‘What had Tvardovsky done,’ asked Owen, ‘that the Tsar should reach out for him?’
Strakhov hesitated.
‘I do not know what he had done. I know only that the Tsar’s reach is long.’
‘But he must have done something,’ said Owen, ‘for the Tsar to reach out for him.’
‘He helped people. Others beside me. There was a woman he worked with. She used to help to get people out, people who were wanted by the Okhrana. There were a lot of us after the strike. She used to go to places like Istanbul and Budapest and wait for people there. She used to pretend that she was selling art objects, antiques—she was able to get hold of them partly through Tvardovsky, partly through a friend they had in the Fayoum.’
‘And you think that perhaps the Okhrana—?’
‘There is a man at the Consulate who works for the Okhrana. He had begun to be around a lot, always asking questions. And after Tvardovsky died, he came and searched his rooms—’
‘Just a moment,’ said Owen. ‘How do you know it was him?’
‘One of the seamen saw him. He knew him, of course, we know all those men. His name is Tobin—’
‘Tobin?’ said Owen.
‘Yes. He came to warn me. Tobin had policemen with him and we thought they would be coming next to us. Well, they didn’t. Not that day. It was two days later that they came and took me away.’
***
Some way off, among the orange trees, there was the crack of a shot. Owen met Prince Fuad as he was coming back to the house. He was carrying two dead pigeons.
‘Pigeons!’ he said disgustedly, showing them to Owen. ‘That’s all there is round here. I think I must get away for some proper shooting. To the Fayoum, perhaps.’
***
Mahmoud took Strakhov back to Cairo with him on the next train. Owen caught the train in the other direction, going to Alexandria. There he went to call on Messieurs Demetriades and Atiyah. Yes, they said, as a matter of fact there were a number of share certificates among Tvardovsky’s effects.
Could Owen see them?
Demetriades looked at Atiyah and Atiyah looked at Demetriades.
‘Other people have asked that,’ said Demetriades.
‘And we have said no,’ said Atiyah.
‘However—’
Among the titles to ownership were several in names that he recognized. Prince Fuad was one. Irena Kundasova was another. Sayid Al-Akham was another. Sayid Al-Akham? Of course, that was the headmaster. And what was this? Among the share certificates were titles to land also, many of them. What was the name, now? Abdullah. Yes, in the titles to land was one in the name of Abdullah Farkit—the old man previously in possession of the parcel of land where Pharaohs had so fortunately shat.
The holding in Irena Kundasova’s name was particularly large. Owen thought for a moment and then turned to the lawyers.
‘The effect of the will is to return these certificates to Irena Kundasova, is it not?’
‘It should certainly do that.’
‘What about the others?’
‘That,’ said Demetriades, ‘is an interesting question. Legally, I mean. There is, naturally, a presumption that the shares belong to the people in whose names they are made out. However, if they have been lodged as security against sums paid out, then the estate could claim that, in default of the sums being repaid, ownership reverts to the estate.’
‘But then,’ said Owen, ‘if there are doubts about the basis of the whole transaction—’
The eyebrows of Demetriades and Atiyah shot up.
‘Doubts?’
‘Legal ones, I mean.’
‘Legal?’
The eyebrows shot still higher.
‘Come on,’ said Owen, ‘you know what he was at. Some of these are shares in the Fayoum Light Railway Company, in which the ownership of shares is restricted to native Egyptians.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘And others are in the Covered Markets Company, where at one time there was thought to be a high chance of a similar restriction.’
‘Oh?’
‘Come on,’ said Owen. ‘He was trying to get round the restriction, wasn’t he?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Demetriades, after a moment.
‘And yet—’ said Atiyah.
‘You make it sound as if it was just a deliberate breach of the law!’ said Demetriades.
‘Well, wasn’t it?’
‘Ye-es,’ said Demetriades unwillingly.
‘And no,’ cut in Atiyah.
‘It was a defensive manoeuvre,’ said Demetriades.
‘And not on his own behalf,’ said Atiyah.
‘Indeed not,’ concurred Demetriades. ‘It was to save the companies from being illicitly taken over.’
‘You could say—in fact, I would argue this strongly in court—that our client’s intention was not to pervert justice but to see that it was maintained.’
‘Well, that would be a novel defence,’ said Owen.
***
He came out into the Place Mohammed Ali, with its great statue, and turned left towards the Bourse, where he had been told he would find Savinkov. The Bourse was in an old mansion, the Palais Tossiza, which had once belonged to a Greek merchant and which had now been divided into the corn exchange at one end and the stock exchange at the other. Both exchanges had closed now but dealers were still sitting in the cafés outside.
Savinkov must have been watching out for him, for as Owen approached, he got up and came towards him. They found an empty table some way away from the others and sat down.
‘Mr. Savinkov,’ said Owen, ‘were you one of the people helping Natasha and Tvardovsky to get revolutionaries out of Russia?’
