The Mark of the Pasha

by Michael Pearce

  ‘It’s all right, no one—’

  ‘I can’t sleep at night. Not with my back. And if I can’t sleep, of course, neither can he. He has to get out of bed and wander round. Well, that’s his job, isn’t it? That’s what he ought to be doing. He can sleep in the day time. When I’m making his meal.’ She cackled. ‘Mind you, there was a time when he wasn’t so keen to get out of bed! He was younger then and had better things to do.’

  She nudged Owen.

  ‘Better things to do,’ she repeated.

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘He was all right then. And so was I. Mind you, I paid for it. Five children we’ve got. And that did for my back. So it’s only right that he should fetch the water.’

  They could see the watchman hobbling up from the river. He put down the heavy wooden bucket he was carrying.

  ‘Come on, come on!’ cried the old woman impatiently. ‘The Effendi’s waiting for you. And so am I.’

  He put the bucket down in front of her. She seized it and bore it off inside.

  ‘You see that?’ grumbled the old man. ‘She can carry it if she wants to! There’s nothing wrong with her back now!’

  ‘What’s that?’ called the old woman.

  ‘I said you keep very well for your age.’

  ‘So I do, so I do. But what’s that got to do with the Effendi? He doesn’t want to know that, does he?’

  ‘Yappety-yap,’ complained the watchman. ‘All day! And all night, too,’ he added, under his breath.

  ‘She drives you out, I gather,’ said Owen, smiling.

  ‘I go down by the river,’ said the watchman. ‘It’s quieter there.’

  ‘Can you see the carts from there? In the dark?’

  ‘It’s not been dark lately. There’s been good moonlight. And in any case,’ he said, ‘that’s not what I go by.’

  ‘What do you go by?’

  The old man pulled his ear.

  ‘These. I may not see so well these days but I can hear a bat squeak.’

  Owen asked him if he had been aware of anyone coming into the Depot at night recently and interfering with the carts.

  The old man said he hadn’t. He would, perhaps, have said that anyway, but Owen was inclined to believe him. He thought it unlikely, in any case, that the bomb had been placed in the cart that way.

  ***

  Zeid joined him afterwards. As they were walking back to the Bab-el-Khalk together he asked him about the response of the cart men to what they had overheard. Zeid said that it had certainly made an impression on them but that they hadn’t said much.

  Owen told him to hang around the Depot for the next few days and see if he could pick up anything.

  ‘Lay it on that the bomb could have gone off in the Depot,’ he said. ‘In which case some of them might well no longer be here. What sort of bastard could have done a thing like that? That sort of thing. Ask them if anyone had seen Ahmet or Hussein bringing a package in. Or anyone else. Did Ahmet and Hussein have enemies?’

  ‘It may take a bit of time,’ Zeid warned. ‘They’ll have to get used to me.’

  ‘Tell them that it’s nicer here than in the station at the moment. Say that everyone is running round in circles because it’s the Khedive. You want to keep out of it. In any case, you don’t care tuppence about the Khedive. What you can’t get over, though, is that anyone could do this to their mates.’

  ‘I get the picture,’ said Zeid.

  ***

  Over to their left the hawks were still circling. It looked to be in the same place. Clearly the new drop of refuse had not yet been picked dry.

  The hawks did not land. They circled, and then dipped in and seized what had caught their eye and then flew off again. Consumed, as some of the shops selling liquor said in a large notice displayed on the door or in the window, off the premises.

  The hawks in Cairo were a protected bird. They were scavengers and kept the streets clean. Or so the Health Department said. If this was true, how was it that the streets were so dirty?

  They were allowed to proliferate, and then, when they became too numerous and over-intrusive, there would be a cull. This was made easier by the behaviour of the hawks when one of them was killed. The other hawks would gather round, flying in on the dead bird and touching it with their wings. Sometimes, if you were standing by, they would mob you. The police would shoot one and then, when the others came, shoot the others. The police always enjoyed the occasion. It was good practice.

