The Mingrelian Conspiracy Page 12

  ‘It’s a hell of a clumsy way to get gold, though, isn’t it?’ said Owen.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Georgiades, ‘But—don’t you see?—he’s never done it before. It’s not something you buy everyday. Take me, for instance: I never buy gold. You buy gold?’ he asked Nikos.

  Nikos sniffed disdainfully.

  ‘If I did,’ he said, ‘I’d know how to go about it better than he does.’

  ‘Very amateurish,’ said Owen.

  ‘Ah, yes, but, you see, he is an amateur. It’s the first time he’s ever done anything like this. The same with all of them, probably. Never bought gold, never bought explosives, never even tried to kill a Grand Duke before!’

  ‘Why did they pick on explosives, then? Why not just try and shoot him?’

  Nikos shrugged.

  ‘Perhaps they wanted to make sure.’

  ‘The danger is,’ said Owen, ‘that they try to make too sure and send a lot of other people with him. Explosives are not for amateurs. God knows who they might blow up!’

  ‘The way they’re going,’ said Nikos, ‘they’re not going to be in a position to blow anyone up, not by the time the Grand Duke gets here, anyway. Not if it depends on Sorgos acquiring enough gold to pay for the explosives. If you look at what he must have been able to get in this ham-fisted way, he must still be miles short.’

  ‘That’s our big hope.’

  ‘Well,’ said Georgiades, ‘if it all depends on Sorgos, isn’t the solution obvious?’

  ‘Take him in, you mean?’

  ‘Someone else might do it then,’ said Nikos, ‘someone who’s more efficient.’

  ‘In any case,’ said Owen, ‘I’m hoping he’s going to lead us to the rest of the people involved. You’ve got someone on him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nikos. ‘Apparently he’s still buying.’

  ‘That’s good. Don’t forget, Herbst-Wickel want payment in advance. It means they’ve still not got the explosives.’

  ***

  Owen had hoped that, having passed the case over to Mahmoud, for the time being he could forget about protection gangs, but early the next morning he received an agitated summons from Mustapha.

  ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘Two!’ said Mustapha, shaking his head disbelievingly.

  ‘Two on the same night!’

  ‘Two what?’

  ‘More demands from the gangs. I thought you said everything was going to be all right?’

  ‘It will be. Don’t worry. Who were they from?’

  ‘The same as before. One was from the Black Scorpion. You know, like the first time. The other was one of those who came the other time, you know, the time they beat that dope up.’

  He inclined his head in Selim’s direction. Selim, however, was unmoved. Indeed, he was positively beaming.

  ‘This is getting beyond a joke!’ said Mustapha. ‘I don’t mind paying protection to one gang, or, rather, I do, but there’s not much I can do about it. But I can’t pay protection to everyone in Cairo!’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after it.’

  ‘Well, I should hope you would. I pay my taxes, you know. Or, at least, some of them. That’s another bunch of robbers for you! It’s about time I got something back.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You won’t have to pay. I’ll see to it. Or, at least,’—remembering that Mahmoud was now supposed to be looking after this end of things—‘I’ll talk to someone who will.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Mustapha sceptically. ‘Passing the buck, are you?’

  ‘No. I’ll get on to him right away. Meanwhile, you’ve got Selim. And friends.’

  ‘Friends?’ said Mustapha, scandalized. ‘You mean that?’ He drew Owen to the door and pointed along the street.

  A hulk lying in the shade raised an arm in acknowledgement.

  ‘He looks big enough,’ said Owen.

  ‘Oh, he’s big enough, all right. If he could only manage to drag himself to his feet. And the only time he does that is when he comes in here and asks for something “to keep him going”. Well, I’d like to keep him going, all right, going somewhere else, fast. Protection racket? This man’s a protection racket all on his own!’

  ‘Only coffee, I hope?’

