The Mark of the Pasha

by Michael Pearce

  But now she was beginning to ask herself if that was the way that others saw her. And the question came to a head over this business of being a woman. Zeinab was no suffragette. She was aware of what was going on in Europe and applauded the movement towards a new definition of women. But there didn’t seem much point in bothering about a vote for women when no one in Egypt had the vote. But she was very bothered about other things affecting the place of women. Work, for instance.

  She had loved going out to work and to work in the hospital. She realised she had a talent for it and that it fulfilled her in unexpected ways. She had come to think that she had a right to it. Why shouldn’t she do a job like this? And if her, why not other women? Miriam’s coming had made a difference to her way of thinking. Yes, why not? she had found herself asking. And she had been disappointed at Miriam’s wanting to give it up.

  There was definitely a place for women in interesting jobs in Zeinab’s new Egypt; but was there a place for women in interesting jobs in Zaghlul’s new Egypt? That was the question that was worrying her.

  And then suddenly there flashed into her mind a new consideration, one that had never entered her thinking before: what if—the question of a baby had never quite slipped out of her thoughts—she had a baby and it turned out to be a daughter?

  Zeinab didn’t know much about babies but she did know that roughly half of them did turn out to be girls and she thought it possible that it might be true in her case. If that was so then it put a completely new complexion on things. She was prepared to take her chances when it came to herself, but for her daughter she wanted only the best.

  This bore thinking about.

  ***

  Owen had been brought a message from Paul. The Commission had received a sudden invitation to a Royal Reception at the Abdin Palace the next day. Paul regarded this as a triumph, since the Khedive had hitherto refused to acknowledge the presence of the Commission, declaring its existence an infringement of Egypt’s sovereign rights. Now, however, after much lobbying by Paul, he appeared to have changed his mind.

  There was, however, a problem. Under the High Commissioner’s new dispositions, while Owen as Mamur Zapt was responsible for the personal security of the members of the Commission, the Army had taken over a general responsibility for the situation in the streets. To get them from their hotel to the Palace the Commission had to pass through the streets; and the Army proposed to safeguard their security by lining the streets with troops.

  Paul did not think this was a good idea. Nor, more to the point, did the Khedive. After what had happened on his most recent attempt to process, he had gone off the idea of procession. Even when it was somebody else who was processing. In any case he took umbrage over the Army playing a role in all this. As far as he was concerned, the Mamur Zapt had always been responsible for the realm’s—and his—security and he saw no reason to change this. The presence of the British Army was, somewhat heroically, another of the things he refused to recognise.

  It was agreed that the Commission should proceed to the Palace in cars sent by the Khedive. Not in procession, but with Owen driving with them, in his very own car. It was probably the last opportunity he would have of using it before he had to give it back.

  He arranged for the car to pick him up at the Bab-el-Khalk the next day.

  ***

  Asif was so deeply depressed that he even stayed away from work. This had never happened before and Miriam was disturbed. She believed it all her fault. If she had not insisted on going out to work, this would not have happened. Asif had locked himself away in his room. Plucking up her courage, Miriam knocked timidly at this door. When there was no reply, she knocked again.

  The door was flung open.

  ‘Cannot I be left alone?’ demanded Asif.

  ‘I wanted to tell you something,’ Miriam said falteringly.

  ‘Tell me some other time. Cannot you see that I am sick?’

  ‘It is because you are sick that I wanted to tell you this,’ said Miriam bravely. ‘I thought it would help.’

  Now it was Asif’s heart that smote. She seemed so modest and submissive. Could it be that she was returning to a proper sense of dutifulness?

  He had not behaved well to his sister. He had failed in his own duties as head of the household. Surely he could at least listen to her?

  He stood back and let her enter.

  ‘Speak on,’ he said.

  ‘I thought—I thought you were unhappy with me,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I am.’

  ‘But it’s all right. I am going to stop. I am not going to work at the hospital any more.’

  ‘Not?’ said Asif, surprised.

  ‘Not. If it makes you so unhappy.’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘And ill.’

  ‘Ill? It’s not that that’s making me ill!’ said Asif.

  ‘Not—?’

  ‘Of course, not! You can do what you want as far as I am concerned.’

  What was he saying?

  ‘Provided you conduct yourself in a seemly fashion,’ he added hastily.

  ‘But it’s not that that’s making you ill?’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘It’s something else?’

  ‘Something else, yes.’

  ‘Cannot you tell me, my dear?’

  Miriam had never called him that before.

  His heart melted.

  ‘I have such terrible troubles,’ he muttered. ‘Whatever I do I shall bring dishonour and distress upon my family.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she insisted.

  He found it very hard to tell her. He had always fought his own way, had never wanted, or accepted, help from others. He had always preferred to act alone. When his father had been alive he had gone to him: but that had been not so much to ask for advice but to tell him of his triumphs. He had wanted, needed, his father to be proud of him, and was sure that he had been. But they had never really talked as intimates, as equals, as colleagues, say. And now, when he badly needed to talk to someone, he was not there.

  And would he have understood, anyway?