  Chapter Five

  With Mahmoud’s formal assignment to the case, the status of the investigation altered. It was now not a security matter but a legal investigation which could lead to prosecution. It was Mahmoud’s job, as the responsible officer of the Parquet, to examine the evidence, decide whether it should lead to prosecution, and then present the case in court. His role, therefore, included, as in the French system on which the Egyptian system was based, both investigation and prosecution. If he decided that there wasn’t a case to answer, then that was that.

  Mahmoud felt comfortable with this. He was not at all happy about the Mamur Zapt having powers which bordered on the extra-judicial. There was nothing personal in this. He and Owen were close friends. In fact, Owen was probably his only close friend. Mahmoud had had to work his way up and on the way he had been too busy to make friends. (Enemies, possibly, but not friends.) His objection to the position of Mamur Zapt was a legal one. There was, or should be, no place for such a role in a modern legal system.

  This was not even a question of British usurpation of the role, although that was certainly how he saw it. The position was a hangover from the days of the Ottoman Empire. The Mamur Zapt was directly appointed by the Khedive and responsible only to him. Mahmoud didn’t like this. It smacked too much of the old days and of the practices which Mahmoud was anxious to reform. So he was both pleased and relieved to have taken things over; pleased to get out from behind that dead-end desk, relieved that at last things could be done properly. Mahmoud liked things to be done properly. None of this English fudging and shifting and compromising!

  Owen, too, was happy to work this way. It was consistent, he thought, with the way the British Administrator should operate: behind the scenes, letting the Egyptians run the system until one day they could take it over entirely. Condescending, perhaps, but pragmatic. For Owen the world was not necessarily just or fair or even rational; it just had to be made to work. So he was quite content to take a formal back seat in the investigation. Investigation was only incidentally his job. His job, certainly at the moment, was to see that things didn’t boil over. That was what the Khedive had appointed him for, and it chimed in quite well with the way the British saw the role.

  In practice, Owen and Mahmoud worked well together. They might disagree over principle and politics, but on day-to-day matters they usually saw eye-to-eye.

  ***

  Mahmoud decided to question the prisoners: this despite Mr. Narwat’s warning that he would instruct them to say nothing.

  ‘In their interests,’ he said.

  Mahmoud nodded, and went ahead.

  ‘You are Hussein Farbi?’ he said.

  Hussein looked at Mr. Narwat. Mr. Narwat nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hussein.

  ‘And you are a driver on a water-cart?’

  Hussein looked at Mr. Narwat. Mr. Narwat hesitated.

  ‘No matter,’ said Mahmoud. ‘There is unlikely to be disagreement over this in court. And you were watering the road ahead of the Royal Procession?’

  ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t answer this,’ instructed Mr. Narwat.

  Mahmoud shrugged.

  ‘I don’t think there’s going to be much disagreement over that either,’ he said.

  ‘Course I was,’ said Hussein. ‘Everyone knows that!’

  ‘And the cart broke down?’
/>   ‘There is no need to answer that question,’ said Mr. Narwat.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I answer it?’ asked Hussein. ‘That’s what happened.’

  Mr. Narwat shrugged.

  ‘So it broke down?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? Have you an idea?’

  ‘The pin came out.’

  ‘Ah, you felt the wheel coming loose?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So that’s why you stopped?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And jumped down and had a look under the cart?’

  ‘You shouldn’t answer that question,’ said Mr. Narwat.

  Hussein looked puzzled, then shrugged. He didn’t answer.

  ‘Did you see the bomb?’

  ‘Don’t answer!’ warned Mr. Narwat.

  Hussein shrugged again.

  ‘Then why did you run away?’ asked Mahmoud.

  ‘Don’t—’ began Mr. Narwat.

  ‘I didn’t run away!’ protested Hussein.

  Mahmoud laughed.

  ‘There are more than a hundred people who will say that you did,’ he said.

  Hussein looked confused.

