The Face in the Cemetery. Michael Pearce
be doing the work.
Mahmoud felt much the same about Mamur Zapts, too, with this addition, that he didn’t believe there should be such a post as Head of the Khedive’s Secret Police at all. The Khedive was among the ramshackle practices of the past that he wished to get rid of. Let alone his Secret Police. And as for the post being held by the representative of an occupying power – well, the British were another of the things he wanted to see an end of.
Despite this, he and Owen got on fairly well. Indeed, a slightly surprising friendship had developed between them. They were men of a similar type, cats who walked by themselves; and perhaps the difficulty each found in making close friends among their fellows had made them readier to reach across the British–Egyptian divide.
Owen welcomed his involvement now. At least the case would be properly handled. He picked up his pen and wrote to him, expressing his pleasure and offering his help if needed. He was fairly confident, though, that it would not be drawn upon. On criminal investigation, as on other things, Mahmoud believed that Egypt did not require foreign assistance.
This damned internment business was taking all his time. The lists kept piling up on his desk. He hadn’t realized there were so many Germans in Egypt! Come to think of it, he didn’t believe there were so many. This name, for instance: Abu Ali ’Arrami. That didn’t sound very German. Where did he live? Near the Mosque Sayidna Hussein. Right in the middle of the bazaar area. There wasn’t a German within miles!
He summoned Nikos.
‘This list is a load of old bollocks!’ he said. He pointed to the name accusingly.
Nikos looked over his shoulder.
‘Not necessarily,’ he said. Nikos, Copt bureaucrat that he was, always defended lists. He felt a protectiveness towards them that normal people reserved for their children. ‘He might be a German who’s converted to the Muslim religion and taken on a Muslim name. Or he might be an Arab who’s taken on German nationality, to escape seizure for debt, for instance.’
‘Yes, or he might be a sweeper in the Scentmakers’ Bazaar who’s got a pretty wife whom someone’s got his eye on and wants him out of the way!’
‘All these things are possible,’ Nikos agreed.
‘Yes, but do you expect me to waste my time on … ?’
Yes, unfortunately; not just Nikos’s answer, but that of the dimwits back in London also.
Normally, Owen did the arresting and somebody else did the ferrying to the internment camps. This morning, though, the man in charge of the ferrying was down with malaria and Owen, short-staffed, decided to do the job himself.
There was, too, a particular reason for going with this convoy. It was taking people to the camp to which Fricker, the inspector who had produced the report on the ghaffirs, had been transferred. Owen thought he might have a word with him.
The convoy went first by train and then by cart. They got out of the train at a halt marked only by water tanks and a great arm which swung out over the engine. A line of open carts was drawn up nearby. There followed a long, jolting ride across the desert until suddenly, in the middle of nowhere, Owen saw hundreds and hundreds of tents. When he got closer he saw that they were surrounded by barbed wire.
Soldiers opened a gate in the barbed wire and they drove through. Inside, men laden with pots and pans were queuing up at a stand-by pump for water. They looked at the arrivals curiously and some of them called out greetings.
Owen found Fricker sitting in the entrance to one of the tents, reading a book.
He shrugged.
‘No, it is not very nice,’ he said. ‘But I see the necessity for it. From the British point of view, that is. I have made a list of some suggested improvements. Please be so kind as to give them to the camp commandant when you leave.’
Inside the tent were four angribs, native rope beds without mattresses, on two of which men were lying. Beneath each bed was a suitcase, and beside it was a packing case, which served as a bedside table, on top of which some of the men had put personal effects: a set of writing materials, for example. There were remarkably few signs of personal occupation, however. Used to army tents as Owen was, he was struck by how meticulously tidy this one was, and how scant in anything personal; a reflection, he suspected, of Fricker’s character.
Fricker went across to the packing case with the writing materials upon it and took out a sheet of paper, which he gave to Owen. It was neatly set out with headings, subheadings and sub-sub-headings.
Owen folded it and put it in his pocket.
‘I was reading a report of yours recently,’ he said. ‘The one on the ghaffirs. I thought it was good.’
Fricker seemed pleased.
‘I tried to think of the ghaffirs as a system,’ he said. ‘It is, I think, the first time that anyone has done that.’
‘Yes, the ghaffir has always been seen merely as an individual or as just part of the village.’
‘That is so. But if one thinks functionally …’
They discussed the report for a while. Then Owen said:
‘There is one part, though, that I don’t think I go along with you on. Arming the ghaffirs.’
‘But they must be armed, if they are to do their duties properly!’
‘But need they be armed quite so heavily?’
Fricker shrugged.
‘They need to be armed well enough to do the job,’ he said.
‘The job is usually quite humble. Scaring away the birds, that sort of thing.’
‘Usually, but not always. Sometimes they have to fight brigands.’
‘Yes, I saw your reference to the situation at Minya.’
‘Minya, yes. That is an interesting place.’
‘But exceptional, surely? Ghaffirs don’t usually have to fight brigands.’
‘You have to build it into the system specification, though.’
‘Well, do you? I don’t think it’s fair to expect a ghaffir to fight brigands.’
‘Not a ghaffir on his own, no. But that is the point of my report. He should not be asked to fight on his own. When it comes to brigands, he should be operating as part of a group. A trained group, trained for such operations. And with the right weapons to do the job. Superior force, that is the point. At the moment, the ghaffirs do not have superior force. But that is not their fault, it is a fault of the system. And to put that right we have to think of it as a system.’
Owen could see the logic, although he remained unconvinced. He could see, too, why Fricker might appeal to McKitterick. He was analytical, a quality always useful in senior administrators. His mind dwelt too much on the theoretical parameters of his system for Owen’s taste, but he could see how it might appeal to others.
What he could not see, however, was any sign that Fricker was playing a deeper game. If anything, his mind seemed to be entirely preoccupied with his work.
Owen asked how he found the Ministry. Was it a congenial place? Congenial? Fricker seemed puzzled. ‘A good place to work,’ amplified Owen, thinking he might not have understood him. ‘Oh, yes, most interesting,’ said Fricker. Owen decided that it was the concept, not the vocabulary, that was the problem for him.
He asked how Fricker found the Minister. Fricker didn’t have much to do with him, not directly. McKitterick? He quite liked McKitterick. He thought he was a very open man. (Open? McKitterick?) But he didn’t really have a lot to do with him either. As an inspector, he explained, he worked very much on his own. He was often away touring the provinces. Sometimes he would stay in a place for weeks.
Owen could get no feeling for his private life.