The Night of the Dog Read online

  The beads of perspiration streamed down Mordecai’s face.

  ‘They will kill me.’

  Owen said nothing. Just waited.

  The smell of sweat was overwhelming.

  ‘I will tell you. But …’

  ‘Afterwards?’

  Mordecai nodded.

  ‘Do you have friends in another town? Say, Alexandria?’

  ‘Yes, effendi.’

  ‘I will have you taken to them.’

  Mordecai looked relieved.

  ‘Afterwards. Provided I am satisfied.’

  ‘Yes, effendi.’

  ‘Very well, then. Now tell me: there is a sheikh who comes to you and you give him money?’

  ‘Yes, effendi.’

  ‘The Dervish sheikh?’

  ‘Yes, effendi.’

  ‘How much money have you given him in the last three weeks?’

  ‘One hundred and thirty pounds. Egyptian.’

  Owen could sense Georgiades’s astonishment. One hundred and thirty pounds was a lot of money in a country where an average wage was three pounds a month.

  ‘That is a lot of money. It is not yours.’

  ‘No, effendi.’

  ‘Whose is it, then?’

  ‘Effendi, I—I do not know.’

  ‘Come, it is not not here one moment and suddenly here the next. Where does it come from?’

  ‘One brings it.’

  ‘That is better. And who is that one?’

  ‘Effendi, I do not know him. I do not know the name, or from where he comes, or from whom he comes. All I know is that every Friday at a set hour he comes and puts the money into my hands. He never speaks. He merely takes the receipt, then goes.’

  ‘Does he give you no instructions?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Then how do you know you are to give it to the Sheikh Osman?’

  ‘It was told me before.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A month ago. A man came and said to me, one will come with money and you will do thus and thus.’

  ‘Who was the man?’

  ‘He was but a bearer.’

  ‘But not the same as the bearer who brings the money?’

  ‘Not the same, effendi. The first one was but a servant. The one who brings the money, well—’ Mordecai hesitated—‘I do not know what he is but he is not a servant.’

  ‘The one who brings the money: can you tell me something else about him?’

  ‘Only,’ said Mordecai, ‘that he is a Copt.’

  ‘A Copt?’

  ‘Yes, effendi.’

  ‘You are not speaking the truth,’ said Owen. ‘How can he be a Copt and bring money to be given to a Moslem for the Moslem to use against the Copts?’

  ‘I do not know what use he makes of it, effendi,’ said Mordecai humbly.

  ‘Are you sure the bringer is a Copt?’

  ‘Yes, effendi.’

  Mordecai spoke with certainty; and indeed, it was something which no Cairene would have been uncertain on.

  ‘The other bearer,’ said Georgiades, ‘the first one, the one who was but a servant, was he also a Copt?’

  ‘An Armenian, effendi.’

  No help there, and in fact there was little more help to be had from Mordecai at all. They told him to keep his mouth shut and left, not by the way they had come but through another door which led out through the bazaar.

  ‘A Copt?’ said Owen. ‘I can’t understand it.’

  ‘Maybe someone’s just being clever,’ said Georgiades.

  ‘I’ve found something new at any rate,’ said Mahmoud.

  They were sitting at an outside table in one of the corner cafes of the Ataba el Khadra, out of reach of the traffic but strategically placed so that they could watch not only all the interesting things that went on in the square but also the more sophisticated exchanges which went on between tourist and native in Musky Street. It had been a long, hard day and Owen would have quite liked a whisky. However, in deference to his friend’s Moslem susceptibilities he had stayed with coffee, and certainly Turkish coffee taken mazbout, sweetened, was perfectly to his taste.

  ‘Anything useful?’

  ‘It might be. Someone’s turned up who claims that Zoser had a visitor the night before he killed the Zikr.’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t he turn up before?’

  ‘Because he’s been away. He travels with camels and has just got back. When he got back his sister told him. He stays with her between trips. She lives in the house next to the Zosers. That’s where he was that night. They remembered it because it was so unusual for the Zosers to have a visitor, and because he came so late. They had already put the beds down and had to move them.’

