The Mingrelian Conspiracy
A Mamur Zapt Mystery
Michael Pearce
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright
Copyright © 1995, 2017
First E-book Edition 2017
ISBN: 9781464208829 ebook
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
Poisoned Pen Press
6962 E. First Ave., Ste. 103
Scottsdale, AZ 85251
www.poisonedpenpress.com
[email protected]
Contents
The Mingrelian Conspiracy
Copyright
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
More from this Author
Contact Us
Chapter One
‘Once upon a time there was a woman called Rice Pudding and—’
‘One moment,’ said the Chief of the Secret Police: ‘Rice Pudding?’
‘Yes. And one day she was sitting at her window—’
‘Rice Pudding?’ said the Chief of Police warningly.
‘It was a long time ago,’ said the storyteller defensively.
‘Very well. Proceed.’
‘And suddenly she saw, down in the street below, a dervish looking very important and wearing round his neck a huge necklace made of the spouts off clay water jars strung together like beads. “What do you have for sale?” she called down to him. “Names,” he said. “How much does a name cost?” “A hundred piastres.” Now—’
‘Perhaps you could just tell me,’ suggested the Chief of Police, ‘where you had got to?’
‘He had got to the bit,’ said one of the bystanders helpfully, ‘when she had lost her new name and a blind man had found it and tied it up in a sack—’
‘Hey!’ said the storyteller angrily. ‘Who’s telling the story? You or me?’
‘And was just about to carry it up the stairs—’
‘When Mustapha cried out,’ said the constable excitedly, unable to keep quiet any longer.
‘Mustapha?’ said the Chief of the Secret Police, who was having difficulties.
‘From inside the café! I heard him!’
‘Mustapha is the man who was injured?’
‘That’s right, Effendi! While we were listening to the story.’
‘And I heard the cry,’ said the constable. ‘Oh, Effendi, it was a terrible cry! So I rushed at once into the café—’
‘No, you didn’t!’ objected someone.
‘Ahmed, are you looking for trouble?’
‘I’m only saying you didn’t rush in. You stayed right where you were.’
‘We all did,’ said someone else. ‘It was a terrible cry.’ The crowd was pressing forward, eager to help.
‘And then Leila called for help!’
‘And we all rushed in—’
‘Led by me,’ said the constable swiftly.
‘And found Mustapha lying there.’
‘Right!’ said the Chief of the Secret Police. ‘So we’re not in the story now; we’re in what really happened?’
‘Yes, Effendi, that’s right. And there was Mustapha, lying in a pool of blood—’
Owen sighed. ‘What really happened’ was always a relative matter in Cairo. There had been, for instance, no pool of blood. The proprietor of the café had had his legs broken, which was the usual penalty for noncompliance when the gangs made their initial request. He glanced back over his shoulder.
‘Where is Mustapha now?’ he asked.
‘Upstairs, Effendi. The hakim is with him.’
‘Right. Well, I am going in to have a talk with him. In private. So you can all go home. There’ll be nothing for you to see. No more excitement.’
He knew, however, that his words were wasted. The crowd would stay on in the hope of further drama at least until he left and probably long after.
‘Keep them out,’ he said to the constable. ‘I don’t want any company.’
‘Right, Effendi!’ said the constable, taking out his baton with alacrity. When Owen had arrived, the first thing he had had to do was clear the café of all sightseers, which meant the whole neighbourhood. They were all now packed in the street outside, which was jammed from one end to the other.
The constable stationed himself in front of the entrance and swung his arm.
‘Oy!’ said someone indignantly. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘That’ll teach you, Ahmed!’ said the constable, grinning. Owen gave him a warning look and then went inside. The café had obviously started life as a traditional Arab one and there were still stone benches round the walls with low tables in front of them and a rack of hose-stemmed bubble pipes in one corner. An attempt was being made, however, to take it up market. The central part of the floor was occupied by standard wooden European chairs and tables and scattered around were various European fixtures and fittings: a large gilt mirror, for instance, which might have strayed out of an East London pub. The density of the chairs and tables, and the fact that the café could afford a storyteller, suggested that it was popular. Just the kind of place, thought Owen, to attract the attention of the gangs.
A flight of stairs led upwards to the family’s living quarters. In one of the rooms Owen found a cluster of people around a rope bed on which a man was lying. He had his trousers off and a man in a dark suit and fez was bending over him. A woman, unveiled, was wiping his face with a cloth.
‘You wouldn’t listen, would you?’ she said.
The man ignored her. The doctor saw Owen and straightened up.
‘Another one,’ he said.
‘Just the legs?’
‘A smack or two in the face.’
‘They broke my nose,’ the man on the bed said, putting up his hand to feel his face. ‘The bastards!’