  Asif suddenly realised that it was not so much advice that he was in need of as, well…sympathy. He wanted someone who would understand him, be on his side, feel for him and with him, reach out to him…

  As his sister had done, in fact.

  He broke down in sobs and she put her arms around him.

  ‘I have got it all wrong,’ he said. ‘Wrong! Wrong! Everything I did was wrong.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Miriam.

  ‘The way I behaved to you, the way I behaved to other people…the way I behaved to the Khedive…’

  ‘The Khedive?’ said Miriam, astounded.

  ‘Yes. Our father served the Khedive loyally all his life. And he brought us up to be loyal servants of the Khedive, too. It was his proudest moment—he told me this—when I joined him at the Palace. And, afterwards, as I moved upwards, he followed everything I did with… It gave him great happiness, he said, to see me fulfilling myself in service to the master he had followed for so many years, all his life.

  ‘And I was proud and happy, too. But then—then I began to meet other people. And they thought differently from the way I did. They said that the Khedive was a weak man, and a bad man, and that what he did was not good for Egypt. That all those things that were wrong with Egypt would not be righted until he was removed. And I listened to them. My eyes were blinded and my mind clouded—’

  ‘What have you done?’ said Miriam.

  ‘Pride,’ said Asif. ‘That’s what it was. Among all those rich and powerful people. I wanted to show them that I was as good as they. I had something that they hadn’t. Knowledge. I had always been good at school and knew things they did not. I knew about science. About how to make explosives. Bombs. So when they talked about striking a blow,
I could tell them how. Miss Skiff, unwittingly, had shown me—yes, and I have betrayed her, too. She gave me knowledge that I could use to do good, yes, to my own country—’

  He beat upon his breast.

  ‘I could have used it for Egypt. Instead…’

  ‘What have you done?’ said Miriam.

  ‘At the time, it came to nothing. They talked about it and bombs were made, by a foolish technician. But they were never thrown. The police found out and we were all seized. There were powerful men in the group and they had people to speak for them. In the end we were allowed free. Only the foolish technician was punished. He was sent to prison. And I, having been pardoned, buried myself in my work.

  ‘This was all three years ago and I thought belonged to the past. But recently—recently they came to me again and said that they were going to try again, and that the need now was even greater. They asked me to tell again how a bomb might be made, and to explain it again to the man who had made the bombs before. It was the same man and he was no happier than I. But they said, if you do not help, we will reveal all.

  ‘So I helped. I told them. And the bomb was made. It was to be used against the Khedive. It was not to be thrown but to be placed in a water-cart and would explode when the Khedive went past.

  ‘God be praised, it was not exploded. They found out in time. But when I thought about what might have happened—’

  ‘Well, it did not happen,’ said Miriam, after a moment. ‘And for that, as you say, God must be praised. But there must be no more of this, my brother. I say this in our father’s name, there must be no more of this!’

  ‘But there will be,’ Asif whispered. ‘They are plotting something. I do not know what it is, but I know they intend to strike again. They asked me to join them and this time I refused. Miriam, I am frightened. I fear they may strike at me. I know too much. They have killed one already, that poor man I told you about. I fear that they will do the same to me. But at least I will know that I have refused to lift my hand again against the Khedive.’

  ‘We do not sit here,’ said Miriam. ‘We do not sit here quietly waiting for the wolf to strike. Come with me.’

  ***

  Owen received a phone call from Zeinab asking him to come at once to the hospital.

  Owen looked at his watch. He was due at the Commission’s hotel in less than an hour to escort them to the Palace. He could just manage it; especially if he went in the car.

  As he was leaving the Bab-el-Khalk he ran into Zeid and Salah. They were just coming to see him. Salah wanted to tell him about the latest miracle that had happened to him. Prince Hamid had allowed him to drive the De Dion all by himself. Without even the driver sitting beside him!

  ‘Congratulations!’ said Owen. ‘You must be doing well.’

  ‘The Prince thinks highly of him,’ Zeid said proudly. ‘He is always saying what a good driver Salah is going to be.’

  ‘Well, that’s tremendous!’ said Owen.

  ‘And today he is going to let me drive outside the Palace!’ said Salah excitedly.

  ‘I hope that is sensible,’ said Owen.

  ‘Oh, it is, it is!’ said Salah. ‘We are going to the Automobile Club now. And there we will pick up the De Dion and I am going to drive it all on my own. Only a short way. But the Prince says that will be enough.’

  ‘Just be careful, will you?’ said Owen, and hurried on.

  ***

  Zeinab was waiting anxiously for him at the hospital entrance and took him into her office. He was surprised to see Asif there as well as Miriam.

  ‘Tell him!’ commanded Miriam.

  Owen listened in silence.

  ‘And they plan to strike again?’ he said, when Asif had finished.

  ‘Yes,’ said Asif hoarsely.

  ‘Do you know where?’

  Asif shook his head.

  ‘He would not tell me,’ he said. ‘Not after I refused. I know only that it will be a great blow. Even though this time it will not be against the Khedive directly.’

  ‘A great blow?’

  ‘That will make England tremble.’

  Owen nodded.

