The Mark of the Pasha

by Michael Pearce

  And, indeed, when he had had his chance, he had not done too badly, in that respect at least. Unfortunately, over one crucial issue, which became known as the Denshewai Incident, and which had ever after loomed large in Nationalist political mythology, he had backed the wrong side: the British. He had lost power and never regained it. But he had always lived in hopes it would return; and never more than at the present moment when the political situation was so fluid and so many things had suddenly become uncertain.

  Unfortunately, he had lived in hopes for quite some time now and the hopes had always hitherto been disappointed. Including the hope of being able to rectify his financial position.

  Zeinab had inherited something of her father’s disposition and acquired something of his approach to life. It was not that she cared particularly about money; it was just that she took its existence for granted. Even when there was none. She had grown up all her life in the illusion of being rich.

  Her mother had never shared that illusion. She had been Nuri’s favourite courtesan and he had loved her beyond reason. He had even, to the shock of all Cairo, offered to marry her. He had been even more shocked when she had refused him. Strong-willed and independent-minded, she had insisted on their maintaining separate households, probably wisely so far as financial matters went.

  When she died she left Zeinab a very considerable sum but as it took the traditional form of gold in a box under the bed, and Zeinab, who revered her mother, had adamantly refused to make any change in this, the Owens still had difficulty in paying the rent. Owen, like all Civil Servants in Egypt, was paid a pittance, and, as he refused to augment his income in the way usual among Government officials, they barely scraped along.

  When the War hadn’t looked like resolving itself without her efforts, Zeinab had determined to do her bit. She had decided to become a nurse. This had offended both Egyptian men and British ladies, the men because they didn’t believe in women working anywhere outside the house and the brothel, the British ladies because they didn’t believe in having Egyptian women working alongside them. Zeinab had been turned down. Roused, she had shown a capacity for in-fighting which had impressed even her father’s political cronies.

  It had also impressed Cairns-Grant, the doyen of the medical world in Cairo and the man who actually ran the hospital, never mind what his formal position was. In the difficult circumstances of war-time Egypt, with the flood of military casualties come in from Gallipoli, he had needed a strong, ruthless administrator to take some of the load off his shoulders and thought that he had found one. He had appointed Zeinab as his Senior Administrative Assistant and ridden rough-shod over every objection.

  And he had not been disappointed. Zeinab had taken to the work in a manner that had astonished her father, delighted the radical female Islamic world of Cairo (there was one), and enraptured the patients, most of whom were Australians, hitherto unimpressed by military management. The appointment had been a great success.

  But it had not resulted in a great improvement in Zeinab’s financial position. Partly this was because the salary was low, partly that Zeinab, who had never bothered to find out exactly what it was, did not appreciate how low it was. She had continued with her cavalier treatment of the relation between income and expenditure.

  But then, as she pointed out, this was no different from the country’s practice in general.

  The question was, as Owen pointed out in return, frequently, how long this could continue. And there was a new edge to the question given the different situation created by the end of the War and the new hopes of Egypt. As the flow of military patients dried up, would the hospital be closed down? Even if it wasn’t, could it continue to be administered in the present way? Was it right that so much should be governed by the decree of the senior doctor? Was it acceptable to Muslim opinion that there should be a woman—Yes! a woman!—assisting him in such a prominent position?

  And behind this there were lots of other questions. Would there be a new Government which would take a completely different line from previous ones? What would be its attitude to the British occupation—sorry, British assistance? To the presence in the country of so many British officials? To a British Mamur Zapt overseeing the country’s internal security? To the continuance of the Khedive himself?

  Egypt, everyone sensed, was changing and that would affect everything and everybody.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning someone came from the Khedive.

  ‘His Royal Highness demands an explanation for the diversion of the Procession yesterday morning.’

  ‘We learned that there was to be an attempt on his Highness’ life.’

  ‘An attempt on—but this is serious!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why was His Highness not informed?’

  ‘His Highness had been previously informed that going ahead with the Procession could lead to dangerous incidents and had been advised to cancel or postpone it. However, His Highness had chosen to overrule the advice.’

  ‘Yes, but that warning was general. Had you learned of a specific threat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why was not His Highness informed of that? And why did you not do something about that, instead of disrupting the whole Procession?’

  ‘We knew only that the attempt was to be made in the Sharia Nubar Pasha, but we didn’t know exactly where. I thought it best to take no chances and divert the Procession along the Kanteret-ed-Dekka.’

  ‘In doing so you deprived his loyal subjects at the Gare Centrale and the Gare Pont-Limousin of the opportunity to express their love for their Khedive and His Highness is gravely displeased.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Consider yourself reprimanded.’

  Owen bowed his head.

  The official half turned to go but then wavered.

  ‘What—what exactly was the nature of the threat?’ he asked.

  ‘A bomb. Big enough to kill the Khedive.’

  ‘How frightful!’

  ‘And anyone nearby. Bombs don’t discriminate. There would have been women and children in the crowd.’

  ‘Shocking!’

