The Mark of the Pasha

by Michael Pearce

  Yet he wasn’t placing most of his trust in them. What he worried about, especially following the attempt on the Khedive, was a bomb, placed in the basement or the kitchens or some other necessary but not obvious part of the building. He had Zeid continually checking such places. He hated using him in that way, it was a waste of a good man. But Zeid had a bit more security savvy than most of the others. He knew he could rely on him.

  Georgiades meandered in from time to time, not assigned to anything special, but pottering around apparently aimlessly. Owen placed a lot of confidence in him. But he wasn’t going to spend all his time there. Owen had other things for him to do: extending his acquaintance with the hammam, for example.

  Nor was Owen going to spend much time there. However, he wanted to spend enough time there for it to be thought, especially by the members of the Commission, that he was spending pretty well all of his time there. That would reassure them and, according to Paul, reassurance was what they needed. And it might even, although he was skeptical about this, assist to deter anyone with evil intentions.

  But he wasn’t going to spend all his time at the hotel. For a start, he had too many things to do. And then he felt a deep-seated reluctance, which might even go back to his days on the North-West Frontier in India, to tie himself down to too static a position. Sure, have the defences up; but if you were in charge you should also be thinking more dynamically.

  In any case, guarding the Commission was just part of the battle. He had to leave himself free to watch the other parts. And if he had set things up right at the hotel, that should be enough, shouldn’t it?

  The Army did not think so. They had an officer, a junior subaltern, stationed in the hotel permanently, with a command point all of his very own. Not only that, the Sirdar came along personally to ensure that all was in order. He had wanted the soldiers outside. ‘Manifesting their presence,’ as he put it. Owen had insisted on their being inside. ‘We don’t want them drawing attention to the Commission’s presence,’ he said. ‘That’s inviting trouble,’ but he could see the Army’s point of view. That was the difference between him and the Army. The Sirdar was all for having things up front. Owen wanted to work behind the scenes.

  He went round now to check his own dispositions and to think again whether there were any places that he had overlooked. He called in on the subaltern, who had seen Owen in the Officer’s Mess on occasions, and therefore concluded that he was a sound chap.

  ‘Not too sure about having the men inside, though,’ he said.

  ‘Better than having them set themselves up for target practice, isn’t it?’ said Owen.

  ‘It bloody is!’ said the experienced sergeant standing nearby. The young subaltern, not so green as not to know the cardinal rule of military leadership—‘Follow your sergeant’s advice!’—followed it.

  ***

  When he had done his rounds, Owen went out to the back of the hotel where his car was waiting for him. He had to get around a lot today and reckoned that he would manage that a great deal more speedily if he used the car and not an arabeah.

  The car was waiting for Zeinab, too, who had been out to see her father that morning, and then done some shopping, and now needed to call in at the hospital to collect some papers.

  As they were driving along they saw a familiar figure ahead of them and pulled to a halt.

  ‘Can we give you a lift, Miss Skiff?’

  ‘Well that would be very kind of you.’

  ‘Have you walked far?’

  ‘I have been out to the Nilometer to do some sketching.’

  ‘Surely you have not walked all that way from the Nilo-meter?’

  ‘Hillal was with me for the first part. But, really, I don’t mind walking. You see so much more that way.’

  ‘We are just calling in at the hospital. And then we can drop you right back to the Mission.’

  ‘Well, that would be—’

  When Miss Skiff had settled herself comfortably in the car, she said: ‘I have not forgotten.’

  ‘Forgotten?’

  ‘About the water-cart. You asked me to find out whether any of my ladies had seen it that day before it got to the Sharia Nubar Pasha.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure whether I should enlist my colleagues at first. It might turn out to be the disadvantage of those two drivers and I would not wish it to do that. But then I thought that perhaps I shouldn’t feel too sorry for them for if things had gone the way they intended, what would have happened to the horses? So, well, I did ask them.’

  ‘And were they able to help?’

  ‘They all knew the cart. Or, rather the horses that pulled it. And, you know, that is really rather surprising, for not all of them were patrolling the roads on that route. What I am saying, Captain Owen, is that it appeared that the cart does not normally stick to the route that it should. They had seen it all over the place. Well, I thought you would be interested in that.’

  ‘I am, indeed.’

  ‘But that particular day, the one we are interested in, someone had, in fact, seen it earlier. Do you know Maria? A nice Irish lady. Well, Maria always does that district on a Wednesday morning and she looks out for the cart because at that point the children come out from school and run along behind the cart dancing in its spray.

  ‘That particular morning, however, the cart was late, so they missed it. Maria came upon it later further back along the route. It had stopped and the two drivers were looking underneath it and fiddling around. She thought, as I did in the Nubar Pasha, that perhaps it had broken down. But now I think that perhaps we were both wrong. I think they were looking to see if the bomb was all right. Or perhaps they were even readying it. They wouldn’t want to have too much to do in the Nubar Pasha, would they, where everyone was looking at them. They would want to make it ready so that all they needed in the Nubar Pasha was a touch.’

