The Men Behind Page 9

  “You think so?” he asked.

  “If the Khedive can spare you.”

  “Alas,” said Ali Osman gloomily, “the Khedive seems able to spare me only too easily.”

  ***

  Owen caught sight of Fairclough across the bar. There was a crowd of people in between them and Owen wasn’t sure that Fairclough had noticed him. However, a little while later Fairclough touched him on the shoulder.

  “Owe you one for stepping in the other day. That silly beggar would have gone on forever. What’ll you have?”

  As Fairclough bore his glass away for a refill, Owen wondered whether a drink constituted a present. A drink was acceptable, wasn’t it? Why not Ali Osman’s beautiful lamp? Try as he might, he couldn’t persuade himself. Ali Osman’s lamp was not like that.

  He sighed.

  “Terribly sorry, old man,” said Fairclough, appearing beside him. “It’s taken bloody ages. They had to go to the storeroom to fetch some more and that meant getting the key from the Effendi and all that sort of thing.”

  “That’s OK.”

  He raised his glass.

  “Cheers,” said Fairclough, drinking deep.

  He put the glass down.

  “Been thinking,” he said. “Wondering why they picked on me. But maybe it wasn’t like that. Maybe it was a question not of picking on me but of picking out. Different thing. You see, if it’s not a matter of what a chap’s done but just of him being British, anyone British would do. But there’s still the question of why pick this one and not that one.”

  “A matter of luck, I would say.”

  “Yes, but there must be something that makes them notice you. I mean among all the others. Now, I don’t flatter myself I’m a particularly noticeable chap—”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that!”

  “—but there must be something. So I’ve been asking myself what it was.”

  “And have you found the answer?”

  “Yes,” said Fairclough triumphantly. “The salt business.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Salt—you know, the stuff you put on your dinner.”

  “That’s what I thought you said. But—?”

  “I had a big role, you see. Well, maybe not that big. I had to go down and look at the stuff. Make sure the figures tallied. But I thought that’s when they might have seen me. Otherwise I’m just in an office. I mean, no one sees me.”

  “Let’s get this straight,” said Owen. “You had to go somewhere—”

  “Hamada,” said Fairclough, “in Minya Province. That’s where it was.”

  “Hamada. To see some salt. Now why exactly,” said Owen cautiously, “was that?”

  “Contraband. It’s all the stuff they confiscated during the time of the Salt Monopoly. I had to value it.”

  “I thought the Monopoly had ended?”

  “It has. It was abolished in 1904. But there’s still all the stuff they confiscated when it was in operation. It’s a hell of a place round there, I can tell you. You see, there’s all these naturally occurring salt deposits which the Bedawin have been using for hundreds of years. When the Government gave the salt trade away as a monopoly to some foreign company the Bedawin couldn’t understand it at all and carried on as they always had done.”

  “Christ, yes!”

  Owen was beginning to remember. Before 1904 salt other than the company’s was considered contraband and possession of it was an offense. The prisons of Upper Egypt were full of poor fellahin and Arabs whose only crime was the possession of salt. It was, of course, precisely that which had led Cromer to abolish the Monopoly.

  “It’s a hell of a place,” said Fairclough, “around Hamada. The Thieves’ Road passes right by. There’s cattle-rustling from the south, camel-rustling from the north, and bloody brigands in the sugar cane.”

  “Not to mention salt smugglers,” said Owen. “All the same, wasn’t that all in the past? The salt smuggling, I mean? Now that the Monopoly’s gone, they can surely do what they like? Why should they have anything against you, if that’s what you’re saying? All you’re doing is putting a price on it.”

  “Yes, but they think it’s theirs. Which, in a way, it is, of course. They think the Government’s taken away what rightfully belongs to them.”

  “Yes, but they’re not going to blame you for that, surely?”

  “As far as they’re concerned, I’m the Government,” said Fairclough dolefully.

  “Christ, that’s down in bloody Hamada!”

  “It’s the only time I’ve been out of the office, you see. They sent me down there specially.”

  “I don’t think that’s got anything to do with it. I think the reason why you got picked out was simply that you were the one they saw riding past.”

  “Dare say you’re right.” Fairclough examined his glass. “Got an apology to make,” he said. “All that stuff. The women, you know. You don’t want to hear about that kind of thing. Sorry to inflict it on you.”

  “You didn’t,” said Owen. “It was that bastard, Mohammed Bishari.”

  “All the same,” said Fairclough. He looked into his glass. “Needs of the flesh,” he mumbled.

  “I let it go on too long,” said Owen. “I didn’t want to butt in because it’s really the Parquet’s business. They’re supposed to be conducting the investigation.”

  “Thought you were?”

  “Formally it’s their responsibility. I just—look over their shoulder.”

  “Glad somebody’s looking,” said Fairclough. “Don’t want the damned thing to happen again.”

  ***

  “Salt?” said Mohammed Bishari incredulously. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t think that’s got anything to do with it. I think the reason why they picked him out was simply that he was riding past.”

  “Glad you said that,” said Owen. “I thought the last time we met that you were on a different tack.”

