The Mingrelian Conspiracy. Michael Pearce
said the major defensively.
‘Actually, sir,’ said Shearer, turning eagerly towards him, ‘that rather supports the point I was making last night.’
‘Oh, yes?’ said the major vaguely.
‘About unifying the policing of the city. The need to deploy more Military Police and bring security under a single command, preferably military –’
‘What are you suggesting?’ said Paul. ‘Putting Cairo under military law?’
‘Well –’
‘Or are you merely saying that since the Army is responsible for most of the criminal violence that there is in the city, it should do something about it?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that –’
‘He’s right, though,’ said the major doggedly. ‘There ought to be a crackdown.’
Paul began to gather up his papers.
‘Well, thank you, gentlemen. It’s always a pleasure to hear the views of the Army. And most helpful to have a new contribution! I’m sure you’re right, Captain Shearer, we all have much to learn. I’m afraid you’ll find, though, when you’ve been here a little longer, that the situation in Egypt is not quite as straightforward as you suppose. Nor is Egyptian police work.’
No, indeed. To start with the question of what the British were doing in Egypt anyway: they were there, they said, by invitation of the ruler of Egypt, the Khedive, to help him sort out the country’s chaotic finances. True, the invitation had been nearly thirty years before and they were still there; but then, the finances were very complicated. True, too, that their help now extended very widely. There was a British adviser alongside every minister. There were Englishmen at the head of the police and the Army. And the British Consul-General was always there to advise the Khedive. But then, it was hard to separate finance from the general running of the country, as the Khedive soon sadly discovered.
It was true, however, that a number of people in Egypt, and most certainly the Khedive, had come to feel that the help was no longer necessary. But then, as Nationalist newspapers frequently observed, a growing number of Egyptians felt that the Khedive was no longer necessary either.
The situation was indeed not straightforward. Egypt had in effect two governments, the formal one of the Khedive and the shadow one of the British administration. In these circumstances a certain dexterity was required of administrators.
It was particularly required of the Mamur Zapt, a post traditional to, and peculiar to, Cairo. Broadly, Owen was responsible for what was coming to be known as security. In England the nearest equivalent was Head of the Political Branch of the Criminal Investigation Department. In Egypt the Mamur Zapt was traditionally thought of as Head of the Sultan’s Secret Police. There was now no Sultan and, as a matter of fact, no Secret Police either; but views were slow to change.
Owen was, then, answerable for security. But answerable to whom? It was a question asked frequently by the Khedive and occasionally by the Consul-General and Owen never quite found the right answer. Khedive and Consul both agreed, however, that his duties should be carried out so discreetly as not to cause trouble. Owen was in favour of this, too, very much so, only it was not always easy to achieve in this city of sixty nationalities, most of whom were always at each other’s throats, one hundred and twelve different ethnic groups, ditto, two hundred plus sects of a variety of religions, even more ditto, and growing Egyptian nationalism. Not to mention the fact that there was not one but three legal systems, each with its own courts, among which agile criminals could slip with eternal impunity.
No, indeed, policing in Egypt was not straightforward, thought Owen, as he sat benignly in a café at that corner of the Ataba-el-Khadra where the Musky debouches into the square. That stupid meeting with the Army had taken up so much of the morning that he had been obliged to go back to his office in the afternoon, which, at this time of the year, very few people did. Throughout the morning the heat built up so that, despite the closed shutters and the whirling fans, by noon everybody was wilting. They clung nobly on till about one o’clock, or, in the case of the British, eager to demonstrate both the heaviness of their workload and their superiority to the elements, two o’clock, and then thankfully packed it in for the day and went home for their siesta. Owen could never sleep during the day and usually went to the baths at this time to have a swim while the pool was empty. Not infrequently he then went back to the office and stayed there until the twilit hour when the day suddenly cooled and all the cafés came alive. Then he headed for a nearby one, along with half the population of Cairo.
There were, he had long ago decided, two stages. In the first, people woke up from their siesta, stretched themselves and thought that a little air would do them good. They went out into the street and found by some strange coincidence that everyone else was doing the same. They strolled along together, every few steps stopping to greet acquaintances, until the sun dropped below the minarets and suddenly the thought struck them how pleasant it would be to step aside for a moment and take a little coffee in one of those tiny cafés that, conveniently, cropped up every few yards in Cairo. Indeed, Cairo seemed at times one continuous café. They would sit there chatting and watching the world go by – since most of the tables were outside – until the time came for dinner, when they would rise, shake hands with the entire café, and depart.
The second stage followed immediately afterwards, when people would arise from their evening meal, feel the need for a breath of air, go outside and in no time at all finish up in a café, where they would remain for the rest of the evening. Life in the hot season was best lived out of doors, Cairenes were naturally sociable people, and the café world took over.
There, if you sat long enough, you would meet everyone you wanted to see. Take that fat Greek, for instance, about to drop into a chair a few tables away; Owen had been wanting to talk to him for days.
He waved a hand. The Greek came over and joined him.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Checking out possible places.’
‘It’s a bit hit-and-miss.’
‘You get a feel.’
‘Any particular feels?’
‘Well –’ said Georgiades, looking round evasively for the waiter.
‘I’ve been thinking. Maybe the best chance we’ve got is catching them at the start of the process. You know, after the first visit.’
‘After they’ve left their visiting card? It’s a bit late then, isn’t it? People might be even less inclined to talk.’
‘At least we’d have something to go on. Now, in fact, there was a place yesterday –’
‘Jesus!’ said Georgiades, scrambling up. ‘It’s Rosa!’
A very young, thin slip of a girl was standing beside them, arms akimbo, eyes blazing.
‘I thought you were supposed to be meeting me?’
She gestured towards a pile of packages on the pavement.
‘On my way! I was on my way!’
‘You were sitting here. He spends all his time these days,’ she said to Owen, ‘sitting in cafés.’
‘I was working!’ protested Georgiades.
‘In a café? Since when is sitting in a café work?’
‘It’s what all the bosses do,’ said Georgiades. ‘As soon as they gel anywhere, that’s what they do. Sit down in a café all day.’
‘Yes, but you haven’t got anywhere yet.’
‘I’m anticipating,’ said Georgiades.
Owen felt the need to intervene on his behalf.
‘It’s my fault, really,’ he said. ‘I caught his eye –’
‘He was going to sit