It was most unlike him. Certainly, like most Nationalists and, indeed, most Egyptians, he chafed at his country’s subservience to foreign interests and objected, in particular, to British rule; but up till now he had always been temperate and pragmatic about this, believing that Reason-Mahmoud was a great man for Reason-and the ordinary political processes would in the end deliver Egypt from its foreign yoke. The sanguinary rhetoric of the extremists was not for him.
And yet here he was supposing things about the Belgians which would not have been out of place sixty years before at the court of Muhammed Ali! Muhammed’s daughter, taking after her father, had been in the habit of having slave girls who had fallen asleep on duty disembowelled in her bedroom.
It was most unlike him. So unlike him that Owen began to wonder.
Salah-el-Din took Owen to a little square not far from the Pont de Limoun. There was a fountain in the square and a small crowd had gathered in front of it. Among them, Owen could see the railway workers. They stood in a group, huddled together sheepishly, occasionally casting a longing look over their shoulders at a small cafe on the other side of the square, as if they would rather have been there than here and as if they might have been tempted to make a bolt for it had they not been hemmed in.
It was a hot evening and most of the little houses in the square had their front doors open. From the yards at the back came drifting the smell of charcoal and burning cooking fat, and then a very pungent smell of fried onions.
One or two of the households had already finished their evening meal and had come out to sit on their doorsteps, trying to catch a breath of cooler air. They called across to the men sitting on the big stone bench, the mastaba, that ran along the front of the cafe. Other men were sitting on the ground in front of them. Mixed with the smell of charcoal and fat came now a strong smell of coffee.
Darkness fell quickly at this time of year. Already people in the crowd were lighting torches. On the side of the square opposite the cafe the dome of a mosque was beginning to show against the sky.
There was the sound of singing in one of the side streets and then a small procession came into the square carrying cresset torches, long staves with bits of burning wood attached to them, and chanting slogans.
They marched up to the fountain and pushed through the crowd. The men with torches gathered around the base of the fountain. Owen could see now that the water had been turned off. A man began to climb up on to the base.
It was dark now in the square. Only the cafe was lit up. The dome of the mosque was very clear against a deep-blue velvety sky. There was a little group of men standing in front of its doors, the local imam, probably, with some of his helpers.
The men at the fountain held their cressets up to illuminate the speaker on the plinth. He wore a dark suit and a tarboosh. Apart from one or two of the men who had come with him, no one else in the crowd wore a tarboosh. They were all in galabeahs, the long, dress-like costume of the ordinary Cairo working man, and skull caps.
That was how it was, thought Owen. The Nationalist Party drew almost all its strength from office workers and from the professional classes. They hardly touched ordinary working people. There was as big a gulf between them and the ordinary people of Egypt as there was between the ruling Pashas and most educated Egyptians. Egypt was a country divided among itself.
The man on the plinth began to speak. It was the usual Nationalist line. The rich were assailed, foreigners were attacked. But it was a man in a suit who was speaking and the crowd listened for the most part in silence.
Here, though, suddenly, was something different. The speaker began to talk about the railway. Railways were good, he said. It was through railways that a modern Egypt would be built. But why did they have to be built by foreigners? Were there no Egyptians who could build them?
But, pardon him, he had made a mistake. They were built by Egyptians, by people like those he could see before him in the crowd below. It was Egyptian hands that laid the tracks. But was it Egyptian people who got the money? Was it Egyptian mouths that got the bread? No, it was foreign mouths that got the bread. Only it wasn’t bread they wanted, it was cake! With icing on it! The Egyptians did the work but it was the foreigners who benefited.
And it was hard work! His friends down below him could testify to that. It was hard work, back-breaking work. And now they were about to heap more on weary shoulders! Had they not heard about the straw that broke the camel’s back? And this was no straw that they were piling on. No, indeed.
Their hearts went out to their weary brothers. They would not struggle alone. The country was with them. There was action they could take and if they took it, they would find they were not without friends. No, indeed.
But this time the foreigners had overreached themselves. Not content with oppressing their workers, they seemed determined now to offend everyone else. An insult to religion was an insult to all Egyptians. God’s Day was holy; and Egyptians, he said, raising his voice for the benefit of those gathered on the steps in front of the mosque, were determined to keep it holy!
He waited for the cheers, and indeed they came, but not exactly enthusiastically. The little group before the mosque did not join in. If there was a gap between the Nationalists and the ordinary Cairene, there was an even wider gap between the Nationalists and the Church. The Nationalist Party was predominantly secular. They were a modernizing party and modernizing, for many of them, meant sweeping away much of the influence of the Church.
Which the Church knew very well. The imam would have spotted this tactic a mile off. Even so, thought Owen, it might be worth keeping an eye on how successful the tactic was. Ordinary people might be less discriminating than the imam and if the Nationalists could add religious fervour to popular hostility then they could make a lot of trouble.