  Bishari had the grace to look embarrassed.

  “Sometimes you have to take a different line,” he muttered.

  They were sitting, amicably enough, at a table outside a small café. Reflecting in the bar on the part played by hospitality in easing social communication, his conscience stirred by the conversation with Fairclough, Owen had come to the conclusion that it was time to do the equivalent of buying the Parquet investigator a drink.

  Unfortunately, Mohammed Bishari did not drink; and when Owen had made tentative approaches towards a social rapprochement they had been rebuffed. That they were there at all, and sitting amicably, was due to the efforts of the third person at the table, a friend of Owen’s, Mahmoud el Zaki.

  Mahmoud, like Bishari, was in the Parquet. He was a younger man than Bishari but already higher than him, something which might make for difficulty if he interceded too openly.

  “It doesn’t have to be a formal meeting,” Owen had said. “In fact, it would be better if it wasn’t. Couldn’t you arrange an accident?”

  Mahmoud’s fancy had been tickled by this and he had arranged it with gusto. It had been easy to find a pretext for inviting Bishari to take coffee with him. And it was only natural that Owen, passing by, should pause to greet his friend. Equally natural that he should be invited to join them for coffee.

  “What tack did you think Mohammed was on?” asked Mahmoud.

  “It’s this Fairclough case,” said Owen.

  “The man on the donkey?”

  “Exactly. The victim, as we both now agree, of a terrorist attack. In his questioning, though, Mr. Bishari was probing the possibility of private motives.”

  “One has to explore all avenues,” Bishari said defensively, “especially when, as in this case, there turns out to be a history.”

  “But I take it that now you are satisfied that the examples belong to history?”


  “History has a way of repeating itself,” said Mohammed Bishari drily.

  “And although the examples may belong to history, their effects may not,” said Mahmoud.

  “I don’t think it was like that here,” said Owen.

  “You would be inclined to discount such effects, though, wouldn’t you, Captain Owen?” said Mohammed Bishari.

  Owen guessed this was a reference to his own relationship with Zeinab.

  “I just take a look at the facts of the case,” he said, “and when I see terrorism I don’t try to conceal it.”

  There was an awkward little silence. Then Mahmoud said, as if à propos de nothing: “I think I have heard of the case.”

  Owen knew this was a warning. The Parquet’s policy in the matter would almost certainly have been discussed at high level within the Department, in which case it was quite possible that Mahmoud had been party to the discussion. He was telling Owen to keep off.

  Owen knew he had to take the hint. He looked at Mohammed Bishari and smiled.

  “I think in any event that Mr. Bishari and I had reached a compromise,” he said. “The strain was obviously telling on Fairclough and Mr. Bishari felt obliged to adjourn his questioning until he was in a better state of health. While Mr. Bishari’s inquiries are interrupted I shall naturally proceed with my own.”

  “That seems a very reasonable compromise,” said Mahmoud.

  Mohammed Bishari appeared slightly relieved.

  “I was hoping that Mr. Bishari might be able to assist me by letting me have a look at his notes.”

  “You have received copies of my reports,” said Mohammed Bishari.

  “Ah yes.”

  Mahmoud grinned. “I am sure we can do better than that,” he said, “in the circumstances.”

  “You can have them,” said Bishari, “though I don’t know that you’ll find them very helpful. Frankly, we weren’t getting anywhere.”

  “It was help with the identification that I was hoping for.”

  Mohammed Bishari shook his head.

  “No such luck,” he said. “Truly.”

  Mahmoud and Bishari left together, but a few moments later as Owen was walking along the road Mahmoud caught up with him.

  “Satisfied?” he asked.

  “Reasonably. Thanks anyway. You’ve been a great help.” Owen hesitated. “I’m still puzzled, though. Why is the Parquet taking this line? What’s special about this case?”

  After a moment Mahmoud said: “It’s not the case that is special. It’s the circumstances.”

  “I can see the political situation is something special. But why should that affect the case? The Parquet doesn’t usually take a purely Nationalist line. Not overtly, that is. Why now?”

  “Can’t think,” said Mahmoud. He looked at Owen deadpan. “Perhaps our Minister has aspirations?”

  ***

  “That would make a difference,” said Paul. “He wouldn’t want to be identified with the British. Not just now.”

  “Pity about the case.”

  “It’s only hanging fire. They’ll pick it up again once the Khedive’s come to a decision.”

  “Any sign of that?”

  “None.”

  “Does he stand a chance?”

  “He’d be good. He’s bright.”

  “Doesn’t that rule him out?”

  “Now, now,” said Paul. “Though it’s certainly true the Khedive’s scared stiff of him. Not just because he’s bright but because the Khedive thinks he’s too radical. The Khedive wants Nationalism without the pain. But Sa’ad is actually in quite a strong position. He’s got a strong following in the Assembly and he’s popular in the country as well.”

  “And just at the moment he doesn’t want to risk that popularity?”

  “A bit more than that. He wants to capture Nationalist support. Then he can go to the Khedive and say, look, I’ve got the Nationalists in my pocket. Appoint me and you don’t have to worry about them. It’s a strong card.”

