The Mark of the Pasha

by Michael Pearce

  ‘Well, this quite struck his fancy and for a while he dabbled in student politics. It was a time when they were all joining secret, revolutionary societies, and he was persuaded to join one, as I told you. He became, in fact, its leader. Nominally I suspect.

  ‘They talked themselves into action. The action was to take the form of bombs. They talked of one of the bridges, perhaps the Kasr-en-Nil. They wanted to disrupt the war effort. They were all pro-Ottoman, of course. In the end it didn’t come to anything because they talked too much and one of our people heard them. They were pulled in and Hamid was reported to the Khedive. He was given a good ticking off, which he didn’t take kindly, and at one point, as I think I told you, the Khedive considered handing him back to us. And then it was all smoothed over, his enthusiasm for politics apparently faded, and he took to racing cars.

  ‘Now I come to the interesting bit. The names of the people in the radical society he was a member of. There was no one else from the royal family. Student societies were a bit beneath them. But there was a Pasha’s son. He was, I think, the real leader, although that didn’t come out till later. At the time he was pulled in he made a great to-do about being a serious student of business, led astray by older friends, and anxious only, now that he had learned his lesson, to get back to banking.’

  ‘Banking?’ said Owen.

  ‘His name was Rashid.’

  ‘The one from the estate Ziki worked on?’

  ‘That’s right. They came up to Cairo at the same time and for a while they stayed together. Ziki was never a member of the society, he was too lowly for that. But he did things for the group.’

  ‘“Did things?”’

  ‘Obtained materials, for instance. For the bombs. He knew how to get hold of such things, from his experience on the estate. There was a quarry nearby. He was the one who was sent to prison. The students got off with a warning. No wish to spoil promising careers, etc. In fact, Rashid didn’t forget about him. With Hamid’s help, they got him out of prison after only a few months, and then Rashid found a job for him.’

  ‘A carrying business,’ said Owen.

  ‘That’s right. The money came from Hamid.’

  Owen tapped the file.

  ‘Where did you get that from? Is it in here?’

  ‘The agent who had previously informed on them knew about Ziki. He was the one who had found out about the explosives. He came across him afterwards.’

  Owen nodded.

  ‘Then everything went quiet,’ said Nikos, ‘and after a while we reckoned they had moved on to other things.’

  That was what usually happened with students. Like Hamid, they were creatures of enthusiasms, and when the enthusiasm faded there were back to getting on with their lives. That was the good thing about students. They usually grew out of it.

  So what you had to do, what he had always tried to do, was let them grow.

  It usually worked.

  ‘And, until recently,’ Owen said, ‘we thought that they had?’

  ‘That’s what it looked like.’

  Owen sat and thought.

  ‘What evidence have we got that they haven’t?’

  ‘The De Dion and Ziki.’

  ‘What’s Rashid doing now?’

  Nikos hesitated.

  ‘That, perhaps, is also significant. I said that Hamid might have changed his mind about religion. Or be changing it. He has been to see Sayed Ali.’

  ‘The religious leader?’

  ‘Rashid took him. And Rashid himself seems to be spending all his time with Sayed Ali. Of course,’ said Nikos, ‘Hamid’s visits to Sayed Ali, and Rashid’s spending a lot of time there, may be nothing to do with religion at all.’

  He went back to his office, leaving the files on Owen’s desk.

  Owen began to read.

  After a while he stopped and went back and began to go through the names again.

  ***

  The Commission had got down to hearing people who wished to give evidence to it.

  ‘Four so far,’ said Paul, rubbing his hands. ‘Only 179 still to go.’

  ‘Bit slow, isn’t it?’ said Owen.

  ‘The Commission wants to deny no one the right to make representations.’

  ‘It will take years at this rate.’

  ‘Why, so it might!’ said Paul.

  The Commission’s members, however, were already beginning to show signs of mutiny. The hotel was holding a reception, another one, for its distinguished visitors. Prudently, they were holding it inside; less prudently, some of the members had strayed out on to the terrace in front of the hotel. Paul rushed out to coax them back.

  ‘Look,’ said one of them belligerently, ‘I’ve been sitting in a room all day for five days listening to people speak Arabic. I don’t speak Arabic.’

  ‘You have transcripts,’ said Paul.

  ‘They are all in Commission-speak. I don’t speak Commission-speak.’

  ‘Nor does anyone else,’ muttered the man beside him.

  ‘I want to get out,’ said the first man.

  ‘Into the fields!’ cried Paul. ‘We’ll go to see the cotton fields tomorrow. Cotton is very important to Egypt. It’s the main industry.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be,’ said the businessman. ‘A big mistake, relying on one product.’

  ‘I’m not sure you should jump to conclusions until you’ve had an opportunity to meet the representatives of the Cotton Board.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more representations. I want to get outside.’

  ‘Into the fields! That’s just what I’m suggesting. To see the cotton growing.’

  ‘Is there anything interesting about cotton growing?’ someone asked.

  ‘Oh, a lot!’ Paul answered him.

