‘I do,’ she said. ‘But, more than that. I come because I can speak and they cannot; and because I know what they do not. Fahmy is innocent.’
‘Not quite,’ said Owen, ‘for he took the guns, knowing that they were guns.’
The Signora made an impatient gesture.
‘What are guns?’ she said. ‘What do they matter to the Nahhasin?’
‘We are talking of innocence,’ said Owen, ‘and that, in Egypt, is not just a matter for the Nahhasin.’
‘They were not for his use.’
‘I know that.’
‘He did it out of love.’
‘I know that too.’
‘Signora,’ said Abd al Jawad, ‘we have told.’
The Signora did not speak for a moment. Then she said:
‘It would have been better if it had not come from you. Let it come from me.’
She faced Owen.
‘The man you look for is Kamal.’
‘How do you know, Signora?’
‘You came to me,’ the Signora said to Owen, ‘and asked me who Morelli was speaking to in the warehouse that night, the night before he was killed. And I would not tell you. Now I will. It was Kamal.’
‘Why could you not tell me?’
The Signora shrugged.
‘Because it is the Nahhasin’s business, not yours.’
‘And yet Morelli thought of telling me.’
The Signora looked at him.
‘Through the Box, yes. But that would have been about the guns only. Not about the man.’
‘Why would neither of you talk about the man?’
‘Because he was Kamal. A friend. Because we had known him since he was a child, and loved him and laughed at him, as with a child. We had always known him as hotheaded and somehow we could not believe—’
She stopped and was silent for a moment.
‘I still do not believe,’ she said, ‘do not believe that when it came to it he would have used them. Because although he was hot-headed, he was also warm-hearted. He looked on Morelli as an uncle, as someone he could do wrong to, a little wrong, knowing that the uncle would understand and in the end forgive. The guns were a small wrong.’
She looked at Owen.
‘You asked why I could be sure that whoever had argued with Morelli that night had not killed him. I have given you the answer: because he loved him. Guns were a small wrong; and when Morelli upbraided him that evening, it was for a small wrong. He chided him as a father and Kamal took it as a son. It was between them only. And so he would not have told you Kamal’s name, and neither did I. Should one betray one’s son?’
‘And yet now you do.’
The Signora was silent again. Then she lifted her head and looked Owen in the face.
‘It was the wrong done to Fahmy. There comes a time when there have been enough of such wrongs. And so,’ she said, ‘I have come to tell you that the man you want is not Fahmy, but Kamal; that it was Kamal who bespoke the guns; and that it was Kamal who argued with Morelli that night in the warehouse.’
‘Not night, but evening,’ said Mahmoud.
The Signora looked at him in surprise.
‘That is so.’
‘After Abdul had shut up for the night.’
‘Yes.’
‘Kamal was seen. And seen, too, by the foreman as he left. There was no need for you to speak, Signora. I already knew.’
‘And there was no need for you to speak, either,’ Owen said to the men, ‘for I already knew that Kamal had bespoken the guns. He ordered the guns as he was passing through Assuan on his way back from the Sudan. He was able to do so because he is a member of a brotherhood which has other members in Assuan. The brotherhood is one of soldiers and so he was able to bespeak their aid. But there are not many soldiers who pass through Assuan and so once I knew the guns had been ordered there, I was able to find him. It was, in the end, not necessary for any of you to speak; but I am glad that you did.’
***
A sudden puff of wind came through the open lattice work of the box window and made the oil lamps flicker and the shadows fanned round the room. It made the charcoal in the brazier flicker and a little flame started up. Ibrahim Buktari picked up the coffee pot mechanically.
‘So,’ he said to Owen, ‘Fahmy will be released?’
Owen nodded.
‘With a caution to live more virtuously in future: an enjoinder which is perhaps not necessary.’
The Signora laughed: a short bark of a laugh.
‘And Kamal?’ she said.
‘Kamal!’ Ibrahim Buktari shook his head and put down the coffee pot. He looked at Owen. ‘You will go now to take him, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
Ibrahim Buktari cleared his throat.
