The Donkey-Vous mz-3

by Michael Pearce

  “For God’s sake-”

  Mahmoud leaped to his feet and pounded his fist dramatically upon his chest.

  “You don’t trust me! Your friend!”

  Faces began to peer out of doorways. There was a succession of bangs as the shutters on the doors of the flats of the ladies of the night above began to be flung open.

  “Sit down, for goodness’ sake!”

  “You are cold! Deep down you are like all the British. Cold!”

  “Sit down. Just sit down.”

  “You drink coffee with me and then you do not trust me! Your friend.”

  “Of course I trust you, I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about Zaw-”

  Mahmoud stormed off.

  Owen was left agape. This kind of thing had happened before. It was not, in fact, untypical either of Mahmoud or of Arabs. But it always took him by surprise. Something would happen to upset them and then suddenly out of a clear blue sky you’d have a raging storm. The good thing was that it was likely to blow away as quickly as it had come. Even so…

  You expected more sense from Mahmoud. This kind of thing was ridiculous. To fly off the handle over a thing like this! It was only a suggestion, damn it all, and not such a bad one at that. It was all very well for Mahmoud to go on about it just being to do with the name but the names terrorist groups chose for themselves often were significant. OK, some of the student groups chose names straight out of the Boy’s Own Paper, they were very young after all, fifteen, sixteen, though that didn’t stop them kidnapping and garrotting. But the names of the serious groups often really did tell you something about the groups. It was a sort of declaration of their allegiances and purposes. Nikos knew more about this sort of thing than Mahmoud did. It was all very well for Mahmoud to talk so dismissively of Nikos’s crazy associations, but Nikos spent all his time dealing with Cairo’s uneasy political underworld and knew the way it worked. Mahmoud was just a straight crime man.

  Not only that, Mahmoud was hardly a neutral in these matters. He was himself a Nationalist. OK, the Nationalist Party was fairly moderate and committed to legitimate constitutional change, but it was often hard to draw the line between moderate nationalism, and the sort of crazy stuff that Owen often encountered. Mahmoud was a reasonable guy and thought that everyone else was a reasonable guy.

  Well, they weren’t, they certainly weren’t. For a start, anyone who kidnapped two elderly men from the terrace at Shepheard’s was hardly moderate and committed to legitimate processes.

  Why had they gone to the lengths of taking them from to the terrace, anyway? It would have been much easier from have done it somewhere else, in the bazaars, perhaps. OK, then you would have had to kidnap someone else because neither Moulin nor Colthorpe Hartley went to the bazaars, but if you were just after money it wouldn’t really matter who you took, there were plenty of rich Europeans, or rich Egyptians, for that matter. They could have kidnapped Nuri, for a start. No, perhaps they’d better not take him, Christ knows how Zeinab would react, but there were plenty of others. It would have been easy. But to do it from the terrace at Shepheard’s, in full view of everybody, that wasn’t easy, in fact it was going out of your way to make it difficult. Why had they done that?

  There could be only one answer. They had done it precisely because it was difficult, because it was in the public eye. They had wanted to show that it could be done, that all these fine people strutting up there on the terrace were just as vulnerable as anyone else. And why was it important to show that? Because those people up there were those who ruled, those who governed Egypt. OK, not directly. They were merely representative. But what they represented were Britain and France.

  That was it! Why Moulin? Because he was French. Why Colthorpe Hartley? Because he was British. Why Shepheard’s? Because everyone could see.

  You could strike back at the oppressors. That was the lesson. That was what they wanted to show. And they wanted to show it in the most conspicuous way possible. Shepheard’s! The very symbol of foreign privilege! The terrace! The most conspicuous place in Cairo.

  And if that wasn’t a nationalist lesson, Owen was a Dutchman.

  Mahmoud was up the creek. For all that fancy French reasoning of his, he was missing the point. He had his blind spots and nationalism was one of them. There were some things he didn’t like to face. The fact that there was a continuum between legitimate nationalist activity and illegitimate nationalist activity was something he could not accept.

