted, the more chance it gave him. For if the shadowy figures behind the attacks were really worried that their agents might be recognized, might they not be tempted to use someone new? Someone who had a grudge against the British, someone committed to the cause, someone who was obviously very, very bitter?

Fairclough, notable for perhaps the only time in his life, was becoming a bit of a bore. Owen could hear him at the far end of the bar regaling his cronies yet again.

“Hand of Allah,” said Fairclough, “that’s what I thought it was. You know, Fate picking me out. Just at random. But now I’m not so sure. I reckon they had me in their sights all the time. And do you know why?”

“It was the only way they could shut you up, Fairclough,” suggested a passer-by, overhearing.

Fairclough ignored him.

“It was that salt business.”

“Salt? I’m not quite with you, Fairclough,” said one of the opposing team, bewildered. The bridge match had finished some time before and hosts were entertaining visitors afterwards.

Fairclough explained the duties on behalf of Customs and Excise which had taken him to Hamada.

“Salt’s very important to the Arab,” he said. “Take salt with them and you’re their friend for life.”

“Then why did they want to kill you, Fairclough?” asked the man who had passed by previously, now returning with a glass in each hand.

Fairclough let him go past.

“So all that salt at Hamada was a big temptation. There was a place up in the hills which was a collecting point for the whole area. Some deserted buildings—it had been a shrine once, I believe. In a good state of repair still. And, out of the way like that, Customs thought it wouldn’t be perpetually reminding people of the stuff we’d taken away from them.”

“Why didn’t you just give it back?”

“Wouldn’t do, old boy. Technically it was still contraband. It would be giving stuff which had been illegally acquired back to the people who had illegally acquired it.”

“Yes, but just leaving it there—”

“A big temptation. As I said. The old Pasha down there was really worried about it. Had to keep the place flooded with armed men, so he told me. Otherwise the local brigands would have had the lot. Not to mention the gypsies. Bloody there in force, the day I went.”

Fairclough put his glass down.

“Thanks. Yes, I will. Same again. Yes, the place was crawling with them. The old Pasha came down to me and said, ‘Look, effendi. I’ve got to clear these beggars out.’ Well, not quite in those words, but I knew what he meant. ‘Would you mind coming tomorrow?’ ”

“It’s always ‘tomorrow’ in Egypt,” said one of the visitors, newly arrived from England and already an expert on the country. “Tomorrow,
bokra
,” he said, eager to demonstrate his new command of the language.

“The bokra boys, that’s right,” Fairclough granted him. “Mind you, I must say he had a point. There were people everywhere and he couldn’t let that go on. Had to clear them out somehow and I dare say he wasn’t too keen to let me see how he did it. They’re a bit rough and ready in the provinces. Still get the old
curbash
out, given half a chance. Thank you. Cheers.”

His first swallow diminished the contents of the glass by about half. His face was already growing pinker.

“I said I’d give him an hour. And to give him his due, by the time I got back they were all gone. The gypsies, that was.”

“Taking everything with them, I expect,” said another of the visiting team, an older hand. “Including your trousers.”

“Not in my case. Not this time at any rate,” said Fairclough, with a loud laugh which ended in a hiccup.

“I still don’t see the connection,” said the literal-minded visitor who had questioned Fairclough first. “What’s all this got to do with you being shot at in Cairo?”

“That’s when they saw me, you see,” Fairclough explained. “It’s the only time I’ve been out of the office so it must have been then. And because salt’s so fundamental with them, the image of me would have been fixed in their minds. The man who’s come to take the salt from them. Fairclough. That’s why they wanted to kill me.”

“You were the Government to them.”

“Well, yes,” said Fairclough modestly, looking down into his beer, “I expect so.”

“I still don’t see what this has got to do with something that happened in Cairo,” the literal-minded visitor maintained obstinately.

“Egypt’s a big country,” said the old hand wisely, “but a small place. Word gets around. Someone must have seen Fairclough down in Hamada and then seen him again in Cairo and passed the word on.”

“
I
passed the word on,” said the previous interrupter, going by yet again with empty glasses, “but the beggars bungled it.”

Soraya denied it hotly.

“Certainly not,” she said. “We hardly even noticed him. And if we had, he wouldn’t have been worth mentioning.”

She perched herself on Owen’s knee. Owen automatically began to transfer his money, thought better, and divided it equally between her and him.

Soraya took it gracefully.

“Thank you,” she said. “You can keep the rest as a gift from me.”

They were in a night club near the big hotels. Owen had gone down to the Citadel without much hope and had been pleased and surprised to hear that Soraya was back in town. He had expected the gypsies to be still on one of their vast nomadic treks.

“They are,” said his informant, “but Soraya has come back. She quarreled with her man down in Minya and came back alone.”

She was as usual working the tourist area, which was where Owen had found her.

“Of course we take information,” she said, snuggling her head against Owen’s shoulder, “but no one’s interested in information about a fat, funny little Englishman. And anyway we wouldn’t know who to give it to. Not in Cairo. In Hamada we would, of course. In the provinces it’s different.”

“What sort of information do you take?”

“Messages for merchants. ‘Meet Abdul Latfi at Bir Hamna with the camels,’ that sort of thing. It’s very important and so they pay us. That’s the kind of information we’re interested in.”

“Why is it important?”

“Well, suppose you have a big merchant in Aleppo. He wants, say, a dozen slaves for the markets in Istanbul. The best place for slaves is the Sudan. Well, he sends an order down—”

“By you?”

“Not usually an order. There are standing arrangements. All we carry is messages about times.”

“Times when the merchant’s agents will pick up the slaves?”

“Yes. It has to be done secretly, of course, because the British get so excited about it. The traders usually pick a place outside a town—”

“In the hills outside Hamada, for instance?”

“Well, yes.” Soraya pouted. “You’re not really interested in me. You’re only interested in your work.”

Zeinab had been saying much the same thing. It wasn’t true, really. There were lots of things he was interested in. Soraya, for a start.

“Not so,” he protested, stroking the back of her neck. Soraya sat up.

“We could go somewhere,” she said, eyes gleaming. Owen thought that perhaps it would be better if they did. They were beginning to attract attention. Private endearments in public were not a feature of the Muslim way of life, even in a seedy night club.