  ‘Why didn’t she say anything?’

  ‘Thought it wasn’t for a woman, etc. She had no man to go for her—her husband was away travelling, too—so she waited for her brother to get back.’

  ‘Does she corroborate?’

  ‘Yes, they both remember.’

  ‘Any details?’

  ‘Not many. Nothing to identify by. It was dark and it was late, so late that the lamps had already been put out, they hardly saw him, you know, all that sort of thing.’

  ‘Real, or are they saying that just to keep out of trouble?’

  ‘If they wanted to keep out of trouble they wouldn’t have bothered to have come to the police station.’

  ‘True. So you’ve nothing to go by?’

  ‘Except that he was a Copt.’

  ‘Even in the dark they would know that.’

  ‘I take it, from the fact that they remarked on it, that they’re not Copt themselves?’

  ‘You take it correctly. They’re Moslem.’

  ‘How did they get on with the Zosers? Friends? Enemies?’

  ‘So-so. Nothing much. Hardly saw each other. The Zosers kept pretty much to themselves. Didn’t have much to do with anybody. That’s why they remembered that night.’

  ‘Hear anything?’

  ‘Nothing they could repeat. Except that he was clearly not a stranger.’

  Owen sipped his coffee.

  ‘Pity there’s nothing more,’ he said. ‘It could be significant.’

  ‘Of course there’s someone else who could tell.’

  ‘There is?’

  ‘You’re forgetting Zoser’s wife. She was there.’

  ‘The one with the handpainting? Yes I’d forgotten about her.’

  ‘She would know. The only thing is, she’s moved. In fact, that’s what I wanted to ask you. I don’t suppose you’ve any idea where I could find her?’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Owen, remembering Georgiades’s visit to the funeral, ‘I think I have.’

  They almost missed the man when at last he came. Mordecai had said that he usually approached the shop through the bazaar, and that was the side they had been watching. There were several little alleyways that he might have used and they had a man watching each one; but then in the end he approached from the other side, not through the bazaar at all but along through the streets, the way they themselves had come on that previous visit. Georgiades had a man on that route, too, but there was only one of him and when he saw the man coming he did not risk leaving his post to run and tell them but watched the man until he was safely inside the shop.

  They had wondered about concealing themselves in the shop itself, in the recess possibly, but had decided not to risk it. The aim, after all, was not to arrest the man but to follow him and see if by that means they could uncover the line which ran back from Mordecai’s shop to the ultimate suppliers of Osman’s money.

  Instead, they had taken up position in one of the shops opposite where they were concealed by heavy wooden boarding and from where they could see directly into Mordecai’s shop. They saw the man come in from the street and stand for a moment adjusting to the darkness. They caught a glimpse of his robe in the candlelight, but only a glimpse because then he moved into the shadows and it was only by Mordecai’s
gestures that they could tell where he was.

  Somebody slid into the shop beside them. It was their agent.

  ‘It is him, effendi. I saw him clearly, but I dared not move. It is the one we were told to expect.’

  ‘He had a bag with him?’

  ‘Yes, effendi. As the Jew said.’

  ‘Good. Go back now in case he leaves by the way he came. If he does, follow him until the tracker takes over.’

  Owen had borrowed for the day some skilled police trackers, men who could follow a trail, or a man, even through the crowded streets of Cairo. He did not want anything to go wrong.

  The agent slipped away unobtrusively.

  In the shop opposite, Mordecai appeared to be bowing farewell. He straightened up, came to the front of the shop and stood for a moment looking out impassively. Then he moved aside, and a man came out of the darkness of the shop, hesitated for a fraction of a second and then turned away into the bazaar.

  Owen stood for a moment in stunned shock.

  The man was Andrus.

  CHAPTER 11

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ said Owen flatly.

  ‘Me neither,’ said Georgiades.

  ‘I thought he was the man behind the organization on the Coptic side.’

  ‘Well,’ said Nikos, ‘he is. I don’t think there is any doubt about it.’