  Well, you could understand that. But it was a blind spot all the same. It meant there were some things you could work with Mahmoud on and some things you couldn’t. That was the plain fact of it. He had gone on about trusting, made a big thing of it. Well, Owen did trust him, in that he believed him to be completely sincere and honest. He would stake his life on that. But that didn’t mean accepting that he had no blind spots. Nationalism was one of them and on anything to do with nationalism, well, no, at the end of the day you couldn’t trust him. That wasn’t because he was disloyal or dishonest, it was just that, well, he couldn’t be relied on. His judgment wasn’t as good on that as it was on other things. He was too emotionally involved.

  That was another thing. Mahmoud was too emotional. Underneath that cool, French, Parquet-style logic Mahmoud was still very much an Arab, emotional, intuitive, hypersensitive. Owen often thought he could understand Mahmoud, and perhaps Arabs in general, better than most Englishmen because he himself was not really an Englishman but a Welshman and Welshmen were supposed to be a bit like that themselves. Usually he got along well with Mahmoud but there were times…

  He sighed and sipped his coffee. On the opposite side of the street little boys were putting out tables for the evening. The cafes on that side of the street filled up in the evenings because the tables gave a good view of the ladies of the night in the rooms above Owen. They bent over the balconies in their filmy gowns, giving observers opposite a great deal more pleasure, Owen suspected than they actually obtained when they plucked up enough courage to cross the street and go inside.

  Why had Mahmoud chosen this moment of all moments to fly off the handle, just when it was particularly necessary to keep a clear head? OK, he had been working hard and it was damned hot and he was probably a bit on edge anyway. Maybe he’d heard some of the criticism. Well, Christ, Owen had heard some of the criticism too. You had to put up with these things. It was no good being thin-skinned.

  Of course, it wasn’t so easy for an Egyptian, there were other things in it as well for them, the fact that the British were their bosses and foreigners, for instance. It wasn’t easy to take-he didn’t find it easy himself that bit about Garvin coming in over him for a start-but you hadn’t got to let it rattle you. You just had to get on with the job. God knows, they weren’t doing too well in that line just at the moment.

  The thought came to him that maybe that was why Mahmoud was so rattled. It wasn’t like him, though.

  Then another thought struck him. Perhaps the reason why Mahmoud had blown his top was that he had not wanted to admit, not even to himself, that there might be truth in what Owen had said, that there was, indeed, a nationalist connection.

  The thought occurred to other people, too. Along with the earlier whispers about Mahmoud came a new one. If Mahmoud was so good, why hadn’t he found out more? Because he wasn’t trying to, came the answer.

  Chapter 9

  Owen’s relations with the Army were not universally unfriendly. He sometimes played tennis with one of the Commander-in-Chief’s aides-de-camp and had been doing so that afternoon. Afterward they had gone to the bar. This was not purely a matter of conviviality. Playing in that heat meant that the body lost water heavily and it was necessary to replenish it. They were, in fact, drinking pints of lemonade, which was certainly not the case with all the other people in the bar at the Sporting Club.

  Among these was a group of young Army officers. They included Naylor. He and Owen nodded to each other politely and Naylor looked curious
ly at John, whom he knew to be a pukka Army officer and therefore, in his view, surprising company for the Mamur Zapt. One of the other subalterns actually knew John and it was not long before they were drawn into a common conversation.

  “Bad show, this kidnapping business,” one of the group remarked to Owen, on learning from John who his companion was. “How are you getting on?”

  “Slowly.”

  “Not easy,” said the other sympathetically, “not with all these Egyptians having a finger in the pie.”

  Owen muttered something noncommittal.

  “Is it true that the Senussi are involved?” another officer asked.

  “The Senussi?” said Naylor.

  “So I’ve heard. I’m sure you’re in a better position to answer that, though, than I am, sir.”

  He turned politely to Owen. The Mamur Zapt, he vaguely knew, was something to do with Intelligence. Besides, Owen was senior.

  “There have been rumors, yes.”

  “I thought the Senussi were desert people,” said someone.

  “They are. That’s why the rumors are unlikely to be true.”