The orator, as was the way with Arab orators, continued for another hour or two before bringing his final peroration to a close. His friends helped him to climb down. In the light of the cresset torches Owen could see them clearly. As the party prepared to move off, one of the men talking to the speaker turned and Owen saw his face. It was Wahid. Not the Wahid of the railway line, in skull cap and galabeah, and begrimed with sweat, but a Wahid in the sharp, cheap suit and tasselled tarboosh of the smart, young, Nationalist effendi.
‘Satisfied?’ said Salah-el-Din.
Unexpectedly, Owen received a request from Mahmoud to hold the three brothers for a few days longer. He was rather relieved. The brothers had been on his conscience. It was all very well holding them in their own best interests-he was fairly convinced that if they were released Ibrahim’s family would take a pot-shot at them-but it was hard to justify in terms of law. Something must have turned up for Mahmoud to be making this request.
It meant, too, that Mahmoud must still be working on the village end. Owen had feared, from what Mahmoud had said the last time they had met, that he was about to shift his attention entirely to the Syndicate end-if Syndicate end there was.
Cheered by the thought that things were moving, he rang up Mahmoud to say that of course he would continue to hold the brothers if that was what Mahmoud wanted. Mahmoud, caught off guard by the call, tried to remain distant but found it hard when Owen was being so conciliatory.
‘You’re getting somewhere, then?’
‘Yes.’ Mahmoud hesitated. ‘I think so. Do you need grounds for holding?’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
This, from the point of view of keeping his distance, made matters worse for Mahmoud. What made it even more difficult was that Mahmoud himself had doubts about the strict legality of holding the men further. They were being held under powers special to the Mamur Zapt. Mahmoud, on principle, did not believe the Mamur Zapt should have such powers. They were not assigned him in the Legal Code; and for Mahmoud the Code was Bible-or, possibly, Koran.
However, he was rather glad of the powers on this occasion, for he was not at all sure that holding the brothers could be justified
by the normal letter of the law.
‘I ought to give you grounds,’ he said determinedly.
‘Fine!’
Mahmoud hesitated.
‘Unfortunately, it is not quite straightforward.’
‘Like to talk to me about it?’
‘That might be a good idea,’ said Mahmoud, relieved. Not all legal considerations, after all, had to be written down.
They met, as usual, on neutral ground, at a cafe halfway between the Ministry of Justice and Owen’s office at the Bab-el-Khalk. It was an Arab cafe and outside it were several little white asses, waiting for their owners. Inside, water-pipes were bubbling. Neither Owen nor Mahmoud, however, were smoking men, Owen from inclination, Mahmoud out of Muslim conviction. Today he felt slightly relieved at his strictness. Any more relaxing of rules would have made him feel very uneasy.
‘Well, what have you found?’ said Owen, sipping his coffee.
‘I need a little more time,’ said Mahmoud, ‘but I think I’ve got it.’
‘Got what?’
‘The connection. You remember,’ he said, ‘that I was looking for a connection with the Syndicate. Well, I think I’ve found it.’
Owen listened with sinking heart. Was Mahmoud still on that tack?
‘I had hoped you had found out something more in the village,’ he said. ‘I mean, if we’re going to justify holding them-’
‘But that’s it,’ said Mahmoud, bending forward earnesdy, ‘that is what I have found. A connection between the brothers and the Syndicate. One of the brothers, Ali, his name is, hangs around at the Helwan racetrack a lot. He’s in with a gang there.’
‘Well, that’s interesting. But what has it got to do with-?’
‘The Syndicate’s building a racetrack out at Heliopolis.’
‘Well?’
‘Gambling’s important to them.’
‘I know that. They’ve applied for a licence to open a saloon at the hotel they’re building there.’
‘They’re opening the racetrack very soon. Even before they’ve finished building.’
‘They need the cash, I think.’
‘I think so, too,’ said Mahmoud. ‘I think they need it badly.’
Owen looked at him.
‘You’re not suggesting they need it badly enough to kill a man, are you?’
‘I’m suggesting that it’s pretty important to them to get the railway line to Heliopolis finished as soon as possible.’
Owen could see how from Mahmoud’s point of view it all fitted together. All the same…!
‘Aren’t you jumping the gun a bit? You haven’t even succeeded in connecting the brothers with the killing yet.’
‘I’m working on that.’
‘You need to do that before you start worrying about other connections.’
Mahmoud pursed his lips obstinately.
‘I need to work on both. It’s not just the killing that has to be explained, but the fact that the body was placed on the line.’
‘You’re still on that?’
‘In my view it is the key.’
‘You don’t think it could all be explained simply as a revenge killing?’
He couldn’t keep the exasperation out of his voice. Mahmoud sensed it and reacted strongly.
‘I think it would be very convenient if it were explained as a revenge killing. For some people.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Such as the Syndicate.’
‘For goodness’ sake!’
Owen fought to keep his irritation down.
‘There are so many gaps! Between the brothers and the killing; between the brothers and the Syndicate. You say he hangs out with a gang; well, between the gang and the Syndicate, too. Gaps, gaps! Everywhere!’
‘You see gaps; I see connections. Why was the body placed on the line?’
‘How the hell do I know?’