‘I have been thinking,’ he said. He looked round at his friends. ‘Perhaps we should come with you. It is right that he know who his accusers are.’
‘There is no need,’ said Owen.
‘Ibrahim is right,’ said Hamdan. ‘We will come.’
They stood up.
‘You do not need to come if you would prefer not to,’ Owen said to Mahmoud. ‘The guns are my concern not yours; and perhaps it would be better if that were seen to be so.’
Mahmoud had been sitting silent, his face unreadable in the half darkness. Now he, too, stood up.
‘I will come with you to see Kamal,’ he said. ‘But not about the guns.’
There were footsteps on the stairs. Aisha, coming in, caught his words.
‘There is no need,’ she said. ‘Kamal is here.’
***
Kamal came into the room and walked straight across to the group of elders.
‘You did not need to,’ he said gently. ‘I would have spoken.’
‘But why not before, Kamal?’ said Hamdan reproachfully. ‘Why not before?’
‘I was in the barracks and did not hear at once. And then—then there were things to be thought about.’
‘Others to be thought of?’ suggested Owen.
Kamal looked at him defiantly.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I acted alone. Others would have joined me. Once I had the guns.’
‘You should know,’ said Owen, ‘that I had found you anyway. I had followed the trail of the guns. There was no need for these friends to speak.’
‘It was right for them to speak,’ said Kamal. ‘Since they thought I was not coming forward. I am sorry,’ he said, addressing them directly. ‘It was wrong for me to stay silent.’
‘It was wrong of you to involve your uncle in the first place,’ said Ibrahim sternly.
‘I did not mean to. But suddenly there was a need and I couldn’t think fast enough. I had found a route for the guns and could not suddenly change it. But then I needed a place to store them and the only place I could think of, the only place with storage space, was my uncle’s warehouse.’
‘It was wrong,’ said Abd al Jawad, ‘for you were taking advantage of your uncle’s love.’
Kamal bowed his head.
‘As, before,’ said Owen, ‘you had taken advantage of the Signor’s love for you.’
‘That, too, was not intended,’ said Kamal. ‘I had intended that he should know nothing of it. The guns would be delivered without his knowing and I would collect them without his knowing. Yes, I was taking advantage of him, in that I used his caravan; but not, I told myself, of his love. It was only when he discovered the guns and I went to plead with him that, yes, you could say I took advantage of his love. And for that, signora,’ he said to her, ‘I am deeply sorry.’
The Signora made a little, almost fond, gesture of acceptance.
Kamal turned to Owen.
‘So,’ he said, ‘you had found out anyway?’ He shrugged. ‘Well, perhaps that is fitting, since you are
, of them all, the one who is closest to us. And perhaps it is best, as they say, if it is a friend who finds out one’s faults.’ He held out his hands to Owen. ‘Come, take me.’
‘I do so,’ said Owen, ‘not as a friend, not as an individual, but as the Mamur Zapt.’
Kamal gave him a quick smile.
‘Why, yes,’ he said delightedly, ‘and the person you arrest is not Kamal but tomorrow’s Egypt. Although I am taken, there will be others.’
He looked at Mahmoud.
‘But, Mahmoud,’ he said, ‘how is it that you are standing alongside the Mamur Zapt in this? When you, as one who looks towards tomorrow’s Egypt, ought to be standing alongside me?’
Mahmoud moved forward.
‘Because,’ he said, ‘one thing connects with another, as guns with bullets, and bullets with people. It is not guns alone that is the issue here.’
‘No?’
‘It is Sidi Morelli.’
‘I do not understand.’
‘When you came to Sidi Morelli that night, the night after he had discovered the guns, what happened?’
‘He upbraided me.’
‘That was deserved,’ said Ibrahim Buktari.
‘Well, yes,’ said Kamal, ‘it was deserved.’
‘Was what followed deserved, though, Kamal?’ asked Mahmoud.