  ‘Then why the hell is he the man behind the Moslem organization too?’

  ‘He’s not exactly that, surely,’ Nikos objected.

  ‘He supplies the money, doesn’t he? And without that the Moslems wouldn’t be half as effective.’

  ‘They’re not paying him interest, are they? I mean, he’s not doing it for money?’

  ‘Osman? Pay interest? To a Copt?’

  ‘Funnier things have happened. Like a Copt lending money to Osman.’

  ‘Osman personally doesn’t have money enough even to pay the interest,’ said Nikos.

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘We’re back to them again. And the only friend that’s appeared so far is Andrus.’

  ‘Maybe he is a friend. In secret, I mean.’

  ‘Of the Moslems? Of Osman? I don’t mind us looking at some funny ideas,’ said Georgiades, ‘but let’s not go crazy.’

  ‘That can’t be it,’ said Nikos.

  ‘No. Well, I’m not really suggesting that it is. I’m just reviewing all the possibilities.’

  ‘While you’re doing that,’ said Nikos, ‘think about this one: Andrus doesn’t know what the money is being used for.’

  ‘That it’s going straight to Osman? He set it up, didn’t he?’

  ‘Well, did he? It was set up that way, certainly, but was it set up by him?’

  ‘He’s involved.’

  ‘Oh yes, he’s involved. But does he know?’

  ‘Someone else set it up and he’s just being used?’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  ‘OK. I’ll acknowledge it as a possibility.’

  ‘I’ve got another question,’ said Georgiades. ‘If he’s a secret friend of the Moslems, why doesn’t he just give them the money directly. Why does he have to go through Mordecai?’

  ‘I can answer that one,’ said Owen. ‘He’s had to go through Mordecai precisely because he is a Copt. The Moslems wouldn’t accept it if it came straight from him.’

  ‘They think it comes from other Moslems?’

  ‘Possibly. I can’t see Osman accepting it otherwise.’

  ‘Well, I find it confusing,’ said Georgiades. ‘I thought it was all straightforward, with Moslems cutting Copts’ throats, as they have always done, and Copts cutting Moslems’ throats, as usual. Now it’s got more complicated.’

  ‘Let’s go back to basics,’ said Owen. ‘First, are we wrong about Andrus being behind it all on the Copt side?’

  ‘No!’ said Nikos.

  He went to his desk and produced a sheaf of agents’ reports.

  ‘If you look at my map,’ he said with a tinge of pride, ‘you will see that all the incidents are still within half a mile of the Bab es Zuweyla. Not only that, they’re not spontaneous, they’re organized. After each incident the men go back and report. I’ve had them followed. They always go to the same place. It’s a house just behind the Mar Girgis. It belongs to the church and is used by its laymen for committees and administering charity. The church has a large charity programme. Anyway, that’s where they all go to report. Not only that; that’s where they get their instructions, because sometimes some of them go out again for a second time to take part in another incident. I’ve had my people watching the house for some time now. That’s where they report before they start and that’s where they report after they’re finished.’

  ‘Why don’t we smash it up?’

  ‘Because then they’d report somewhere else. Anyway, I thought you wanted to be sure about who was organizing it.’

  ‘I do. Who is?’

  ‘It’s got to be Andrus. There are other people in the house from time to time, but he’s the only one who has been there throughout.’

  ‘You haven’t been able to get anyone inside?’

  ‘No, but I probably could. Do you want me to?’

  ‘Yes. Let’s have some certainty about one thing, at any rate.’

  ‘Why don’t we pick a few of them up,’ said Georgiades, ‘as they’re going to and fro? Then we could ask them.’

  ‘We could do that too. I’ve thought about it,’ said Nikos, ‘but I was keeping to surveillance until I was told otherwise.’

  Nikos was a stickler for the rules. Owen never ceased to marvel at the way in which he combined incredible ingenuity within the rules with total lack of curiosity as to what went on beyond them.

  ‘You mean you’ve known all along where they were going?’ asked Georgiades.