‘How do you know about that?’
‘Through Strakhov.’
Savinkov shrugged.
‘I just provided money.’
‘You weren’t part of the organization?’
‘No.’
‘Was Tvardovsky?’
‘No. There wasn’t really an organization. It was just a few individuals, Natasha mostly, but they could call on the support of the seamen’s union.’
‘Nevertheless, you contributed. Tell me, Mr. Savinkov, did you have any fear that because of that the Okhrana might one day reach out for you?’
The Russian seemed surprised.
‘No,’ he said.
‘As it reached out for Tvardovsky?’
‘Did Strakhov say that? He is talking nonsense. The Okhrana has better things to do. The trouble with Strakhov—as it is with many who have suffered under the Tsar, Natasha also—is that he thinks the Okhrana is still pursuing him.’
‘Well, isn’t it?’
‘Strakhov, perhaps,’ Savinkov conceded. ‘But Tvardovsky? No.’
‘And yet a member of the Okhrana was asking questions about Tvardovsky in the days before he died.’
‘Was he?’
‘Yes. And he ransacked Tvardovsky’s room after he died.’
‘Did he?’
‘Tobin,’ said Owen.
‘Oh.’
‘I don’t think this comes as any surprise to you, Mr. Savinkov,’ said Owen.
‘Possibly not.’
‘I think he was also the European Effendi who searched Irena Kundasova’s house.’
‘That did surprise me,’ said Savinkov. ‘A little.’
‘But not much?’
‘I had my suspicions.’
‘Irena Kundasova knew he was a Russian and thought he was from the Third Section. Of course, he was not from the Third Section but from the Okhrana. But was he working for the Okhrana, Mr. Savinkov, when he broke into Irena Kundasova’s house?’
‘Possibly not,’ said Savinkov, after a moment.
‘Or when he searched Tv
ardovsky’s rooms?’
‘That is more questionable. But probably not then, either.’
‘Then who was he working for, Mr. Savinkov? I ask you, knowing that you were a friend of Tvardovsky’s.’
‘That, Captain Owen, you must leave to others,’ said Savinkov, getting up from the table. ‘Knowing that they were Tvardovsky’s friends.’
***
Back in Cairo the next morning, Owen was arranging his and Zeinab’s holiday weekend in the Fayoum. That took some doing. The hotel by the lake did not have a telephone; nor did its mother hotel in Medinet; nor, it appeared almost, did anyone else in the Fayoum.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ expostulated Owen.
‘We haven’t got there yet,’ said the official defensively.
‘Where have you got?’
‘We’ve got trunk lines to Alexandria and Port Said and one or two other places are on the system.’
‘The Fayoum?’
‘Not the Fayoum. Important places. Like where my mother lives.’
‘The Fayoum is an important place. There’s a lot of development going on there—’
‘The Fayoum?’ said the official, mock-innocently. ‘Where’s that?’
***
‘Try State Telegraphs,’ advised Nikos.
The State Telegraph service formed part of the railway administration and at first it was the same story there.
‘The Fayoum?’ said the official doubtfully. ‘I don’t think we’ve got an office there. Why don’t you telegraph somewhere else?’
‘Look,’ said Owen, ‘you’re part of the railways. The Fayoum’s got railways. Surely you can get in touch with them?’
‘Well—’
‘The Fayoum Light Railway Company,’ said Owen, with a flash of inspiration. ‘Why don’t you try them?’
Impressed, the official picked up the message. Then he hesitated.
‘But how is it going to get from their offices to the hotel?’
‘You’re going to ask them to send on the message by bearer. And you’re going to tell them that if it doesn’t get there the Mamur Zapt is going to come down in person and devise excrutiating torments for them!’
The manager of the office, a short, round, cherry-faced Egyptian, stuck his head in at that point.
‘Having trouble?’
‘I’m just trying to send a telegram to the Fayoum!’
‘That shouldn’t be difficult. We have a local arrangement with a company there. Here, let me have it. I’ll see it gets through.’
He came into the room and took the slip from his subordinate.
‘The Fayoum’s a rapidly developing area,’ said Owen, mollified. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t got your own office there.’
‘We will have. In fact, it will be one of the biggest in the country—a really exciting project,’ said the manager enthusiastically. ‘You’re right: the Fayoum is a developing area. And a service like this would make a big difference to it. I think people can see this already—you’d be amazed at the amount of interest there is down there! We’ve had so many tenders, you wouldn’t believe—’
‘Tenders?’ said Owen.
‘Yes. For construction and installation.’
‘Do you have the names of the tenderers?’
‘I have the tenders themselves. In fact, I was just going through them when—’
‘Could I have a look at them?’
He followed the manager into his office. On his desk was a large open file containing a bundle of papers. Owen picked up the top set.
‘Breithorst.’ He turned the pages over. ‘Where are they registered?’
‘Berlin, I think.’