Kamal stared at him.
‘I do not understand, Mahmoud.’
‘Did Sidi deserve to be killed?’
‘Killed?’
‘You killed him, didn’t you?’
‘Killed him? Why would I kill him?’
‘Not when he upbraided you, but afterwards. When you had had time to think that he might give you away.’
‘No, Mahmoud, no!’
‘You wondered why I stood beside him. Now you know.’
‘No, Mahmoud, no!’
He seized Mahmoud by the lapels of his suit.
‘I did not kill him, Mahmoud! I swear it! I deceived him, yes. I arranged for the guns to be hidden in the bales of his caravan without telling him. And then when he found the guns and bade me come and see him, we spoke hot words, yes, but that was as far as it went. Sidi Morelli? Kill him? Sidi Morelli? What kind of a man do you think I am?’
‘You would have killed others,’ said Owen.
‘The British, yes, I would have killed the British. They are my enemies, they are holding my country. But Sidi Morelli! He was a good man, he was my uncle’s friend—my friend! He had lived among us. He was one of us. Almost.’
Chapter Seventeen
In the incredible way of the Nahhasin word spread like lightning; and by the time they emerged on to the street a small crowd had already gathered. Among them was Amina. She stepped forward and barred their path.
‘It was not he who killed the Italian,’ she said.
Mahmoud stopped.
‘That is for the Kadi to decide, Amina,’ he said courteously.
‘But I know he didn’t do it.’
Mahmoud, who had been speaking with his eyes slightly averted, as he always did when he was addressing women, looked her full in the face.
‘How do you know that, Amina?’
Amina took a deep breath.
‘Because I did it,’ she said.
‘Now come, Amina. It may be that you care for Kamal but it is not sensible to say—’
‘I killed the Signor,’ she said.
‘It is not possible, Amina. You are a slight girl and Sidi Morelli was a strong man. And whoever killed him was even stronger.’
‘No, no,’ she said. ‘I—not like that.’
‘I killed him,’ said a deep voice.
It was that of Suleiman, the porter.
‘Shut up!’ said Amina.
‘No, Amina, I will not. Not this time. I know you love Kamal and I hate him for it. But I do not hate you. Even though you love him. And even though I know now that I am nothing to you. But still I love you, Amina, and I will not let you do this. Come, take me,’ he said to Mahmoud, thrusting out his hands.
‘Suleiman, go!’ said Amina. ‘I have done enough to you.’
‘I will not go! I waited for the Signor that night and when he left the coffee house I took hold of him and killed him. I did it. Come, take me.’
‘He did it at my bidding,’ Amina said to Mahmoud.
‘No, Amina—’
‘I told him to,’ she said fiercely. ‘I said that if he loved me, he would do this for me.’
‘But, Amina,’ cried Abd al Jawad, ‘why would you wish to kill Sidi?’
‘Because I thought he wished it,’ said Amina, looking at Kamal.
‘I?’ said Kamal, stunned.
‘I heard about them quarrelling. I had followed Kamal that night. I always follow Kamal. And then afterwards I thought: perhaps the Signor will tell someone about the guns and the police will take him away. And then the Signor came and spoke to the men about the Mamur Zapt’s Box, so I saw that it was in his mind. It was then that I went to Suleiman and bade him kill the Signor that evening. I did it to save you,’ she said to Kamal.
‘Oh, Amina!’
‘And, besides—’
She stopped.
‘Besides, what, Amina?’ said Mahmoud gently.
‘Besides, I knew Kamal hated foreigners and I thought this would please him. I wanted to please him. I thought it might make you love me,’ she said to Kamal. ‘At least make you notice me.’
‘Amina, Amina!’ groaned Kamal.