  ‘And this man, this man who spoke to you, what is his name?’

  Asif hesitated.

  ‘Tell!’ commanded Miriam.

  ‘Does he smell of roses?’ asked Owen.

  And then suddenly sat up.

  ‘A great blow? England? England?’

  ***

  He leaped from his chair and ran out of the room.

  ‘The Savoy!’ he said to the driver. ‘Quickly!’

  The car skidded out of the hospital grounds.

  ‘Faster!’ said Owen. ‘You’ve got to get there faster!’

  ‘Blast!’ said the driver.

  They had got caught behind a slow-moving ox-drawn cart.

  ‘Overtake!’ commanded Owen.

  ‘You really mean that?’ said the driver.

  He pulled out from behind the cart. An arabeah coming the other way swung violently over. It stopped and its driver stood up shouting imprecations.

  The car accelerated. It swung in and out of a whole line of carts, arabeahs, and startled people.

  ‘You did say—’ began the driver.

  ‘Get on!’ snapped Owen.

  As they swerved down the impossibly crowded street stall-holders sprang aside, chickens squawked, and pedestrians turned in amazement.

  ‘I’m going to take us down the Mouski, right?’ said the driver. ‘And if anyone says anything afterwards, as they will, I’m going to say I was acting under orders.’

  ‘Right!’ said Owen.

  ‘If you say so,’ said the driver, and put his foot on the pedal.

  As they tore along the Mouski they were followed by a growing crescendo of protest. At the end of the street it was joined by police whistles.

  A policeman bravely stepped out and held up his hand.

  ‘Keep going!’ said Owen.

  The policeman sprang aside.

  ‘This has done me,’ said the driver.

  ‘I’ll see you’re all right.’

  The car turned at last on to the Sharia Kasr-en-Nil. There, ahead of them, was the Hotel and outside it several cars were drawn up and the members of the Commission getting in.

  And there, approaching from the other end of the street, driven slowly and carefully, was the De Dion. With a small boy alone at the wheel.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Owen jumped out.

  ‘Block the street! Turn the car across the road!’

  Paul was standing beside the cars seeing everybody in. He looked up in surprise.

  ‘Get them away!’ Owen shouted. ‘Bombs! Get them inside!’

  Paul ran along the line of cars telling them to drive away. There were soldiers standing nearby and they began to hustle the remaining members of the Commission inside.

  ‘Everyone!’ shouted Owen. ‘Get everyone away!’

  Without looking to see if his orders were being obeyed, he ran up the road towards the De Dion.

  It slowed. He could see the figure at the wheel clearly now.

  He waved the car down. It came uncertainly to a stop. Owen wrenched open the door.

  ‘Out!’ he said. ‘Quickly!’

  He caught Salah by the collar of his galabeah and hauled him out.

  ‘Run!’

  Zeid, appearing suddenly beside him, scooped the boy up in his arms and took off.

  Owen wrenched open the rear door. There, on the floor, and on the back seats, was a huge package. He bent over it.

  Someone pushed him aside.

  ‘Leave it to us!’ said the Sirdar. ‘Some things we may not know about but this sort of thing we bloody do!’

  He pulled Owen away.

  Soldiers were now
swarming all over the car.

  A cry went up.

  ‘Got it, sir!’

  ‘Just make sure, will you?’

  He walked Owen back towards the hotel.

  Zeid was standing there still holding Salah in his arms.

  ‘They used the boy, did they?’

  Owen looked round and saw Georgiades.

  ‘The man smelling of roses,’ he said. ‘He may be here.’

  Georgiades nodded and rushed off.

  ‘And Hamid!’ said Owen. ‘I want Prince Hamid. Especially.’

  ‘He’s gone to the Palace,’ someone said.

  ‘I’m going to get him,’ said Owen. ‘Where’s my car?’

  Paul hurried up.

  ‘Okay, now?’ he said.

  ‘Okay. They can go to the Palace now. There’s no reason why the Reception shouldn’t go ahead.’

  An officer came up.

  ‘Have you got them?’ he said excitedly. ‘Do you know who they are?’

  ‘I know who they are,’ said Owen.

  ‘You really mean Prince Hamid?’ asked the Sirdar.

  ‘I do. There may be some difficulty in getting him. He’s at the Palace.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said the Sirdar. ‘There won’t be any difficulty then.’

  Owen’s car had drawn up. They climbed in.

  ‘The Palace,’ said Owen.

  ‘Quickly?’ said the driver.

  ‘Quickly,’ said the Sirdar.

  The Sirdar was dressed for Reception. In uniform. Splendidly. And recognisably.

  There was no difficulty at the gates. They swung open and the car went through them.

  The Sirdar jumped out.

  Flunkeys had already assembled to show the Commission’s members in.

  ‘Hamid!’ said the Sirdar. ‘I want Prince Hamid. Where is he?’

  ‘In his rooms, sir. He’s not coming to the reception.’

  ‘No, he’s not,’ said the Sirdar. ‘Take me to him.’ He turned to Owen. ‘You look after the Commission and see they’re all right. Explain things to them. Oh, and to the Khedive, too.’