  ‘What does it…do?’

  ‘Do? Well, it…sort of…grows.’

  ‘Like weeds?’ said someone helpfully.

  ‘Yes. No. No, not like weeds.’

  ‘Likes roses, perhaps?’ suggested the rose fancier.

  ‘Yes. You could say that. Almost.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be all white, though? I mean, the flowers?’

  ‘That doesn’t sound very interesting,’ said someone doubtfully.

  ‘And green,’ put in Paul hastily. ‘Green, too.’

  Paul was not much of an agriculturist.

  ‘I quite like it here,’ said the man who had been interested in racing. ‘On the terrace. With a drink.’

  ‘I just want to get out.’

  ‘I’ll arrange something for tomorrow. An excursion, perhaps.’

  ‘No thanks!’ they said unitedly.

  ‘Right,’ said Paul. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  From the far end of the street came the sound of confused shouting. It settled down into rhythmic chants.

  ‘Perhaps we should go inside,’ said Paul.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘More drink.’

  ‘Oh, right, then,’ said the racing one, and set off obediently.

  Someone nudged Owen in the ribs.

  ‘Playing hookey, are you?’

  He turned.

  ‘Don’t blame you,’ said Mrs. Oliphant. ‘I’ve had enough of it myself inside.’ She wandered over to the edge of the terrace. ‘What’s this, then? It sounds like a procession.’

  ‘A demonstration,’ said Owen.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Perhaps we should follow Mr. Trevelyan’s advice and go inside.’

  ‘Not me!’ said Mrs. Oliphant.

  ‘Nor me,’ said the Trade Unionist. ‘I want to see our lads.’

  ‘I don’t think they’ll be your lads,’ said Owen.

  ‘It sounds religious to me,’ said Mrs. Oliphant, peering.

  ‘It’s political,’ said Owen.


  The head of the demonstration came round the corner. Something about it was puzzling.

  He could hear the chanting more clearly now. It was not what he had expected. He had thought it would be ‘Sayed Ali, Sayed-Ali!;’ as before. But it was not. The people in the front were carrying a large green banner: and they were chanting ‘Za-ghlul! Za-ghlul!’

  Chapter Eleven

  Paul came out onto the terrace and stood beside Owen watching the procession go past.

  ‘I got the Old Man to let him come back,’ he said.

  ‘Zaghlul?’

  Paul nodded.

  ‘The Commission expressed a wish to see him. It’s a perfect excuse. The Old Man can climb down without losing face.’

  ‘His supporters are out already.’

  ‘So much the better. That will persuade the Commission he’s someone to be reckoned with. Then they’ll let us start dealing with him.’

  ***

  ‘Can’t have this!’ said the Sirdar.

  ‘Can’t have what?’

  ‘Everyone coming out onto the streets like this. It looks bad. Gives the wrong impression.’

  ‘What would be the right impression?’

  ‘That we’ve got everything under control. I’m sorry, Owen, it won’t do. I’ve been talking to some of the members. Know one of them—that chap I was talking to the other day. Soldier himself. Understands these things. “What you need do,” he said, “is crack down on them. Hit them hard enough and you’ll only have to hit them once.”’

  ‘There are a lot of people you’ll have to crack down upon.’

  ‘I’ve got a lot of people to crack down on them with. It’s different for you, Owen. I appreciate that. All you’ve got is half a man and a dog. Can’t do much with that. I’m not blaming you. But the time has come to get a grip on things.’

  Owen would have put it down as Army talk and forgotten about it; later, inside, he saw Willoughby talking earnestly to the Sirdar’s military friend. Later still, the High Commissioner came across to him.

  ‘I think we’re going to have to try something new, Gareth. We can’t go on like this.’

  ‘We are trying something new. Now that you’ve let Zaghlul come back.’

  ‘That’s window-dressing. I’ve let Paul persuade me, especially since the Commission asked to see him. But it doesn’t alter the underlying realities. It’s not talk we need now but action.’

  ‘And by that you mean military action?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘It would be a big mistake, sir. It would set the whole country against us.’

  ‘I knew you would say that. And you’re quite right to. But I have to make a decision, and my decision is to tilt things away from the political and towards the military for a bit.’

  ‘What exactly are you saying?’

  ‘I’m giving the Sirdar a bigger hand. And I want you to concentrate on looking after the Commission. Oh, and the Khedive. We mustn’t forget him. Have you got anywhere on him yet?’

  ‘I’m getting there.’

  ‘It’s too much for you, Owen. You’ve got too much on your plate. It was my fault not to recognise that. Your turn will come again later. After the Army has put the situation to rights.’

  ***

  ‘I’m going to resign,’ said Owen.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ said Paul. ‘Not and leave me to take on the Army all by myself.’

  ‘It’s a waste of time.’

  ‘No, it’s not. You know it’s not and I know it’s not. The political is the only way. In the end.’

  ‘Yes, but there’s a difference between your political and my political. Your political is the only way, yes. In the end the solution has to be political and at the Governmental level. But at my level it’s really just a question of stopping things from coming to a head.’