‘The Signor was Italian and I knew you were angry with the Italians. You said so. You said they were bad men and should be driven out. You said it would be well if they were all killed. So I thought—’
‘But, Amina, I did not mean—’
‘I understand, I think, now. But I did not understand then. I was blind. I thought only of you, of pleasing you. I thought I had to do something to raise myself in your eyes, and I thought this would be it. I knew the guns were to be used against the British, I knew you were going to strike at them, and I thought that was wonderful, that you were wonderful. I thought it would be wonderful to be with you, to strike with you. Only I knew that if I went to you, you wouldn’t listen to me. You would laugh at me. So I thought I would do something to show you that I was worthy. It was not the first time I had thought this. I had thought of it before, had actually done—’
‘It was you who wrote the letters, wasn’t it?’ said Owen.
‘Yes.’
‘Letters?’ said Mahmoud.
‘To me. To other British. How did you find their names and places?’ he asked.
‘There is a book. The letter-writer told me about it. It is in all the government offices; I asked Habashi to steal one. And then I took it to the letter-writer.’
‘Outside the Post Office?’
‘You know?’ she said, surprised.
‘He said it was a girl.’
‘Well, I thought it was clever, and that it would make Kamal look at me. But then I learned about the guns and I thought it was not so clever after all, that what Kamal was doing was so much greater. And then I despaired. But then I thought: why do I despair? For cannot I do two things with one throw? For if I kill the Signor, that will both save Kamal and show him that I am worthy to stand beside him.’
‘But, Amina,’ said Abd al Jawad reproachfully, ‘this was a human being that you were killing!’
‘I know, Abd al Jawad.’
Suddenly she knelt before him.
‘I kneel before you,’ she said, ‘because he was your friend. I should not have done what I did. I ask for your forgiveness.’
‘You foolish child!’ said Abd al Jawad.
‘I know. I know that now. I know what I have done. And that is why although I can kneel before you, I cannot kneel before the Signora, although I
would like to. For I have taken away the man she loved and if anyone had done that to me, I would never, never be able to forgive them. But, signora, what I have done to you, I have done to myself also, for now I know that I will never be able to have Kamal.’
Kamal turned to Mahmoud.
‘You are right, Mahmoud, although I did not know it. I am to blame. Come, take me.’
‘I do not understand this,’ said Suleiman, bewildered. ‘I am the one. Not he, although I hate him; and not she. I killed the Signor. I seized him as he passed the end of the alleyway and pulled him in and strangled him. That is all. It was wrong and now I must pay the price. As for him,’ he said, looking at Kamal, ‘you can do what you like with him. But she is not to blame. Only I.’
‘Suleiman, I have wronged you greatly!’ sobbed Amina.
***
The message that Owen had been waiting for came the next morning from Assuan. Lieutenant Fuad, said Lofthouse, the Bimbashi at Assuan, had done what he had said he would. He had waited until he had received word from Georgiades that the guns had been stowed inside the bales of the Morellis’ caravan and had then raced into the desert after the main caravan, which had by that time resumed its journey westwards. The Camel Corps had come up with it at Wadi Fashar. There had been a brief confrontation which had ended in Fuad seizing the entire caravan. The loads had consisted almost entirely of arms, bound, one of the men had told Fuad, for Tripolitania. Fuad had brought them all back to Assuan: guns, camels and men.
Not quite all the men, however. One rider had escaped, riding very fast, on a racing camel. The soldiers had described the camel in loving detail. Not so the rider, however. In fact, Fuad had been quite angry, calling them magnoun, crazy, when they had suggested that it had been a woman.
Owen was rather relieved.
The Camel Corps detachment at Assuan was strengthened and Bimbashi Lofthouse given a wider responsibility for intercepting illegitimate caravans that might be passing from east to west. Few, in fact, succeeded in passing, thanks to the indefatigable efforts of Lieutenant Fuad.
Kitchener was so pleased by what was regarded as Owen’s success, and the opportunity it gave him to put one over on the Turks and obstruct the Italians, that he quite forgot, for the time being, his quarrel with Owen. Indeed, with the simultaneous end to the threatening letters, Owen’s stock rose to dizzying heights in the British community generally; although that was only temporary.
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