The Camel of Destruction

by Michael Pearce

  But here she faced a dilemma. Custom, in a religious matter, precluded personal application by a woman; yet if she left it to someone else, she could not trust them to get it right.

  It was probably this that had stopped her from letting the sheikh speak to the Mufti before. He had offered, Owen remembered, previously.

  ‘I was wondering,’ said the Widow, looking at him tentatively. Then—

  ‘No!’ he said, realizing what she was thinking.

  ‘What?’ asked the sheikh, bewildered.

  The Widow took him by the arm.

  ‘How could I let you go on your own, O Sheikh? What would they say of me? “She knew he was weak and frail, feeble and sick—”’

  ‘I’m not sick!’ protested the sheikh.

  ‘“—and yet she let him go all that way on his own!”’

  ‘It’s only just down the road!’

  ‘“Heartless woman, cruel woman!” That’s what they would say. And they would be right. No,’ she said, shaking her head firmly, ‘I cannot let you do this for me.’

  ‘Then, then what—?’

  ‘Alone, that is,’ said the Widow with emphasis. ‘You must have one to support you.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said the sheikh testily, ‘but who?’

  The Widow looked at Owen.

  ***

  ‘Would you mind?’ asked Barclay.

  Owen would. He felt he had spent enough time on the road already and still to come was the ridiculous visit to the Grand Mufti. He wasn’t really getting anywhere with the Fingari business and ought to give it some attention. Then there was all the regular work which went through his office and which he had been neglecting. And to cap it all, Finance was querying one of his expenses claims.

  So he did mind. But Barclay had been helpful to him and Selim seemed a reasonable chap and if they wanted to meet him about something, well, he could afford them a few minutes, he supposed.

  They met at an open-air café.

  ‘An apéritif?’ suggested Barclay.

  He and Owen each ordered a pastis. Selim had coffee. He seemed rather nervous today, fidgeting in his seat; although this might have been caused by the proximity of the shoeshine boys, who threatened to pounce at any moment.

  Owen poured some water into his glass and watched the mixture cloud over.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  Barclay signalled to Selim to begin.

  ‘I’ve spoken to my friends,’ he said.

  ‘His political friends,’ Barclay put in.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘They weren’t interested,’ said Selim gloomily. ‘They were for the road, if anything.’

  ‘Progress and development? Open the city up? Modernization?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Selim, surprised. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I got the same story.’

  ‘It’s ridiculous to equate this with modernization,’ said Barclay. ‘Modernization doesn’t have to mean—’

  But Selim, who would normally have followed this hare with alacrity, just looked gloomily at Owen.

  ‘What do we do now?’ he said.

  ‘It’s not absolutely certain that it will be agreed. There are powerful voices against it.’

  (Paul’s).

  ‘The trouble is,’ said Barclay, ‘that this time there are financial arguments for it.’

  ‘It must not be decided purely on financial grounds,’ Selim insisted. ‘There are other considerations as well. Æsthetic, human.’

  ‘They don’t get you far in a place like Cairo, old man,’ said Barclay unhappily.

  ‘Can’t we rouse public opinion somehow?’ said Selim, addressing himself to Owen.

  ‘It’ll rouse public opinion all right if the road goes bang through the middle of the Old City,’ said Owen sourly.

  Selim gestured impatiently.

  ‘It will be too late by then. What I wanted to ask you,’ he said to Owen, ‘was how would you feel if I sounded out public opinion in the area? Got a few people together to protest. Peacefully, of course.’

  Owen opened his mouth. He was about to say that in his experience public protests in Cairo never ended peacefully, however they might start. In a city with so many divisions smouldering under the surface, religious, ethnic, political, discord on one thing was apt to ignite explosion over other things.

  But then he closed his mouth again. One of the things he was always saying to the Consul-General and those in power— the Commander-in-Chief of the Army especially—was that not all protest is disorder. Was not this a case in point?

  ‘You could always jump on it if things looked like getting out of hand,’ said Barclay, watching him closely.

  But could he? Would he be able to limit it if things went wrong? Experience shouted no. Once these things started you could never isolate them. People ran in from all sides to leap on the bandwagon and tilt it their way.

  ‘If I could be sure other people wouldn’t use it,’ said Owen.

  ‘I will do my best to see they don’t,’ said Selim.

  ‘I know you will. But…’

  The voice of experience was very loud in his ear.

  ‘You see,’ said Selim worriedly, ‘I feel that ordinary people should have a voice in these things.’

  ‘The people in the Derb Aiah,’ said Owen tartly, thinking of the barber and the Widow Shawquat, ‘have got plenty of voices.’

  He stopped and looked at Selim.

  ‘I could put you in touch with a few,’ he said.

  The good thing about a pastis is that it lasts a long time. Still more, two, or three, and they were still sitting there an hour later. By then their conversation had moved to other things.

  ‘The thing that puzzles me,’ said Owen, ‘is why a developer should start at the Derb Aiah. It isn’t even the road that’s going to be built first. You’d have thought he’d have started with that one.’