‘Leblanc Construction?’
‘Paris.’
‘Jones and Waring—no need to ask. Cowie and Macdonald. Mactavity Cement. Richards Grant—’
He laid the papers down.
‘Any Egyptians?’
‘Well, there are the Kfouri Brothers, of course.’
***
With the main business of the day, main, that is, so far as he was concerned—getting their holiday booked—accomplished, Owen returned to his office. The next day’s newspapers were beginning to come in. Prominent among them—and unusually early—was Al-Liwa. Nikos had put it on top of the pile and marked one item heavily with a blue pencil. Owen picked it up and read the item.
It referred to a recent high-handed action of a member of the royal family noted for his intemperate conduct. He had, it appeared, personally intervened and extricated from custody a man held quite legitimately—who was, in fact, facing extradition—and gone off with him. Was such imperiousness to be endured, the newspaper thundered? Did the royal family think it was still living in the days of Mohammed Ali? How did it imagine such behaviour was viewed by those—and there were many of them in Egypt—who believed in the principles of liberal constitutionalism? To say nothing about how it would look to our international friends—something that was especially important at this particularly critical time!
If the news was coming out in tomorrow’s Al-Liwa, the other newspapers would already have it, too. Ho-hum, thought Owen, and sat back to await developments.
They were not long in coming.
First, an agitated phone call came from the prison administration at Alexandria.
‘Captain Owen, a strange—a dreadful!—thing has happened!’
‘Good heavens! What is it?’
‘A man has escaped from one of our prisons!’
‘Escaped?’
‘Well, not exactly escaped…’
There was a long silence.
‘The fact is, Captain Owen, that someone came in and took him out.’
‘Took him out? But, surely—’
‘The difficulty is, Captain Owen,’ said the voice unhappily, ‘that it was a prince of the blood.’
‘Well, that is very difficult. However, I don’t see why you are ringing me.’
‘We need to find this man at once. The Russian Consul—’
‘I suggest you speak to the Alexandria Police,’ said Owen happily.
A little later the phone rang again. It was Mathews, the Head of the Alexandria Police Force. He sounded oddly diffident.
‘Owen, got a spot of bother here. Wondered if you could help. Fact is, a chap’s got out of one of our prisons. Well, not exactly got out. Was taken out. By one of the royal princes.’
‘Hm,’ said Owen. ‘High up, eh? Sounds bad. When you’ve been in this country as long as I have, you find that some things have a bit of a smell. I suggest you get on to the Minister.’
Not the Minister, but a Deputy Minister rang up next.
‘Nothing to do with me,’ said Owen, remembering the run-around Mahmoud had been given in Alexandria. ‘Why don’t you try the Ministry of Justice?’
And when the Ministry of Justice rang up, he said:
‘No, no, I’m nothing to do with any of this. They’ve kept me out. Why don’t you try the Ministry of the Interior?’
This time it was Henderson, the Adviser, who rang up.
‘I can’t speak for the royal family,’ said Owen, enjoying this. ‘You’ll have to get on to the Khedive’s office.’
It was not long before the Khedive’s office was on the phone.
‘Try speaking to Prince Fuad,’ he said.
‘We have,’ said the man from the Khedive’s office. There was a short silence. ‘It was not very productive,’ he said.
‘Dear, dear!’
‘But he did say that if there were any questions, they should be put to you.’
This was a bit of a poser.
‘There are a lot of questions, certainly. But I don’t think they should be put to me. Try putting them to the Minister of the Interior, for a start.’
�
�It is all very odd,’ said the man from the Khedive’s office, puzzled. He hesitated. ‘Could you tell me just what is Strakhov’s connection with the British Navy?’
‘The British Navy!’
‘Yes. Apparently the British Admiralty has been much involved—’
And then Henderson rang again.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We know you’ve got him.’
‘Oh, but I’m holding him legally,’ said Owen. ‘On grounds of security.’
***
It was perhaps this that prompted a call in person from a senior member of the Russian Consulate.
‘We understand that you are holding one of our nationals.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Owen assured him. ‘Due process will be followed. He will be brought before a court and given legal representation. That is, if you wish to bring any charges against him.’
‘We are applying for extradition.’
‘Fine!’ said Owen. ‘It will be all right to use the ordinary channels.’
The Consulate official drummed on the table with his fingers.
‘We were hoping to dispense with that.’
‘Surely not?’
‘The Capitulations—’
‘Make no mention of such dispensation. However,’ said Owen carelessly, ‘that is a legal matter and quite beyond me. It will have to be decided by the courts.’
The official sat thinking.
‘By the way,’ said Owen, ‘what is the nature of Russia’s interest in the Fayoum?’
‘In the Fayoum?’ said the official, startled. ‘I don’t think we have one.’
‘I came across one of your staff doing research into companies in the Fayoum, that’s all.’
Death of an Effendi Page 15