  “They have contacts in the main cities, though, don’t they?” said the subaltern who had first asked about the Senussi. “I’ve been reading about them in the latest batch of newspapers from London. There’s a new book just come out. Caused quite a stir. It’s reviewed in all the papers.”

  “Which book was that?”

  “ The Grand Senussi Conspiracy, it’s called. The chap who wrote it actually spent some time in the Senussi convents at Siwa.”

  “Convents?” said Owen.

  “That’s what they call them. Sort of religious centers.”

  “They’ve been quiet since the last time we gave them a dusting,” said an officer who hadn’t previously spoken.

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean they’ve given up,” said the eager young subaltern who had read all about it. “According to this chap, they’ve got tentacles all over the place. Chop one off and they merely stretch out another.”

  “The French have more to worry about than we have,” said John.

  “Yes, they’re strong in Tunisia and Morocco, of course. But this chap says they’ve got ambitions all over North Africa. And Egypt, he says, is a special target.”

  “Suez,” said one of the young men knowledgeably.

  “India,” said another.

  “Yes, they could threaten our supply routes, all right.”

  The subalterns looked grave.

  “And you think they could be behind these kidnappings, sir?” one of them asked Owen.

  “No, no, no. Highly unlikely.”

  “But I’ve heard-” said the first young officer doggedly.

  “Just a possibility.”

  “All the same-”

  “I don’t think Captain Owen wants to say any more just now, Stephens,” one of the others, more senior, cut in.

  “Oh, I see. Sorry, sir!” said Stephens, abashed.

  “I think we all understand, sir,” said the more senior one, turning to Owen. “You can count on us.”

  “Well, it’s not quite-”

  “The civilians. We understand, sir.”

  “The civilians. Of course!” said the others.

  “Don’t want them to get rattled,” said someone.

  “We won’t say a word. You can rely on us. But when you need us-”

  “We will be ready,” someone finished for him.

  “Thank you,” said Owen, at a loss.

  John led him out, leaving the subalterns gathered in a tight group, heads all together, quiet but buoyant.

  “What the bloody hell’s all this?” asked John, the moment he got Owen outside.

  “I didn’t say anything!” Owen protested.

  “Yes, but is there anything in it?”

  “No!” Owen told him.

  “Nothing much to go on,” said John. “In fact, bloody nothing to go on. Hope it doesn’t get around, though. The Army twitches whenever it hears the word ‘Senussi.’ ”

  The Army twitched. Owen’s phone never stopped ringing. He was asked by all and sundry for “appraisals” of the Senussi threat. Losing his patience-Mahmoud wasn’t the only one who was volatile-he took to referring them to Army Intelligence as this was an Army matter. Ah yes, said some of the inquirers, but what about the civilian threat? What civilian threat? said Owen, and banged the phone down.

  Curiously, the whole business redounded to Owen’s credit. The Mamur Zapt, it was well known, was a deep one. If he denied something you could be sure he had his reasons for doing so. Of course he wouldn’t let on. You couldn’t expect him to. He kept a cool front, went to the opera, went to the Club as usual, played tennis. But behind the scenes he was very active.

  He was, for instance, in close touch with the Sirdar. Not directly, of course, he was too wily for that, but he had been seen playing tennis with one of the Sirdar’s aides. You could make of that what you would! The Army, certainly, was making preparations.

  Owen knew what he was doing, there was no doubt about that. But he had his problems. Those damned Gyppies! Could they be relied upon? Take those kidnappings: there was talk that the Senussi were involved, and certainly the Mamur Zapt was taking quite an interest in them. But the Parquet’s investigation hadn’t got very far, and why was that? It was because when you got down to it those damned Gyppies weren’t sure whose side they were on. How hard were they trying? Did they want to clear things up? Or were they content not to press things too hard, not wanting to rock the boat so far as the Senussi were concerned in case there might come a time when it would be politic to have been friends with Senussi agents.

  The word “Senussi” was on everyone’s lips. How it came there Owen could not be sure. But wherever he went he couldn’t escape it.