  ‘Only coffee? Look, coffee costs money, as well as all the other things my wife gives him. Another of these down-and-outs she can’t resist! I tell you, I’m feeding half the population. And the other bloody half is sending me protection notes!’

  At last Owen managed to get away. He had just turned the corner when he heard himself hailed by Selim.

  ‘Effendi! Effendi!’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Effendi, there is much to report!’

  ‘Report away, then.’

  ‘Effendi, I saw those men last night. Including that little bastard who was one of those who attacked me the other day. And I said to myself: I will stave that man’s head in! But then, Effendi, I reflected. Am I not a policeman, I said to myself? Do not I serve the Mamur Zapt? And would he wish me to do a thing like that? Surely not. He would wish me to hold back until I could stave in the heads of all the bastards. So, Effendi,’ said Selim, swelling with pride, ‘I held back!’

  ‘Good for you. Now—’

  ‘Then, Effendi, I thought more. These are evil men, I said, and they will come again. And when they come again, by God, this time I will be ready and I will level the score. And the good thing is, I don’t have to go to them; they will come to me. All I have to do is sit here on my backside. That was pretty good thinking, wasn’t it, Effendi?’ said Selim anxiously.

  ‘Pretty good. Now—’

  ‘I put it to Babakr. That was Babakr up the street, Effendi. I think you saw him?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘Well, I put it to him and he thought it was a good idea too. He said, it’s better that the mountain should not go to Mohammed, especially if it’s very hot, but that Mohammed should come to the mountain. And then we can throw the bloody mountain at him. That was a good thought, wasn’t it, Effendi? I must say, I’d never thought of Babakr as a religious man before, but that was pretty good.’

  ‘Yes, well, thanks, Selim—’

  ‘But that is not all, Effendi. When the second man came, that little bastard who was here the other day, I said to myself: I will not stave his head in, but is it right that I should let him go? If I miss the chance, I may lose him forever. I may never see him again. But if one were to follow him home, so that I would know where to look for him—’

  ‘You followed him home?’

  ‘Well, no, Effendi, not I. I’m the one who has the ideas. It is for other people to do the walking. So I told Mekhmet—’

  ‘Mekhmet followed him?’

  ‘Yes, Effendi. He was at first unwilling—Effendi, the man is but a hollow reed—but I persuaded him. So if you would like to give him a piastre, no more, the man’s not worth it, but I wouldn’t mind a couple for myself, Effendi—’

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Owen. ‘Are you saying that Mekhmet followed this man all the way home?’

  ‘That’s right, Effendi. It was a bad place they went to, down in the Babylon—’

  ‘Fetch Mekhmet,’ said Owen.

  Chapter Eight

  Babylon, or Bab-el-On, the Old City, had been there before the Muslims came. Its original inhabitants had been the Copts, lineal descendants of the Egyptians in the time of the Pharoahs. Over the centuries they had become Christians and the Ders were essentially Christian enclaves against the Muslim invaders. The Muslim tide had swept over the original fortified churches destroying the forts but leaving the churches, and it was in their precincts that Christians had traditionally gathered. Over the years many Copts had moved out, up to the modern, more prosperous city of the Arabs, but in their place had come other Christians: Greek (which was why ther
e were almost as many Greek churches as there were Coptic in Babylon), Macedonians, Montenegrins and Serbians. Most recently there had come Georgians. Here, too, a generation ago, had come the Mingrelians; and with them had come Sorgos.

  It was in one of the Ders that, with the instinct for alliance characteristic of the new immigrant, he had settled when he had made the journey from his native Caucasus. There he had found his first job, incongruously, perhaps, as an apprentice bookbinder, although one should remember that he was familiar with leather-working. There, in time, he had opened his own workshop. In the same Der he had bought his house and it was there that his son had been born. The Der was where his roots lay; and the place in which, when the time came, he naturally looked to for allies.

  Georgiades had been ferreting them out. The people who had known Sorgos in the early years were now mostly dead but acquaintance had been preserved in their families, was a kind of family matter, and Sorgos was still well known in the Der.