The doctor inspected him critically.
‘It’ll be all right,’ he said, ‘when the swelling goes down. Your mouth will want some repair work, though. A couple of teeth have gone.’
The man felt gingerly inside his mouth with one finger and then sat bolt upright.
‘It’s the gold one! Leila, look in my mouth. It’s the gold one, isn’t it?’
The woman wiped the blood away and peered.
‘It looks like it,’ she said.
‘Then where is it?’
‘It’ll be on the floor somewhere.’
‘Go down and look for it! At once! Before any of those other bastards finds it and makes off with it!’
The woman hurried out of the room.
‘Bastards!’ said the man, lying back. Owen moved forward.
‘How do you feel?’ he asked sympathetically.
‘Bad!’ said the man, without opening his eyes.
‘I’ll come and see you tomorrow,’ said Owen, �
��and we can talk more. But there’s something I need to know quickly. The men; what were they like?’
The man was silent.
‘You must have seen them,’ insisted Owen.
The man looked up, as if registering his presence for the first time.
‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘I saw them, all right.’
‘Recognize any of them?’
‘No. As soon as I saw the clubs I knew what I was in for, though.’
‘Can you give me a description?’
‘What’s the use?’ said the man.
‘Scars?’
‘Sudanis, you mean? Well, it might have been. We’ve got enough around.’ He reflected a moment, then shook his head.
‘It all happened so fast.’
‘Were they wearing galabeeyahs? Or trousers?’
Some of the gangs were westernized. It might help to narrow the field.
‘Do you know,’ said the man, ‘I can’t remember. I really can’t remember.’
***
‘Another one who won’t talk?’ The army major pursed his lips. ‘We need to take a tougher line.’
‘It’s the only way.’
The speaker was new to the committee. Paul, in the chair, raised his eyebrows.
‘Captain—?’
‘Shearer,’ said the major, introducing. ‘Just joined us. The Sirdar thought he might be useful. Experience with Arabs. The Gulf. Knows how to handle them.’
‘Bedouin?’ said Paul. ‘I think you may find the urban Egyptian a little different, Captain Shearer.’
‘They’re all the same.’
‘I bow to your experience. And how long is it that you’ve been in Cairo?’
‘I arrived last week,’ said Shearer, flushing slightly.
‘It’s true, though,’ insisted the major. ‘They are all the same. Stick a knife through you as soon as look at you. I mean, that’s what this meeting is about, isn’t it? Stopping them getting hold of guns.’
‘It’s true that we have reason to suppose that some of the money the gangs collect through their protection rackets finds its way to the purchase of guns,’ said Paul.
‘Well, there you are, then. And we know who they’ll be used against!’
‘Armed uprising,’ said the third member of the Army team loyally.
‘Armed uprising?’ said Owen incredulously. ‘Do you know what the scale of this is?’
‘Bloody vast,’ said the major.
‘Infinitesimal. There are less than a dozen gangs and fewer than twenty men in each. Two hundred men. Out of a population in the city of eight hundred thousand!’
‘If there are so few,’ said the major, ‘why don’t you get on top of them?’
Paul sighed.
‘Operating in a city is not quite like operating against a few armed tribesmen in the desert,’ he said.
‘There I have to disagree with you,’ said the new man, Captain Shearer. ‘I think some of the lessons we’ve learned in the Gulf are very applicable in Cairo.’
‘Quite right,’ said the major approvingly.
‘What had you in mind?’ asked Owen. ‘Machine guns?’
‘Not quite that,’ said Shearer. ‘Although I do think you shouldn’t underrate the part machine guns could play in dealing with mass disturbance in the squares. No, what I was thinking of was armed patrols on the streets—’
‘There’s hardly a need for that,’ said Owen. ‘It’s a peaceful city.’
‘People getting their legs broken?’ said the major. ‘I’d hardly call that peaceful.’
‘You’ve got to see it in proportion.’
‘The trouble is,’ said Shearer, ‘the proportion can very soon change if you don’t stamp on this kind of thing at once.’
‘Armed patrols?’ said Owen. ‘For God’s sake!’
‘From what I’ve seen,’ said Paul, ‘especially on the nights after they’ve been paid, it’s the soldiers who are responsible for half the trouble!’
‘I won’t deny there’s been the odd spot of bother recently,’ said the major defensively.
‘Actually, sir,’ said Shearer, turning eagerly towards him, ‘that rather supports the point I was making last night.’
‘Oh, yes?’ said the major vaguely.
‘About unifying the policing of the city. The need to deploy more Military Police and bring security under a single command, preferably military—’
‘What are you suggesting?’ said Paul. ‘Putting Cairo under military law?’