  ‘Of course, it was probably aimed more at the officials and Ministers following in the cars immediately behind.’

  ‘But I was in one of those cars!’

  ‘It could have been intended, I think, as a blow against the whole Government. A sort of Gunpowder Plot.’

  ‘Gunpowder—?’

  ‘A plot to blow up the entire English Parliament with barrels of gunpowder stored in the cellars.’

  ‘Good heavens! And you think that yesterday—?’

  ‘Sort of. Yes.’

  ‘Gunpowder Plot?’

  ‘A figure of speech, but—’

  The official pulled himself together.

  ‘I don’t think this is an occasion for figures of speech, Mamur Zapt. If they’re like that. Consider yourself doubly reprimanded.’

  ***

  Zeid came back to report. He had done well. Motor cars were not so common a sight in the part of town where the Water Depot was located as to pass unnoticed and much of the local population had come out to inspect the car. The driver—there had been a driver, which was significant in itself—torn as he was between the desire to show off his charge and an urgent need to defend it against the preying hands of the local children, had fought a hard battle.

  It was one of the latter, however, who had furnished Zeid with the most useful description of the vehicle: it was, the boy said, a modified De Dion.

  Encouraged by Zeid, he had volunteered that it was a very special car and that he had only seen one previously; and that was practicing on the track at Helwan. There was to be a race at the weekend and in his opinion it was a toss-up between the De Dion and the Brazier.

  The intelligent Zeid had decided to go out to H
elwan and pursue his inquiries there but first, he had thought, he had better report in at the Bab-el-Khalk. On his way an idea had struck him. This was a very distinctive car: might it not be known at the Automobile Club?

  The Automobile Club had been established only the year before. It was a very exclusive establishment, since only the rich had private cars. Rich and, in Zeid’s opinion, foolish; foolish enough to risk crashing their acquisition in the race meetings which had sprung up at Helwan. But that appeared to be the sort of person who might own a De Dion.

  The Club was, alas, too exclusive to answer the inquiries of one such as Zeid. However, he had gone round the back and talked to some of the servants and found out that there was, indeed, a De Dion owner among the Club’s members. His informant was not sure of the owner’s name. But he was a Prince at least and lived at the Palace.

  Zeid knew, of course, that in the mind of the average Cairene anyone rich lived at the Palace. He had thought, however, that there was sufficient possibility of this being true for him to go to the Palace and see what he could find out there.

  The Palace was less exclusive a place than the Automobile Club and he had found it easy to gain entrance and talk to people. But what he soon discovered was that within the Palace there were inner walls through which it was difficult to penetrate. The walls were invisible but manned by people fiercely loyal to the Khedive, who, after Zeid had pressed his inquiries for a while, took to ostentatiously fondling the daggers at their belts, whereupon Zeid judged that it was time to go.

  As he left, however, he took the opportunity to visit the Royal garages, where, of course, he found any number of motor-cars. Among them was one which he thought might be a De Dion: but when he inquired about this, the garage mechanics closed up like clams and, soon after, one of the bedaggered men he had previously encountered hurried towards him.

  ***

  Owen was sitting in his office thinking about this when the telephone rang. It was Paul Trevelyan.

  ‘Gareth, what’s this? Why haven’t we been told?’

  ‘Told what?’

  ‘About this attempt to blow up the Palace.’

  ‘Palace?’

  ‘A veritable Gunpowder Plot, so we’ve been told.’

  ‘Just a minute, just a minute!’

  ‘The Khedive’s been on to us this morning. Blaming us. And you, of course, but that doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Look—’

  ‘Worse, he’s been on to London, too. And they’ve been on to us. The Old Man’s running round in circles.’

  ‘Look, if this is what I think it is, it’s a storm in a tea-cup.’

  ‘An attempt to blow up the Abdin Palace? And the Khedive with it? Jesus, Gareth, I admire sang-froid, but isn’t this carrying it to extremes? Look, for you this may be the equivalent of a quiet day on the North-West Frontier, or wherever the hell you were before you came to Egypt, but for us in dull old Cairo it’s not something you just casually brush aside—’

  ‘Hold on, hold on! I think there’s been some confusion here. So far as I know, there’s been no attempt to blow up the Palace.’

  ‘No attempt to blow up the Palace?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What the hell are they talking about, then?’

  ‘The bomb, I think.’

  ‘Oh, just a bomb? That’s all right, then.’

  ‘The Procession yesterday. There was a bomb. But we sorted it out. Actually, I think I can see how the confusion may have arisen. I made a casual reference to the Gunpowder Plot—’

  ‘Just the thing to mention to a jumpy Khedive at the moment!’

  ‘—and it got blown up—’

  ‘Gareth!’

  ‘—Exaggerated,’ Owen hastily corrected himself. ‘Exaggerated. Out of all proportion. What I said was twisted.’

  There was a silence at the other end of the phone.

  ‘You mean there’s been no attempt to blow up the Palace?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘No Gunpowder Plot?’

  ‘Well, plot, perhaps. In fact, I wanted to speak to you about that. But not taking quite this form.’