  ‘Just keep your mouth shut!’ snapped Mr. Narwat. ‘In your own interests!’

  ‘I wonder if it is in his interests?’ said Mahmoud as if considering the matter.

  ‘Of course it is!’ said Mr. Narwat sharply.

  Mahmoud shrugged.

  ‘Your decision,’ he said. ‘But if he was my client I would be wondering whether it was wise for him to shoulder responsibility for the incident when it is quite clear that someone else has put him up to it.’

  ***

  ‘My client,’ said Mr. Narwat, ‘is saying nothing.’

  And, indeed, Ahmet was saying nothing. He closed his lips firmly and couldn’t be persuaded even into admitting that his name was Ahmet.

  Mr. Narwat, who had put his finger to his lips when Ahmet came in and scowled fiercely, could be proud of him.

  Mahmoud did not seem bothered. He nodded every time Ahmet refused to answer and wrote something down on the pad he had with him. After several minutes of this he said:

  ‘Right, let me make sure I’ve got this right.’

  He read out the list of questions he had put and at the end of each one said: ‘Accused refused to answer.’

  ‘Not refused,’ interjected Mr. Narwat. ‘“Chose.” Chose not to answer.’

  He looked at Mahmoud and Owen triumphantly.

  ‘Not “refused,”’ wrote Mahmoud obediently. ‘“Chose.” Accused chose not to answer.’ Oh, and one other question I did not include in my list. ‘“Asked why he had run away from the water-cart, the accused chose not to answer.”’

  ‘I am not entirely happy about the way you are presenting this,’ said Mr. Narwat.

  ‘Have I not reported it correctly?’

  ‘You have reported it correctly so far as it goes,’ said Mr. Narwat. ‘But you have not left open the possibility that my client may deny that he ran away.’

  ‘He did not say that,’ said Mahmoud. ‘I am reporting only what he said or did not say. I will note your objection if you wish.’

  ‘No need,’ said Mr. Narwat.

  ‘And can I clarify one point? Witnesses say that while both men climbed down off the cart, one of them climbed down first and looked under the cart. Which one of you was that?’

  ‘Say nothing!’ ordered Mr. Narwat.

  ‘I am just trying to clarify the points because it could make a difference to charging. Mr. Farbi claims that he was the one who looked under the cart. I just wanted to know if your client disputes this?’

  Mr. Narwat rubbed his chin.

  ‘I don’t see why he should,’ he said.

  ‘No, I don’t, either. But I just wanted to get it straight. In case it could affect the charging.’

  ‘Why should if affect the charging?’

  ‘Because I am adding a charge to the ones Captain Owen read out previously. If you will allow me a moment, I will just get the wording right; but it will be to the effect that your clients knowingly sought to cause an explosion in the Sharia Nubar Pasha with the intention of killing the Khedive.’

  ‘Knowingly?’ said Mr. Narwat.

  ‘Yes, knowingly. And, on reflection, I think it can safely be applied to both of them.’

  ***

  ‘Knowingly?’ asked Owen, after Ahmet had been returned to the cells and Mr. Narwat had departed.

  ‘Yes. They primed the bomb before running away and I don’t see how that could be done other than knowingly. The mixture is exploded when the nitric acid runs into the picric. That happens when the small bottle of nitric acid inside the lip is tilted. That’s what they did before running away. It can be done only at the last moment. My guess is that’s what Hussein was doing when he looked under the cart the last time, in the Nubar Pasha. The cotton wool packed into the top of the bottle is just to slow the whole thing down and give them time to get away.’

  ‘Georgiades was lucky, then.’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps the cotton wool was stuffed in too tightly.’

  ‘I’m surprised. I didn’t think Hussein and Ahmet were like that.’

  ‘I didn’t think they were like that, either. I thought they were just ordinary cart drivers persuaded into it by money. But if they were prepared to go as far as they did, there must be more to them. I think we’ll need to look into them more closely.’