  ‘But he has,’ said Selim, sitting up. ‘You remember that Bab-el-Azab business?’ he said to Barclay. ‘Looking back, I can see now this would have been part of it.’

  ‘What business is this?’ asked Owen.

  ‘Oh, it was one of those commissions that always irritates you if you’re an architect. I was asked to do some drawings for a big project down by the Bab-el-Azab. I put a lot of work in. I was paid all right, but the drawings were never used. They were just there to accompany the planning application.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing happened. That’s just the point. It wasn’t meant to happen. The land is standing there idle. Waiting, I now see, for the road.’

  He turned to Barclay.

  ‘That was how I first came across Fingari. He was handling the application for the Ministry. It was when he was still at Public Works. I wasn’t too pleased with him, actually.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh, he just messed around, delayed things. He didn’t ask the right questions and then he approved the thing on the nod.’

  ‘That was poor,’ said Barclay. ‘I didn’t realize he was like that. Of course, I only knew him when he was on the finance side.’

  ‘This was before then. He moved to accounts after.’

  ‘Does the name Tufa mean anything to you?’ asked Owen.

  They both shook their heads.

  ‘Or the name Jabir?’

  ‘Jabir?’ said Selim thoughtfully. ‘Wasn’t he something to do with a bank? I feel I may have come across him.’

  ‘At the time of the Bab-el-Azab?’

  ‘Perhaps. I don’t remember now. I went to see the Fingaris the other day,’ he said to Barclay, ‘after Captain Owen told me.’

  ‘Did you meet Aisha?’ asked Owen.

  Selim blushed.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘as a matter of fact I did.’

 
***

  Georgiades stopped in mock astonishment as he entered the office.

  ‘Who is this man?’ he asked. ‘I seem to meet him everywhere I go in Cairo.’

  Nikos looked up and scowled. He was still reeling from the experience. Twice! Twice in ten days he had had to leave the fastness of the Bab-el-Khalk and work in another office! And all of half a mile away, too!

  ‘Did you find it?’ asked Owen.

  Nikos produced a file. It was exactly the same as the one he had shown them in Osman Fingari’s office. There wasn’t much difference between Ministries.

  Owen opened it.

  Tufa, he read again. Another application form. But this time an application to build. A cement factory or something, with workers’ houses.

  ‘What is all this?’ he asked, bewildered.

  ‘It’s a planning application,’ said Nikos. ‘Because Tufa is still within the region, though outside of Cairo, it comes to Public Works.’

  ‘Yes, but this is for a factory.’

  ‘That’s right. And therefore it goes to Public Works for approval.’

  ‘Is this the same parcel of land?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nothing was mentioned about buildings on the other application.’

  ‘There never were any buildings.’

  ‘I don’t get the point.’

  ‘The application was made on the grounds that the land was waste and suitable only for industrial use. It was essentially desert land. The applicant was allowed to enclose it on condition that he used it for industrial purposes. It cost him virtually nothing.’

  Georgiades began to laugh.

  ‘And then he connects it up to an irrigation scheme and applies to register it as agricultural land?’

  ‘That’s right. And sells it without doing anything else to it. At a vastly enhanced price.’

  ‘The buildings?’

  ‘The plans were there merely to give an air of conviction to the application to enclose.’

  ‘Never built?’

  ‘Never intended to be built.’

  ‘I’ve just heard of someone else doing this,’ said Owen.

  ‘And who did the plans go to?’ asked Georgiades.

  Nikos showed him the authorization box.

  ‘Osman Fingari. Well! Both times.’

  ‘Once when he was in the Ministry of Public Works. Once when he was in the Ministry of Agriculture.’

  ‘Coincidence?’

  Nikos smiled. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Any mention of Jabir?’

  ‘Presented the case again. His name doesn’t appear in any of the paperwork. But again there are notes of the meeting.’

  ‘Who was he presenting on behalf of?’

  ‘It’s a company. I think it’s just a shell company. It doesn’t seem to do any actual trading. But it’s been used for things of this sort before.’

  ‘At the Bab-el-Azab?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nikos, surprised.

  ‘Have you any idea who’s behind it?’

  ‘It’s jointly owned. By the Trans-Levant Trading Bank and—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘A Mr. Adli Naswas.’

  ***

  ‘I wonder, Minister, if you could tell me how Mr. Fingari came to be transferred to the Ministry of Agriculture?’

  The Minister placed his hands on the top of the desk as if he were about to play a piano.

  ‘A request in the ordinary way,’ he said, ‘I expect.’

  ‘Who initiated the request?’

  ‘Perhaps he did himself.’

  ‘Did he?’

  The Minister looked unhappy.

  ‘I really cannot recall,’ he said.

  ‘You would have something in the files.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I see?’

  The Minister hesitated, then rang the bell. An orderly appeared.