‘Well—’
‘Or are you merely saying that since the Army is responsible for most of the criminal violence that there is in the city, it should do something about it?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that—’
‘He’s right, though,’ said the major doggedly. ‘There ought to be a crackdown.’
Paul began to gather up his papers.
‘Well, thank you, gentlemen. It’s always a pleasure to hear the views of the Army. And most helpful to have a new contribution! I’m sure you’re right, Captain Shearer, we all have much to learn. I’m afraid you’ll find, though, when you’ve been here a little longer, that the situation in Egypt is not quite as straightforward as you suppose. Nor is Egyptian police work.’
***
No, indeed. To start with the question of what the British were doing in Egypt anyway: they were there, they said, by invitation of the ruler of Egypt, the Khedive, to help him sort out the country’s chaotic finances. True, the invitation had been nearly thirty years before and they were still there; but then, the finances were very complicated. True, too, that their help now extended very widely. There was a British adviser alongside every minister. There were Englishmen at the head of the police and the Army. And the British Consul-General was always there to advise the Khedive. But then, it was hard to separate finance from the general running of the country, as the Khedive soon sadly discovered.
It was true, however, that a number of people in Egypt, and most certainly the Khedive, had come to feel that the help was no longer necessary. But then, as Nationalist newspapers frequently observed, a growing number of Egyptians felt that the Khedive was no longer necessary either.
The situation was indeed not straightforward. Egypt had in effect two governments, the formal one of the Khedive and the shadow one of the British administration. In these circumstances a certain dexterity was required of administrators.
It was particularly required of the Mamur Zapt, a post traditional to, and peculiar to, Cairo. Broadly, Owen was responsible for what was coming to be known as security. In England the nearest equivalent was Head of the Political Branch of the Criminal Investigation Department. In Egypt the Mamur Zapt was traditionally thought of as Head of the Sultan’s Secret Police. There was now no Sultan and, as a matter of fact, no Secret Police either; but views were slow to change.
Owen was, then, answerable for security. But answerable to whom? It was a question asked frequently by the Khedive and occasionally by the Consul-General and Owen never quite found the right answer. Khedive and Consul both agreed, however, that his duties should be carried out so discreetly as not to cause trouble. Owen was in favour of this, too, very much so, only it was not always easy to achieve in this city of sixty nationalities, most of whom were always at each other’s throats, one hundred and twelve different ethnic groups, ditto, two hundred plus sects of a variety of religions, even more ditto, and growing Egyptian nationalism. Not to mention the fact that there was not one but three legal systems, each with its own courts, among which agile criminals could slip with eternal impunity.
No, indeed, policing in Egypt was not straightforward, thought Owen, as he sat benignly in a café at that corner of the Ataba-el-Khadra where the Musky debouches into the square. That stupid meeting with the Army had taken up so much of the
morning that he had been obliged to go back to his office in the afternoon, which, at this time of the year, very few people did. Throughout the morning the heat built up so that, despite the closed shutters and the whirling fans, by noon everybody was wilting. They clung nobly on till about one o’clock, or, in the case of the British, eager to demonstrate both the heaviness of their workload and their superiority to the elements, two o’clock, and then thankfully packed it in for the day and went home for their siesta. Owen could never sleep during the day and usually went to the baths at this time to have a swim while the pool was empty. Not infrequently he then went back to the office and stayed there until the twilit hour when the day suddenly cooled and all the cafés came alive. Then he headed for a nearby one, along with half the population of Cairo.
There were, he had long ago decided, two stages. In the first, people woke up from their siesta, stretched themselves and thought that a little air would do them good. They went out into the street and found by some strange coincidence that everyone else was doing the same. They strolled along together, every few steps stopping to greet acquaintances, until the sun dropped below the minarets and suddenly the thought struck them how pleasant it would be to step aside for a moment and take a little coffee in one of those tiny cafés that, conveniently, cropped up every few yards in Cairo. Indeed, Cairo seemed at times one continuous café. They would sit there chatting and watching the world go by— since most of the tables were outside—until the time came for dinner, when they would rise, shake hands with the entire café, and depart.
The second stage followed immediately afterwards, when people would arise from their evening meal, feel the need for a breath of air, go outside and in no time at all finish up in a café, where they would remain for the rest of the evening. Life in the hot season was best lived out of doors, Cairenes were naturally sociable people, and the café world took over.
There, if you sat long enough, you would meet everyone you wanted to see. Take that fat Greek, for instance, about to drop into a chair a few tables away; Owen had been wanting to talk to him for days.
He waved a hand. The Greek came over and joined him.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Checking out possible places.’
The Mingrelian Conspiracy Page 1