  ***

  Outside, in the street, the heat had built up. Fortunately, for the first part of the journey, he could cut through the park and be under the shade of some trees. There were casuarina trees and gnarled pepper trees, bohinia trees with their porcelain pink blossoms and pods which the parakeets loved. The parakeets had been let out of the Giza Zoo years before and thriven in the parks.

  There were other birds, too: warblers and bee-eaters, hoopoes with their gold crests, weaver birds weaving their little round ball-like nests, palm doves gurgling in the palms, and, of course, crows and kite hawks everywhere. Between the crows and the kites there was constant warfare. They fought for every scrap of food. When they found it, though, they behaved differently. The hawks zoomed away with it, whereas the crows, the Cairo crows, anyway, would bury it, planting it in a flower bed and then covering it with leaves. Over beyond the end of the gardens hawks were circling, so he knew he was going in the right direction.

  He came out near the hammam in Shafik Street. Long before he got there he could smell the refuse heap beside it. He wondered if the smell penetrated the baths? Through the vents, perhaps? Maybe they were used to it.

  He had hoped to intercept Georgiades somewhere around here. The Greek had been retracing the route taken by the water-cart from the Depot to the Sharia Nubar Pasha. It had been easy to find out the route, all the drivers knew it: but it was a rather different thing to find out from people along the way whether they had seen the cart on the morning of the Procession. It was a long shot, Owen knew, but it was worth a try. He couldn’t believe that Hussein and Ahmet had carried the bomb into the Depot and fixed it beneath the cart under the eyes of all the other drivers. Possibly, just possibly, it had been brought in during the night, and if it was Hussein and Ahmet who had done the fixing, they would know the right cart. But would they have risked it, with the watchman, sleepless because of his wife, wandering around? No, more likely it had been done as they were on their way to the Sharia Nubar Pasha.

  Georgiades came into view, walking slowly and pausing frequently to mop his face because of the heat. Whenever he stopped he turned his large, brown, sympathetic eyes on people and invited commiseration—and confidences. It was hard to resist Georgiades. Old ladies, old men on their donkeys, shopkeepers taking the air, stall holders packing up for the siesta, all were drawn into conversation.

/>   Owen looked round for a café and found a small one with two tables outside. He sat down at one of the tables and then, as Georgiades came up, waved to him to join him.

  ‘It’s very hot,’ the Greek complained. ‘I’m sweating like a pig. You know, I think I might even go into the hammam.’

  ‘Well, don’t take too long,’ said Owen. ‘You’re only half way.’

  ‘Especially as the cart stopped there that morning.’

  ‘Really?’ Owen looked at him quickly. ‘Well, neither of them would have been wanting a bath.’

  ‘Do you know,’ said Georgiades, ‘that’s exactly what someone else said. And why they noticed it.’

  ‘Did they go in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And pick up anything?’

  ‘That’s what I was hoping to find out.’

  ***

  Owen decided not to wait. Georgiades, if he knew his man, would make the most of this opportunity to escape the Cairo heat. He would probably stay in the hammam for hours. He might well emerge with something which would make it useful but it could be a long time to wait. Besides, sitting outside at a table, the smell of the refuse was overwhelming.

  Here the battle between the hawks and the crows had resulted in a victory for the hawks. There were very few crows in evidence, not enough for the hawks even to mount a challenge. They circled overhead keeping a watchful eye on the situation and occasionally swooping down for some tid-bit. Victory in this as in most battles—Owen, who had done some soldiering in India before he came to Egypt, knew his military theory—went to the side which could bring most resources to bear on a certain point, and the hawks had got the advantage here.

  Just beyond the refuse dump was a figure Owen recognised: Miss Skiff. She was kneeling down trying to coax a cat to take some food from her hand.

  Owen wouldn’t have done the same for worlds. The dump crawled with cats, which alternated preying for food with curling up on top of the hammam around the vents, where they could enjoy the continued warmth of the sun and of the steam escaping. They were pretty well all feral, abandoned to run wild, as were most cats in Egypt in Owen’s opinion.