  When he went to Shepheard’s, for example, to check with Mahmoud how things were going (Mahmoud wasn’t there), he saw Lucy Colthorpe Hartley on the terrace and went out to have a word with her. She was talking to Naylor and Owen overheard part of their conversation.

  “It’s the Senussi, you see,” he heard Naylor say as he approached.

  “The Senussi?”

  “They’re a sect, a great Mohammedan sect, based out in the Sahara. In fact, to all intents and purposes, they control it. They French have no end of trouble with them. Tunisia, Morocco, Libya-they’re strong in all of them. And they’ve got their eyes on Egypt. Well, they’ll find us a harder nut to crack than the French, I can assure you. We’ll be ready for them! Just let them come our way and we’ll give them what-for!”

  “Yes, but how exactly-I mean, poor Daddy-”

  “Oh, they’re behind it.”

  “But why should they pick on poor Daddy?”

  “Money. They need money to buy arms. And to finance their filthy propaganda.”

  “And so they kidnap Daddy?” Lucy glanced up. “Oh, hallo, Captain Owen. Do come and join us. Gerald was telling me about the Senussi.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” muttered Naylor, a little embarrassed. “I’m sure you know all about the Senussi, Captain Owen.” Owen had no intention of entering into competition.

  “A little. But there’s no real evidence that they have any connection with your father’s disappearance, Miss Colthorpe Hartley.”

  “Just a possibility,” muttered Naylor, backing off shamefacedly.

  “I’ve heard of the Senussi,” said Lucy unexpectedly. “Aren’t they very fanatical?”

  “They’re very strict in their behavior. They are not allowed to smoke or drink or even take coffee, which is quite a hardship for an Arab, Miss Colthorpe Hartley. They have to give up all things of the flesh-”

  “Oh dear!” said Lucy.

  “-and that includes such things as dancing-”

  “I don’t think I’d like that.”

  “-and conjuring.”

  “Gracious!”

  “All levity. That would be a blow for you, Miss Colthorpe Hartley!”

&
nbsp; “Thank you.”

  “They are forbidden to have any dealings with Christians. That includes doing business with them, buying things from Christian-owned shops, even talking to Christians.”

  “That is puzzling,” said Lucy, wrinkling up her nose. “I thought you and Mr. El Zaki were sure that it was someone working at the hotel. If they were doing that, how could they be Senussi?”

  “They needn’t be Senussi themselves,” Naylor broke in. “They could just be an accomplice. And it’s not just one. They’re all in it, you know, the whole pack of them.”

  “Yes,” said Lucy. “I remember you saying that before. Do you think they have an accomplice in the hotel, Captain Owen?”

  “They could have. But actually it wouldn’t be necessary to go outside the Senussi orders for that. A certain category of Senussi is permitted dealings with Christians. For business purposes only, of course. They’re called Wekils.”

  “And you think there could be a-a Wekil on the hotel staff?”

  “I don’t think we have to assume that there’s necessarily any Senussi connection at all, Miss Colthorpe Hartley.”

  “Quite,” said Naylor, remembering that he was not supposed to be alarming the civilians. “Quite so. You mustn’t be alarmed, Lucy. The Army is here to protect you.”

  “If the Army is all like you, Gerald, dear,” said Lucy, “I am sure I feel greatly encouraged.”

  There were fourteen for dinner at the Charges. There were two couples from the French consulate, another couple from the Italian, Owen and Zeinab, Madame Moulin and the Charge, a Syrian businessman and his wife, who hardly said anything the whole evening, and a visiting American lady who spoke a great deal, which served Paul right, who was supposed to be looking after her.

  Madame Moulin had taken a fancy to Zeinab and after dinner motioned to her to come and sit down on the chaise longue beside her. The Charge had gone Arab to the extent of having dispensed with chairs and the guests sat around on cushions. In deference to senior visitors, however, which would shortly include his mother, who was, he informed Owen, very demanding, he had acquired a low chaise longue. Zeinab swept elegantly across the room and soon she and Madame Moulin were chatting happily away.