  ‘Bring me the personal file of Osman Fingari,’ he said. He turned back to Owen. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I was surprised,’ said Owen. ‘You told me yourself that your Ministry was looked down on.’

  ‘That is because it is new,’ said the Minister, hurt.

  ‘I’m sure. But then, you see, that makes it even more surprising. Mr. Fingari was, I understand, very ambitious. Would he not have preferred a transfer to a major, established Department?’

  The orderly brought the file.

  ‘There seems to be no record of a personal request,’ said the Minister.

  ‘So I return to my question: who initiated the transfer?’

  ‘I really cannot recall how it came about.’

  The hands began to fidget.

  ‘Was it initiated by Public Works?’

  ‘I really cannot say.’

  ‘I shall, of course, be able to find that out by other means.’

  ‘Of course,’ muttered the Minister.

  ‘But I was wondering if the request had come from this Ministry?’

  The Minister shook his head sharply.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘no. Definitely not.’

  ‘I was wondering, you see,’ said Owen, ‘whether the request could possibly have originated from the person who was responsible for Mr. Fingari’s diary being removed?’

  The hands froze.

  ‘Was it removed? I thought it had been found? Yes, found in the office. Where it had been all the time.’

  Owen smiled. And waited.

  ‘I—I don’t think the request originated from that person,’ said the Minister after a while.

  ‘No?’

  ‘I—I think it originated from someone higher up.’

  ‘Even higher?’

  The Minister nodded unhappily.

  ‘You wouldn’t like to tell me who?’

  ‘I certainly would not.’

  Owen considered for a moment or two.

  ‘I wonder, then, if you could tell me anything about the circumstances of the request?’

  ‘Circumstances?’ said the Minister, puzzled.

  ‘You received a request for Mr. Fingari to be allowed to join your Department. Or perhaps he was simply posted to it?’

  ‘Posted,’ said the Minister.

  ‘To specific duties?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Isn’t this unusual? Isn’t it normally left to you to decide what duties a particular member of your staff performs?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There was the new link with the Agricultural Bank.’

  ‘And you were told that Mr. Fingari was to handle that?’

  ‘Yes. He was assigned specifically for that purpose. So I was told.’

  ‘I see. And, presumably, to negotiate the Agreement between the Department and the Bank?’

  ‘That came up later. We didn’t know about that at the time he joined us.’

  ‘You didn’t know about it,’ said Owen.

  The Minister flushed.

  ‘Or did you?’

  ‘No,’ said the Minister vehemently. ‘I did not.’

  ‘Did they cut you in? Or,’ said Owen cruelly, ‘didn’t they even bother?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Fingari was posted to your Department for a purpose,’ said Owen. ‘I just wondered if you were part of the purpose.’

  The Minister breathed heavily.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I was not.’

  ‘Then why don’t you tell me about it?’ invited Owen.

  The fingers drummed.

  ‘I—I would,’ the Minister said at last, ‘but I don’t really know anything. They kept it from me. I knew something was going on but I—I—’

  ‘Didn’t like to inquir
e too closely.’

  The Minister was silent.

  ‘You think I’m a weak man, don’t you?’ he said suddenly.

  ‘Well—’

  ‘And perhaps I am. But I am not corrupt. I would have stopped it if I could.’

  ‘You still can.’

  The Minister looked at him.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Announce—today, and with as much publicity as you can manage—that because of the doubts expressed about the new seed developed by the Khedivial Agricultural Society, the Ministry of Agriculture is arranging independent testing. Seeds have been sent to overseas laboratories for testing. Oh, and add that the project is being coordinated by Mr. Aziz.’

  ‘You think—?’

  Owen rose.

  ‘It will make you a hero,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Minister sourly, ‘but probably a dead one.’

  Chapter Eleven

  There was uproar when the Minister’s decision was announced. The telephones in the Ministry rang continuously and there was an unbroken chain of orderlies bringing messages from other Ministries, the Assembly and the Consulate-General. Questions were asked in the House; and a lot more were asked, less politely, in quarters close to the Khedive.

  The Minister issued a further statement saying that his decision was irrevocable and then prudently left for the country.

  It was rumoured that he was in deep mourning for a relative who had recently died in some obscure village in the extreme south and even further west of the country, close to the borders with—? No one was exactly sure but it was exceedingly hot there and scorpions abounded and no one proposed going there to find out.

  Mr. Aziz, left to field questions, learned a new meaning for the expression ‘field trials’. He had, however, taken the precaution of sending the seed samples abroad before agreeing to answer any questions and after a day or two the barrage died down.

  Not so in the case of Owen, whose part in the affair only gradually came to light. The business community was outraged and asked whose side the Mamur Zapt Johnny was on. Comments were made in the Club which were intended to be overheard. Even Paul was put out.

  ‘We’ve got enough people meddling as it is,’ he complained, ‘me, for one. We don’t want any more people muddying the pitch, or whatever these strange men do when they get on the sportsfield. You should have told me first.’