  ‘Not till they got there. I’ve known they were going, that’s all.’

  ‘And you’ve done nothing about it?’

  ‘Of course I’ve done something about it. I’ve had them followed from the time they left the house. The moment it was clear where they were going I’ve had a message back. And then,’ said Nikos with pride, ‘I’ve had our people there within minutes. That’s organization.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s all unnecessary. You could have hit them the moment they left the house.’

  ‘Can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we’re still on surveillance.’

  ‘Christ!’

  ‘Other reasons too,’ Owen intervened. ‘There’s no point in picking up small fry. Not when there are so many of them. It’s big fry we’re after.’

  ‘If you’d been out on the street—’ Georgiades looked at Nikos—‘instead of sitting on your ass in a cool office—’

  ‘What I do,’ said Nikos, ‘takes ability.’

  ‘How did you get on to it in the first place?’ Owen asked curiously.

  ‘I had them followed back. After the first few incidents I began to suspect there was a pattern, so I tried to find it. You don’t get anything on this scale without communication lines, so I started looking for them.’

  ‘Have you got it all worked out for the Moslems too?’ asked Georgiades. ‘It’s not that I mind wasting my time, it’s just that I like to know that I’m wasting my time.’

  ‘You’re not wasting your time,’ said Owen pacifically.

  ‘It’s not as clear-cut on the Moslem side,’ said Nikos, ‘not as well organized. There’s no reporting back, for instance, so they don’t know how well they’ve done or what mistakes they make. But instructions have to be given, so again there are lines of communication.’

  ‘Which you’re shadowing?’

  Nikos nodded.

  ‘They don’t always work. Some of the incidents are spontaneous. The other thing is that they have a general idea of what Osman wants so they don’t bother about instructions, they just go out and do it.’

  ‘I think I may be a secret Moslem,’ Georgiades said to Owen. ‘You didn’t
know that, did you?’

  ‘It all comes from Osman, does it?’ asked Owen.

  ‘Yes, Osman and Andrus. They’re the two.’

  ‘They’re the one if it all comes back to Andrus.’

  Georgiades went to the door and called for Yussuf. One of the other bearers shouted back encouragingly. In Yussuf’s present numb state they had taken to covering for him.

  Owen sat there thinking. He couldn’t make any sense of it. The premise that everything started from was Andrus’s hostility to anything Moslem. It had been there right from the beginning, right from the night of the dog. It ran through everything. It had never wavered. He could not believe that it was wavering now. But how else to explain his actions? The money was definitely being brought to Mordecai; and Mordecai was definitely passing it on to Osman. Not only that; Mordecai was equally definite that he was merely doing as he had been instructed. And Owen believed him.

  Andrus was part of it. About that there could be no doubt. But how extensive a part? Might Nikos be right and Andrus merely an unwitting accomplice, ignorant of for whom the money was intended? But then, Nikos was himself a Copt and, yes, under an obligation to Andrus; might not he be biased in Andrus’s favour? And then again, for all his brilliance at organization, Nikos sometimes overdid the speculation.

  ‘Try another idea,’ said Nikos. ‘Why don’t you apply the analysis you made of the Moslems to the Copts?’

  ‘What analysis?’

  ‘The political connection. You know, that there was a group of people at the top, Ministers, perhaps, who had an interest in keeping relations between Copts and Moslems on the boil. You thought that might lie behind Mahmoud being brought back into the Zoser case. Keep the wound open. Copts against Moslems. I liked that analysis. It avoided the mistake that is so often made. People assume, the British especially, who appear to have a unique talent for combining sentimentality and intellectual evasion, that conflict, even massacre, is in no one’s interest. But they’re wrong. Sometimes it is in someone’s interest. And then if you want to find out the reason for the tension or how to stop it, what you have to do is look at the interests of those concerned. Perhaps the mistake we have been making is in applying that thinking to the Moslems but not to the Copts.’

  Owen reached out his hand for the coffee a bearer had just brought in. A different bearer. Not Yussuf.