  ***

  When they got to the hospital, Zeinab jumped out and ran up the front steps. As she came to the top she nearly collided with an Egyptian who was coming out. They both recoiled, apologising. And then from inside the door came a woman’s voice, saying in surprise:

  ‘Zeinab! I hadn’t realised you were coming back!’

  ‘I just want to pick up something,’ said Zeinab.

  ‘This is my brother, Asif. I took the chance while you were out of the office to get him to come round and advise me on the filing systems.’

  ‘That is very kind of you, Asif.’

  ‘It is nothing, nothing!’ he said awkwardly.

  He was plainly not used to addressing women, particularly a woman like Zeinab. He was put off by her dress, for a start. She was wearing a European dress, which while black and sober, exhibited her figure in a way he really wasn’t used to and probably thought indecent. She wasn’t wearing a veil, either, (Zeinab had taken it off to talk to Miss Skiff). Generally, her attire was not at all proper.

  But what was most difficult to cope with was the way she carried herself. She had run up the steps in such an assured way, not shrinking back as she should have done, and then addressed him so boldly!

  He didn’t know where to look.

  ‘Zeinab is my boss,’ said Miriam.

  She was another one who wasn’t wearing her veil. It was all right when it had been just the two of them, brother and sister, talking together in her room, alone. But to come out without it, into a public place where everyone could see her—

  He signalled to her preemptorily to put it on and get back inside.

  She didn’t seem to notice his signals.

  Or was she ignoring them? Deliberately? He frowned. He would speak to her that evening.

  ‘Miriam is a great asset,’ said Zeinab smiling.

  All the time he had been talking to her, he had kept his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. But, of course, when he was trying
to signal to Miriam, he had raised them. Now, as Zeinab spoke, he unguardedly turned them to her face.

  She was smiling at him!

  He reeled back in confusion. This was bold, this was brazen, this was—well! Almost wanton!

  He didn’t know where to look, he couldn’t think what to say.

  Pulling himself together, he muttered something at random and then bolted down the steps.

  ***

  Where, of course, there was the car, and, with it, Owen and Miss Skiff.

  ‘Asif!’ cried Miss Skiff.

  Asif stopped and turned.

  ‘Miss Skiff!’

  All his confusion fell from him. He came up to the car, his hands held out, his face beaming.

  ‘Miss Skiff!’

  He seized both her hands.

  ‘Asif! How are you? It’s been so long—’

  ‘I should have come to see you. I’ve been so busy—’

  ‘Of course! With all your responsibilities at the Palace! You’ve done so well!’

  ‘No, no, not really—’

  ‘But yes! Everyone says so. The heights you have reached!’

  ‘If I have got anywhere, it’s all due to you!’

  ‘No, no. You were always the brightest boy in the class. I remember you so well.’

  ‘And I remember you, Miss Skiff. I would have been nothing without you.’

  ‘Oh, you would, Asif, you would. You were always so determined to succeed. Whatever you had undertaken, you would have done well at.’

  ‘Yes, but without the knowledge you gave me, without the education, I would have been nothing.’

  ‘Your father would have been so proud if he could see you now!’

  ‘My father. Yes. He was always very ambitious on my behalf. The family had to make sacrifices. It cost such a lot to send me to Victoria College.’

  ‘But, of course, it was worth it.’

  ‘Oh, it was worth it. It gave me the start that he could never have had. There were times when he wondered…but you persuaded him, Miss Skiff.’

  ‘Not really. Your results spoke for themselves.’

  ‘But we didn’t know. We were an ignorant family. We didn’t know what they meant. If you had not spoken to him as you did—’

  ‘I feel very well repaid.’

  ‘Miss Skiff, I must come to see you. I shall come to see you. I have been so busy lately. Not just the Palace. Family responsibilities, you know.’

  His eye traveled back up the steps, but Miriam had fled back inside.

  ‘You always took your responsibilities seriously.’

  ‘I have been neglecting them. Some of them.’

  ‘I am sure you will soon put that right.’

  ***

  ‘Is the whole weight of the Parquet,’ demanded the m’allim, when Mahmoud arrived, ‘to fall on my poor hammam?’

  When Mahmoud had come to dinner, Owen had told him about the developments at the hammam and Mahmoud had decided to go down to the hammam the next morning and take a look at things for himself. He knew the relevant Parquet officer, Sadiq Lutfi, a little and rang him up beforehand to ask if he would mind if Mahmoud dropped in.

  ‘Come whenever you like, Mahmoud.’ said Sadiq Lutfi cordially. ‘It will be a pleasure to see you.’

  Mahmoud had not wanted it to appear that he was trying to cut in on the case. His relations with junior members of the Parquet were good. His reputation within the Parquet generally, if not with his seniors, was high and juniors tended to look up to him.

  Sadiq was standing outside the hammam when he arrived, talking to the beggar boys. He hurried over to Mahmoud and they embraced in the Arab fashion.

  ‘So, Mahmoud, you have an interest? How can I help you?’

  Mahmoud told him about Hussein and Ahmet.

  ‘They, too?’ said Sadiq.

  ‘Too?’

  ‘This hammam is like a railway station,’ said Sadiq. ‘Everyone comes here!’