  Yes, he came here often. Not, perhaps, as much as he did, for it was a long way to travel. When his son had opened the bookshop near the Clot Bey, he had moved with him.

  It was in the bookshop that Katarina had been born. The world she had grown up in was very different from that of the Der. Her father, quickly literate, had slipped easily into the Europeanized culture which his trade had opened up to him. Mingrelian, he was still, but Cairo, now, and even Paris, was his intellectual home and not the Caucasus.

  The mother? Mingrelian, of course, and apparently very beautiful. She had died giving birth to Katarina. Her daughter, after the earliest years, had grown up in a household without women, one in which she was actually closer to her father and his world than to her grandfather and the closed world of the Der.

  The Der, said Georgiades, was the thing, not the Mingrelians. They were scattered now around Cairo and there were not many of them. Sorgos, as senior elder, commanded great prestige and the few Mingrelians left worked dutifully to preserve their language, but community they hardly were. Most of them had been assimilated into other communities which were now for them more important. Sorgos might still eat patriotic fire but the attention of the other Mingrelians had passed to other pursuits. A few had been disposed to join him in his Crusade against the Grand Duke but, said Georgiades, the fact that the original public meeting had been held in the Der was not coincidental. It was there, not amongst the Mingrelians, that Sorgos expected to find his allies.

  ‘Not among the Copts,’ said Nikos. The Copts, who had survived through the centuries by keeping their heads down, were not going to stick them up for the sake of parvenus.

  ‘And not among the Greeks, either,’ said Georgiades.

  It was on the others that Georgiades had concentrated his enquiries and he had very soon found out the men Sorgos had recently been seeing.

  ‘He went round the lot, Serbs, Albanians, Caucasians, and most of them were prepared to join him on the platform for that first meeting. It was after the meeting that the problems began. They couldn’t work together. In the end he walked out in disgust.’

  It was the Georgians, mostly, who had walked with him. Their wrongs were fresher in their minds, the wounds inflicted by the Russians still raw. The men were younger; and in Djugashvili, the man who had run after Sorgos when that first public meeting had ended, Georgiades thought that they might have found a leader.

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Nikos, frowning, ‘have you got anything definite?’

  ‘No,’ said Georgiades. ‘It was just that when I asked, everyone said that he was the man the Georgians naturally turned to.’

  ‘He wasn’t on the platform,’ said Owen.

  ‘No. They don’t really amount to a sizeable community. There are even fewer of them than there are of the Mingrelians. And there doesn’t seem to be any community leader. The fact is,’ said Georgiades, ‘I don’t think they want to become a community. They want to go back to Georgia.’

  ‘So the war against Russia is still real to them?’

  ‘That’s right. So far as they are concerned, it’s never ended. Retreat to Egypt is just a temporary tactical withdrawal.’

  ‘And the Grand Duke fair game?’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’

  ‘There’s still nothing definite,’ said Nikos.

  Georgiades turned to him.

  ‘The gold?’ he said. ‘Isn’t that definite?’

  ‘All we know,’ said Nikos, ‘is that Sorgos is buying gold dust. Which might or might not be used to buy explosives. What’s the connection with the Georgians?’

  ‘ They provide the excuse. Sorgos would never have thought of it. It had to be someone who knew about working on ikons. And these people do.’

  ‘It’s not enough,’ said Owen. ‘Yet.’

  ***

  ‘Why are you pursuing me?’ demanded Katarina.

  ‘I’m not pursuing you,’ said Owen.

  ‘It’s just an accident that you’re here, is it?’

  ‘That’s right. There are a lot of them about.’

  Katarina moved on to the next stall and began to finger the water melons.

  ‘Is he bothering you, lady?’ asked the stallkeeper.

  ‘I’m her brother,’ Owen assured him.