  ‘But what’s wrong with that?’ cried Paul.

  ‘Maybe it would be better if we let things come to a head.’

  ‘You mean?’

  ‘Is all this really our problem, Paul? What are we doing here? Shouldn’t we just get out?’

  ‘And go home and cultivate our gardens? Sniff the roses?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The idea has its attractions.’

  ‘I question the value of what we do, Paul.’

  ‘Don’t we all?’

  ‘I mean it, Paul. The world is changing and we’ve got to change with it.’

  ‘These are dangerous thoughts, Gareth.’

  ‘I know. But I’m thinking them.’

  ***

  As Owen went into his office, McPhee was entering his. He had someone with him. A boy.

  ‘Not him again!’

  It was the boy from the Helwan races.

  ‘I thought we’d told him to go home!’

  ‘He’s going home. He wants to speak to you first.’

  ‘Well, all right,’ said Owen resignedly.

  The boy came shyly into his office.

  ‘Hello, Yacoub.’

  ‘Effendi!’

  Unexpectedly he offered to shake hands; unexpectedly, because it was a Western thing to do.

  They shook hands and Owen motioned to him to sit down. The boy remained standing.

  ‘I have not changed my mind,’ he said defiantly.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. But the people I was sent to the City to help have. The Great Sheikh has.’

  ‘Sayed Ali?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘The people I was with have been told. At first there was debate about this, because some said one thing, others another. But now the Sheikh himself has spoken.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He said that the task was not to shout the walls down but to build. But others said that this was not a time for building but for destroying. Not for planting trees but for cutting them down. But the Great Sheikh said that we should take care when we destroy that we do not destroy good.’

  He looked at Owen.

  ‘That was what you told me, Effendi.’

  ‘Well, well, it seems we think alike, the Great Sheikh and I.’

  ‘He said also that we should go back to our places and work to see that good comes of things we now think evil. That, too, Effendi, was what you said.’

  ‘We grow old together, old and wise, the Sheikh and I.’

  ‘I do not agree with the Sheikh. I think we should fight to uproot the bad. But the Sheikh has spoken and what he says must be right.’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘It must be so,’ the boy insisted, ‘for the Sheikh has risen from his bed to say this. Could so sick and aged a man have risen, if God had not decreed it?’

  ‘Perhaps you will say this to your own sheikh back at the village?’

  ‘I will say it: although whether he will hear me is a different matter.’

  ‘Nevertheless, say it. And do what Sayed Ali bids. Work to see that good comes of ill.’

  ‘I will do that. Effendi. But…’

  ***

  So now Owen understood why the procession had not been chanting Sayed Ali’s name. The game had changed. The kind of religious uprising had receded. Admittedly, it had been replaced by the threat of more straight forwardly political protest, but that would be easier to deal with. He would have to tell Paul. It might be helpful to him for his tactical manoeuvring.

  But what else did it mean? He had been coming to the conclusion that the obscure group around Prince Hamid, who were obviously working for something, and always certainly against the Khedive, and against the British, come to that, had been trying to enlist Sayed Ali in their cause. Their attempt seems to have failed. What would they try next?

  ***

  Miss Skiff came to see him.


  ‘Why, Miss Skiff, how good to see you! Is there anything I can do to help you?’

  ‘I have been thinking,’ said Miss Skiff.

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘And worrying.’

  ‘About the horses? I really don’t think you need to. They are, I gather, in fine fettle.’

  ‘Not about the horses.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘About myself and about that bomb. And wondering if I myself should take some of the responsibility for it.’

  ‘You, Miss Skiff?’

  ‘It was constructed on chemical principles, involving, as I remember you telling me, the interaction of picric and nitric acid. You would not need a lot of scientific knowledge to do that but you would need some. It is the sort of thing an intelligent school boy could put together, the product of a lab and not of a factory. Now, Captain Owen, over the years I have myself taught many intelligent school boys the principles which could have been used.’

  ‘I really don’t see how you could blame yourself—’

  ‘Think about it. There are not many schools in Egypt where science is taught. Certainly not to an advanced level. Many of the few who know about science will have been to Victoria College, which, as you know, is the school to which many educated people in Egypt send their sons and where I myself taught science for thirty-six years.’

  ‘I see your line of reasoning, Miss Skiff. But, you know, you haven’t taught for some years now and any influence you may have had will have been long since dissipated.’

  ‘Little you know about education, Captain Owen!’ snorted Miss Skiff.

  ‘And isn’t your responsibility confined, anyway, to giving your pupils knowledge? What use they make of it afterwards is their responsibility not yours.’

  ‘Is it?’ said Miss Skiff. ‘That is what I have been asking myself.’

  ‘You know, Miss Skiff,’ said Owen gently, ‘I think that perhaps you take too much responsibility on yourself.’

  ‘Someone has to.’

  ‘Yes, but I think it is best if it is taken for things near one and not at too general a level. Your work for animals, for example, seems to me splendid. But to feel a general responsibility for everything taught in school—’