  ‘My hammam is a beautiful hammam,’ butted in the m’allim, hovering about as usual.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Sadiq impatiently. ‘The hub of the universe. I know.’

  ‘It is like a jar of honey,’ said the m’allim, ‘and draws by its sweetness.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  Sadiq led Mahmoud inside.

  ‘Would you like to see round?’ he asked.

  ‘Talk me through the case,’ said Mahmoud.

  ***

  ‘Well,’ he said, after Sadiq had finished, ‘I can see that the next time I go to a hammam I shall have to be on my guard.’

  ‘What you have to be on guard against,’ said Sadiq, ‘is having an enemy who knows that you go there.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mahmoud, ‘that’s the point, isn’t it? Several conditions were necessary for this to happen. The dead man had to come here regularly. His attacker, Yussef, had to be planted in the hammam, so that he could take advantage of the opportunity when it arrived. And then he would have to be able to assert his claim to the massage, possibly against rival claims.’

  ‘Well, that’s what he did.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yes. Apparently.’

  ‘And the part of the m’allim in all this?’

  ‘He says he had no part.’

  ‘But the lawingi says he normally does.’

  ‘And he certainly brought Yussef in in the first place. Have you got anywhere with finding Yussef?’

  ‘Not so far. But I think I will find him. He seems to have been good at his job. That is, he was a professional masseur. The world of masseurs is surprisingly small. You tend to go to a master to be trained and there are relatively few of them. We should be able to find out who Yussef’s master was—there’s a sort of guild of them—and from that—since people usually keep in touch with someone at home—find out where he is.’

  Mahmoud nodded.

  ‘Let us know when you do, will you? And what about the other man? The dead one. Have you been able to find out who he is?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sadiq. ‘I think so. Among the valuables he handed in to the m’allim was a ring. A Pasha’s ring.’

  He looked at Mahmoud.

  ‘You know about Pasha’s rings?’

  ‘There would be an inscription,’ said Mahmoud. ‘The Pasha’s mark.’

  ‘There was one. We were able to identify the Pasha. He has a small estate up towards Damietta. I sent someone over there. He has talked to the overseer and thinks he has made a positive identification.’

  Sadiq looked at his watch.

  ‘He’s bringing him up,’ he said, ‘and taking him to the mortuary. I’m just going over there. Would you like to come?’

  Chapter Ten

  After the heat of the streets, the mortuary was cool. There were shutters on all the windows and they were closed. The bodies were kept in a room below ground which was constantly refrigerated. There was a strong smell of antiseptic.

  A doctor came forward and shook hands.

  ‘Hello, Mr. Lutfi. I think your man will be here in a moment.’ He looked at Mahmoud ‘Mr. El Zaki? I believe we have met before.’

  ‘Too frequently, I’m afraid,’ said Mahmoud.

  The doctor shrugged.

  There were voices upstairs and then two men descended.

  ‘Mr. Iffat? I am Sadiq Lutfi, and this is a colleague. Thank you for coming. It will not take long.’

  They went into an even chillier room where there were two attendants. They looked at the doctor questioningly and then pulled out what looked like a long drawer. In it was a form covered by a sheet.

  Sadiq took the overseer by the arm and led him forward.

  One of the attendants pulled down the sheet.

  Sadiq tightened his grip on the overseer’s arm.

 
‘Do you know this man?’ he said.

  The overseer looked at the face expressionlessly.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Ziki,’ he said. ‘That’s what we always used to call him.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He signaled to the attendant, who pulled the sheet up again. The doctor led them upstairs to a rather pleasanter room overlooking the garden. He left them there and went out.

  ‘I don’t know what his mother will say,’ said the overseer.

  ‘Tell me about him,’ said Sadiq.

  ‘He worked on the estate until about five years ago.’ He looked at Sadiq. ‘It’s a small estate,’ he said, ‘up near Damietta. It’s not really big enough, that’s the problem. It was bigger but the Pasha has had to sell more and more of his land. The best land, what we’ve got left, doesn’t yield much. It’s too far from the river, you see, and we had to let some of the canals go with the land. It’s a battle, that’s what it is. We don’t make enough from the cotton to be able to afford improvements and the costs go up all the time. So we’ve had to let people go.’

  ‘And Ziki was one of them?’

  ‘One of the first. He worked in the office, you see, and we couldn’t afford him. Not that he minded that much. He was always ambitious, was Ziki, and thought he could do better somewhere else. Well, he probably could.’

  ‘But he kept his ring,’ said Mahmoud.

  ‘For old time’s sake as much as anything, I expect. He was always true to the Pasha. Been with the family forever. But he knew he had to make the break. Things could only get worse. The young Pasha went at the same time.’

  ‘The young Pasha?’

  ‘The son. There was only one. He’s the one who will inherit the estate. If he wants it. I don’t think he will. It was always a bit backward for him. The only thing alive there is the dog,’ he said to me. ‘And it’s not going to be here for long.’

  Of course, he was a different man from his father. The old Pasha lived for the estate. But Rashid, that’s the son, had other ideas. “Cairo is where the money is,” he said. “I want to go there while I can still get some of it.”’

  ‘And did he?’