  Katarina tossed her head indignantly. She was dressed in shapeless black but the shapelessness failed to deny entirely the shape that was beneath and it was this, perhaps, though he hoped not, that had originally caught his attention. Her hair, that most provocative of features for the Muslim, was completely covered and she wore a long veil over the lower part of her face. However independently she might dress at home, going to the suk she took care to dress in exactly the same way as her sisters. Invisibility, at least in public, was what was required of women.

  Naturally enough, in the circumstances, they all observed it. The suk was full of at first sight indistinguishable black-clad forms. Naturally, too, though, most of them subtly denied it. If their hair was covered, their ankles were bare and, as in the goldsmiths’ bazaar, around every shapely ankle was a ton of hardware. Not, of course, in the case of Katarina, and was the face quite as fully covered as in the case of the other women? It was her eyes which, close to, had finally given her away.

  Somewhat to Owen’s surprise, another man approached her as she stood at the stall. He appeared to know her, for he greeted her warmly.

  ‘You haven’t been to see us for a long time, Abbas,’ she chided him.

  ‘Well, no. I’ve not been working anywhere near the shop, and with your father away—’

  Owen had worked out now that he was a storyteller. He wore the mukleh, the unusually wide, rather formal turban which in old times had marked out the men of letters, a status which storytellers, sometimes unjustifiably, always claimed, but other items of his dress, the rather worn farageeyah, or top robe, suggested a man of letters fallen on hard times.

  ‘Are things going well?’

  ‘People are interested, all right. They like the stories. They’re a bit of a change. Only the old lot with their romances are so well established that it’s hard to get a foot in. There’s a lot of resistance, I can tell you.’

  ‘You’ll just have to keep at it.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Your father was right. It’s the only way.’

  ‘Are you all right for stories?’

  The man fumbled beneath his robes and produced a handful of rather tattered papers.

  ‘Excellent!’ said Katarina. ‘Well, when you need some more—’ The storyteller bowed politely and moved away.

  ‘Shameless!’ said the stallkeeper indignantly. ‘Allowing herself to be spoken to by men!’

  ‘I know!’ said Owen. ‘That’s the problem, really. That’s why I, as her brother—’

  Katarina gave him a furious glance and stalked off, head held high.

  Owen followed her, at a distance, as sh
e went round the stalls completing her shopping. When she had finished, he stepped up to her.

  ‘Carry your bags, miss?’ Katarina looked at him levelly.

  ‘That would create a disturbance!’ she said. ‘To have a man doing the carrying!’

  She marched through the stalls to the edge of the suk and then set off down a side street. Owen drew alongside her.

  ‘If you are going to insist—’ she said.

  ‘Just a word.’

  ‘You’d better walk in front, then.’

  He drew two paces in front of her and she took up the woman’s customary position.

  ‘I’d forgotten you were in the storytelling business.’

  ‘Story-selling!’ she corrected. ‘Not telling.’

  ‘They come to you for stories?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I am disillusioned. I thought they all came from oral tradition.’

  ‘The tradition’s died out. We’re trying to revive it. The trouble is, they don’t know the old stories. Not even Elf Leyleh wa-Leyleh.’

  ‘The Arabian Nights? Not even that?’

  ‘They rely on old manuscripts, or even fragments of old manuscripts. Many are so tattered and worn that they can’t even be read now. My father’s been trying to get them together and make a collection of them. We take in old fragments, I copy them, and then we give them back and try to get them into more general circulation.’

  ‘It certainly seems to be livening up the world of storytelling.’

  As Katarina did not reply, Owen looked over his shoulder. She was still there.

  ‘Did you come to talk to me about that?’ she demanded.

  ‘No. I want to talk about your grandfather.’

  ‘I am with him in everything he does.’

  ‘Should you be?’

  Katarina was silent for a moment. Then she said: ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Why is he buying gold?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why is he?’

  ‘To buy explosives.’

  There was a long silence and again he looked round.

  ‘He knows what he’s doing,’ she said, a little shakily, however.