  “A winning one?”

  “The Khedive’s resisting. He’s frightened of Sa’ad and hopes that if he hangs on a bit, Sa’ad’s support will crumble. Sa’ad on the other hand reckons that if he’s seen to be riding the wave then he’ll come in with it.”

  “So we just have to sit and wait?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Oh, good,” said Owen. “That’s just what I need.”

  Chapter Six

  Outside in the yard Owen could hear scuffling.

  “God protect us!” someone cried in an agitated voice.

  There were other cries of alarm. A door banged and feet came running. An orderly burst into the room.

  “Effendi! Come quickly! Come quickly indeed!”

  “What is the matter?” said Owen, rising from his desk.

  The orderly pulled at him.

  “Quickly, effendi! Come quickly!”

  As he hurried along the corridor there were further shouts and everyone seemed to be running.

  “What is it?”

  “A bad man, effendi, oh, a very bad man.”

  Owen came out into the sunlight of the yard. A large, fierce individual was struggling with a knot of orderlies.

  The knot suddenly fell apart.

  “Guard thyself, effendi!” cried someone in an agonized voice.

  The fierce man shook off the remaining restraining hands. An orderly dropped to the ground and remained there praying.

  “Effendi!” cried the interloper, a great beam of delight spreading over his face.

  He was a tribesman from the south, a giant of a man and bristling with arms from head to foot. There seemed something familiar about him.

  He was holding a short piece of iron piping carefully in front of him.

  “Effendi!” he cried. “I have found you!”

  “Effendi! Effendi! It is a bomb! Do not let him come near you!”

  The man stepped forward.

  “They tried to keep me from you. The dogs!”

  He put his foot firmly on the praying orderly’s head and stood on him.

  “They said you were not here. The lying sons of Shaitan!”

  “We tried to keep him from you, effendi,” said someone faintly.

  Owen pulled himself together.

  “What is your business, man?” he said sternly, wishing he had brought his gun with him. It was tucked away in a filing cabinet in his room, buried beneath a pile of estimates.

  “You know me, effendi,” said the tribesman confidently.

  “I do?”

  The tribesman looked anxious.

  “Surely you remember, effendi? The other day, at Nuri Pasha’s.”

  Light began to dawn.

  “You are one of Nuri’s men. I saw you in the bougainvillea.”

  “I knew you would remember. I told them so.” He gave one of the orderlies an enormous push.

  “What is your name?”

  “Omar.”

  “Well, Omar, what brings you to see me?”

  Omar held out the piping.

  “Nuri told me to bring this to you.”

  “What is it?”

  “It is a bomb, I think.”

  “Jesus!”

  “We told you, effendi,” murmured one of the orderlies faintly.

  Omar held the piping up to his ear and shook it.

  “For Christ’s sake, don’t do that! Here! Give it to me!”

  Owen took it gingerly.

  “Hassan! Go and get a fire bucket and put it by the wall!”

  “At once, effendi!”

  Hassan scuttled off with alacrity and reemerged with a pail full of sand.

  “Over there! By the wall.”

  “At once, effendi.”

  Owe
n walked across and set the piping firmly in the pail, taking care to keep it upright.

  “Nikos!”

  Nikos appeared from a side door. On occasions like this he considered his role to be a backroom one.

  “Ring Explosives and tell them to send someone over here immediately!”

  “Harrison Effendi is away at the moment.”

  “Get them to send someone else.”

  “Ja’affer?”

  “No, not that stupid bastard. Someone else.”

  “There isn’t anyone else.”

  “Ring Mines, then. Surely they’ve got someone.”

  Nikos disappeared inside. Owen cleared the yard and posted orderlies to keep people away. Then he led Omar up to his office.

  “Sit down, Omar.”

  Omar sat on the floor.

  “Now, Omar, let us get this straight. Nuri Pasha told you to bring this to me?”

  “Yes, effendi.”

  “How did you come by it?”

  “It was thrown at the car.”

  “The car? Nuri Pasha’s car?”

  “Yes, effendi.”

  “I don’t understand. Did it hit the car?”

  “No, effendi. I caught it.”

  “Caught it?” said Owen incredulously.

  “Yes, effendi. I was watching the crowd and I saw a man’s arm move and then this came through the air and I caught it.”

  “Jesus!” Owen was impressed.

  “I showed it to Nuri Pasha and he went pale and then he told his driver to drive very fast and then he stopped and told me to get down—”

  “Get down?” said Owen. “Where were you?”

  “On the running board. I stand on one, Ahmed on the other. So I got down and Nuri bade me take it to you and then he drove off again very fast.”

  “Did you see the man who threw it?”

  “I saw the arm but not the man.”

  The movement. That had been enough for Omar.

  “Well, Omar, you have saved your master.”

  “That is my job,” said Omar modestly.

  “You have performed it well. And Nuri will no doubt reward you.”

  “Nuri Pasha will,” said Omar. “When I go home I shall be able to double my herd of camels. And buy another wife as well.”

  “And tell your friends this story.”