  ‘Gareth, there you go again. You’re taking things much too calmly. What’s a little plot among friends? Unless, of course, it’s aimed at you. The Khedive’s going crazy, the High Commissioner’s going crazy, London’s going crazy—’

  ‘I thought you wanted to bring Egypt to London’s attention?’

  ‘Yes, but—Christ!’

  Another silence. Then, ‘I suppose there is something in that,’ said Paul grudgingly.

  ‘In what?’

  ‘It could bring it to their attention.’

  Then, more positively, ‘Yes, there definitely is something in that. Or could be. Do you know, I think it might be possible to get something out of this. A Royal Commission, at least.’

  He began to sound distinctly cheerful.

  ‘Yes, I really think so. I’ll get on to them right away. If there’s one thing any Government takes seriously, it’s an attempt to blow a Government up. You know, I really think this could work to our advantage. In the end.’

  ‘Paul.’

  ‘Yes, I really think so.’

  ‘Paul.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think I’ve got a bit of a problem.’

  ‘But I thought you said—?’

  ‘No, it’s okay. Everything’s contained. But it’s where I think my investigation may be leading to.’

  ‘Where might it be leading to?’

  ‘The Palace. I think.’

  ‘You mean—?’

  ‘That’s where the plot started. I think.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Come back when you’ve got something more to go on. I don’t want to involve the Old Man too early. Especially with the Commission in the offing.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll come back.’

  Paul paused.

  ‘The Palace, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hum.’ Then, cheerfully: ‘Well, there are always plots in the Palace. You’ll sort things out, I’m sure.’

  ‘And I’ve been reprimanded. Formally. The Khedive sent someone round.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Paul carelessly, ‘what’s one reprimand among so many? Or it would have been many if they had found out.’

  ***

  Owen sat at a table outside a restaurant in the Ataba al Khadra watching the world go by. There was plenty of it. The Ataba was the main terminus for most of the new electric trams of Cairo, as well as for most of the buses. The buses were large, slow, open carts usually crammed with black-gowned women carrying baskets. They all got off together and then stood talking in the middle of the road, which was possibly unwise, since while the trams usually stopped here, they certainly wouldn’t stop for them.

  Add to that the fact that some of the main streets of Cairo debouched into the square, bringing with them carts full of heavy stores for the dam, forage camels piled high with mountains of green fodder, porters carrying as much as a camel, arabeahs and the occasional motor car, and you got some idea of the hazards.

  Not that any of these objects could move very fast, for the square was full of people: passers through like the black-gowned ladies, or people not passing at all but just standing and chatting, street vendors selling everything from peanuts to dirty postcards and virulent nationalist newspapers, and particularly sticky sweets and pastries, carried precariously on large trays and coated with what seem a black layer of film but was actually flies. And shoeblacks and sheep. The shoeblacks were mostly little boys who were everywhere. Stand still a moment and you found your feet being brushed. The sheep were mostly fat-tailed sheep, with tails like bladders full of melted lard, silver necklaces around thei
r necks (they were treated as pets until the Passover feast) and painted affectionately in all the colours of the rainbow.

  Into this melée suddenly came marching a long procession of students. They were chanting Nationalist songs and slogans and were on their way to the High Commissioner’s, outside whose establishment they were going to parade and shout their defiance.

  There would be police there, and soldiers, and as long as they kept to chanting and slogans, there would be no bother. But it was always touch and go these days. It could so easily tip into violence. Opinion in the expatriate community was divided over what you should do about this. Many were in favour of putting them down. ‘Jump on them, jump on them, Owen!’ He knew they were saying it at the Sporting Club. But he didn’t want to jump on them. Cracking down, in his experience, always led to more trouble. What you had to do was contain them somewhere and go on containing them until they got bored and went away. But he knew that view was unpopular.

  The procession passed through the Ataba without incident. Not exactly smoothly because the crowds refused to make way and the students had to filter through before regrouping in the streets the other side. But it sorted itself out without violence, and that was really Owen’s point.

  The strategy was fine so long as it worked.

  He was waiting for an old friend of his, Mahmoud el Zaki, a young Egyptian lawyer. They had started out in the Khedive’s service at roughly the same time, Mahmoud in the Department of Prosecutions of the Ministry of Justice. The Egyptian legal system was modeled on that of the French and the Parquet, as the Department of Prosecutions was called, handled not just the prosecution in court but also the investigation. His job—setting aside the political and security aspects—was not unlike Owen’s and the two had worked together on a number of cases.

  Mahmoud was as sharp as a knife and had for some time been the Parquet’s rising star. Lately, though, his upward trajectory had slowed down; indeed, it seemed to have hit the buffers. Mahmoud, like most young Egyptian professionals, was a member of the Opposition Wafd Party, the one led by Zaghlul, and Paul Trevelyan said that he was too much of a reformer for the old guard who had the say in the Ministry of Justice, as they did in the other Ministries. Mahmoud had been shunted off into some administrative by-pass and Owen wondered how long he would be content to stay like that.