‘You’re not being very rational.’
‘Me? Not being very rational? Well, at least I’m not prejudiced!’
‘What is this talk of prejudice?’ said Mahmoud furiously.
‘The only reason why you’re involving the Syndicate at all is because they’re foreign!’
‘You think it is just that I am a Nationalist, is that it?’
‘I think the Nationalist involvement in this needs some explaining.’
‘What exactly do you mean by that?-’
‘Wahid-the railwaymen’s leader-is a Nationalist agitator. Why was he put there?’
‘ “Put there”?’
‘He was planted. To make sure that the opportunity was not missed.’
‘What “opportunity”?’
‘To make things difficult for the government. It’s nothing to do with the Syndicate. It’s everything to do with the government-and with the Nationalists!’
Mahmoud rose from the table.
‘You would think that!’ he spat.
Chapter 8
The reception at the Heliopolis Racing Club coincided with the opening of their racing programme, and from the big window Owen could look down on the crowd milling at the starting gate. Milling, certainly, because that was what Cairo crowds always did, move round and round in a mass, getting nowhere. Crowd, more doubtfully, since although there were several score at the finishing post, there were only several dozen at the starting gate and in between there was virtually nobody.
‘Promising, though,’ said the Belgian beside him. ‘As soon as we get the railway line finished they’ll come flocking in.’
There was almost more of a crowd upstairs at the reception. The international community had turned out in large numbers. Almost every consulate was represented. The British Consul-General was not there, but Paul, his aide-de-camp and Owen’s tennis partner, was standing in for him. Garvin, the Commandant of Police was there, always a man for the races. Princes and Pashas were there in abundance.
Zeinab had also deigned to come. Not because she was in the slightest interested in horses-she knew they pulled her carriage and that was about it-but because she had decided that Owen could not safely be left alone with ‘that girl’.
And, indeed, Salah-el-Din’s daughter was present, dressed, as always, incongruously to Owen’s eye, in a frock which suggested the little girl but somehow revealed a full womanly figure.
‘Disgusting!’ said Zeinab.
‘A bit bizarre!’ Owen conceded.
‘What do you know about it?’ demanded Zeinab.
Owen knew absolutely nothing about women’s fashion, which he imagined was what Zeinab was talking about, so decided to keep his mouth shut.
Among the Pashas was Zeinab’s father, Nuri, who came up to Owen with a worried look.
‘Do you think she’ll do it?’
‘Do what?’
Nuri jerked his head in the direction of the window where Malik was standing with some of his cronies.
‘Kill him, you mean?’ Owen considered. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ he said.
Salah-el-Din brought his daughter up to Owen.
‘You remember Amina?’
‘Charmed!’
‘Do you race, Captain Owen?’ she asked.
‘I ride a bit.’
‘Ah! So do I. You must ride out in this direction one morning.’
‘I haven’t been doing much riding lately,’ he said hastily.
‘You must take it up again. You used to ride in England?’
‘In India.’
‘You have been to India? Oh, I would like to go to India. It must be very romantic. You have seen the Taj Mahal, yes?’
‘Well, no, actually. I was stationed up in the north.’
‘On the Frontier?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’
‘You were a soldier? You actually fought people?’
‘Well-’
‘And burned villages? And raped the women?’
‘Oh, yes. Every day.’
Amina looked at him wide-eyed.
Across the room Zeinab wa
s talking to Paul. She caught Owen’s eye and ostentatiously turned her back.
Malik came up and Amina moved away.
‘That’s your girlfriend, isn’t it?’ he said, looking at Zeinab.
‘Yes.’
‘She looks a bit Arabic to me. Ever tried a Circassian? I could get you one if you’d like an exchange.’
‘No, thanks,’ said Owen. He made his way over to Paul and Zeinab.
‘Who’s that strange girl you were talking to?’ asked Paul.
‘Salah-el-Din’s daughter. He’s the local mamur.’
‘She seems a bit young,’ said Paul doubtfully.
Zeinab went off in a fury.
Paul looked down at the scanty crowd below.
‘They’ll have to do better than this,’ he said. ‘Of course, it’ll be different when they’ve got the railway finished.’
‘I hadn’t realized how important it was to them.’
‘Oh, it’s important, all right.’
‘How important?’ said Owen.
‘Well, it would make a big difference to their cash flow, which, I understand, is a bit sticky-’
‘Important enough to kill for?’
Paul stared at him.
‘Are you feeling all right? Not been standing out in the sun too long?’
A little later, Owen was talking to one of the undersecretaries when Raoul, the Belgian he had met at Salah-el-Din’s, touched him on the arm.
‘Still on the bubbly? Care for something harder? Oh, and by the way, el-Sayid Ahmad would like a word with you.’
El-Sayid Ahmad was the Minister for Transport. He stretched out his hand.
‘Glad to see you. Impressive, isn’t it? A city arising out of nothing. That’s the modern Egypt for you!’
He took Owen confidentially aside.
‘You know a question has been put down in the Assembly?’
The Fig Tree Murder mz-10 Page 10
