The Mingrelian Conspiracy (12 page)

‘Yes, you mentioned the other day that your own wife’s father—’

‘Just so. The trouble is, the Russians wiped the other tribes out too. About the time that they slaughtered us. So now we have to go further afield.’

The old man looked at Owen hopefully.

‘Well, yes, perhaps, um…The Russians have a lot to answer for, don’t they?’

‘And now is the time when they are going to start answering!’ said Sorgos enthusiastically.

‘Yes, well, I’m not sure—in fact, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’

‘Going well,’ Sorgos assured him.

‘Going well?’

‘Yes. Fine young men. Plenty of energy. They get on and do things.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘Assassinating Grand Dukes, for instance.’

This was not quite what Owen wanted to hear.

‘Are you sure about this?’

‘Oh, quite sure. I was talking it over with them yesterday. Our preparations are well advanced. One or two things still to do, a lot of problem over the—But it will be solved. No, you don’t need to worry. We’ll be ready when the time comes.’

‘I was hoping,’ said Owen, ‘that you might be having second thoughts.’

‘Second thoughts?’

‘After the conversation we had the other day.’

‘Well, um—what was it exactly that you said?’

‘You are not in the Caucasus now. You are in a country to which you owe obligations.’

‘Oh, we’re not thinking of a general massacre. Just the Grand Duke.’

‘It could have international repercussions.’

‘You think so?’ said Sorgos, pleased.

‘I certainly do.’

Sorgos almost rubbed his hands.

‘Well, that is excellent!’ he said.

‘You won’t think it so excellent when it rebounds on you.’

‘Why should it rebound on us?’

‘Do you think Egypt is going to be very pleased?’

‘Well…Egypt!’

‘Yes, Egypt. A country which has been very generous to you.’

‘England will look after Egypt,’ said Sorgos confidently. ‘Indeed’—his face lit up—‘it might turn out to be a very good thing. If we could only provoke a quarrel between England and Russia—! Now, that really would be something! The Grand Duke dead and war as well!’

‘Can we start by getting up to date on the security position?’ said Paul. ‘Mamur Zapt?’

They were in the committee room again, the one with the trapped flies. But were they the same flies, wondered Owen? Weren’t flies supposed to breed quickly and die quickly? Maybe these were the grandchildren of the ones he’d seen the other day. Quick succession of generations. Sorgos would be interested in this.

‘Mamur Zapt?’ repeated Paul reprovingly.

‘Nothing to report.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Out of the ordinary.’

‘No stirrings?’

‘The usual.’

It was extraordinarily hot in the room.

‘Nothing pertaining to the Grand Duke?’

‘I am keeping some people under observation.’

‘The Mingrelians?’ hazarded the Army major who had been at the meeting the other day.

‘Among others.’

‘I think this is unsatisfactory,’ said Shearer. ‘The Mamur Zapt is not being very informative. I can understand his desire to keep intelligence to himself, but we are, surely, a privileged group.’

‘Who exactly are the Mingrelians?’ asked someone new to the group.

‘Troublemakers,’ said Shearer.

‘Damned difficult lot,’ said the major.

‘Could drench the city in blood,’ said Paul, perking up at the prospect of leading the Army astray.

‘My God!’ said the newcomer, impressed.

‘That’s why I’m keeping them under observation,’ said Owen helpfully.

‘Glad you are. But, um, who—who exactly are they?’

‘Slopes of the Caucasus,’ said Paul.

‘Caucasus?’ Shearer sat up. ‘Don’t like the sound of
that
. Have their links with Russia been explored, sir?’

‘Working on it,’ said Owen.

‘It’s not so much links,’ said Paul. ‘More old enmities. What we’re worried about is that some of these may have been carried over to Egypt and may resurface during the Grand Duke’s visit.’

‘Ah!’ said Shearer, leaning forward. ‘But is that what we ought to be worried about? I must confess, gentlemen, that I had not appreciated up till now that the Mingrelians and the Russians were neighbours. That makes a big difference.’

‘Does it?’ said Paul.

‘Well, yes, it does. I think we should approach this strategically, gentlemen, and ask what is the Grand Duke’s
interest
in coming to Egypt.’

‘Well, it’s the opera—’

‘No, no. no. You misunderstand me. I mean, what is
Russia’s
interest in the Grand Duke’s visit?’

‘Pretty minimal, I would say.’

‘No. No. Its
strategic
interest. From a military point of view.’ Shearer looked round the room. ‘Perhaps I can help, gentlemen? Bear in mind the location of the Caucasus.’

‘The Caucasus? Not too sure,’ said the major. ‘Up there somewhere?’

‘Think of India,’ said Shearer, ‘and think of the North West Frontier!’

‘It’s nowhere near the North West Frontier!’ said Paul. ‘It’s the other side of the Caspian Sea!’

‘It borders on Persia,’ said Owen.

‘Exactly!’ Shearer turned to him. ‘This is where strategic sense is important. Up till now we’ve assumed that any threat to India would come from the North. That’s where we’ve put our troops. Up on the North West Frontier. But suppose it didn’t come from the North. Suppose it came from the West!’

‘Persia?’

Shearer nodded.

‘Outflanked!’ breathed the major. ‘Good God!’

‘You can see how serious it is,’ said Shearer.

‘No,’ said Paul. ‘Nor what it has to do with the Grand Duke’s visit.’

‘The connection,’ said Shearer, ‘is Suez. Our main route to India. Cut that and you sever our supply lines.’

‘I’m not sure the Grand Duke will be able to do that on his own,’ said Owen.

‘Of course not!’ said Shearer, annoyed. ‘Let me take you back to my original question: What is the Grand Duke doing here? What has he
really
come for?

‘Well, what
has
he come for?’ asked Paul.

‘To do a deal,’ said Shearer triumphantly. ‘A deal with the Khedive. And one that will be in Russia’s interests, not ours, I can assure you!’

‘Cut the supply lines,’ said the major, ‘and then strike!’

‘Where we least expect it,’ said Shearer.

Paul toyed with his pencil.

‘You don’t see any, well, difficulties with this suggestion?’ he said. ‘Like having to cross high mountains in winter and then having to cross a neutral country? All before we’ve noticed it?’

‘Don’t underestimate the advantages of surprise!’ said Shearer.

‘Surprising, it would certainly be. Well, thank you, Captain Shearer, for your strategic appraisal. I will certainly see it receives the attention it deserves.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Meanwhile, perhaps we should return to the point of the present meeting.’

Shearer leaned forward.

‘Excuse me, sir, but there is a connection.’

‘Yes?’

‘The Mingrelians—didn’t you say they came from the Caucasus?’

‘Well, yes, but—’

‘I think we should keep an eye on them. Particularly at the present moment. Some kind of alliance may be in the offing.’

‘Between the Russians and the Mingrelians?’

‘Exactly!’

‘Not from what the Mingrelians were saying yesterday,’ said Owen. ‘All they seemed to have in mind was killing Russians! Starting with the Grand Duke!’

‘I think we must consider the possibility that it’s just a blind,’ said Shearer.

‘Covering what?’

‘Their real intentions.’

‘Suez,’ breathed the major. ‘India!’

‘We need to ask what they hope to achieve.’

‘Well, I can tell you that,’ said Owen. ‘They hope that by killing the Grand Duke they might be able to provoke a war between England and Russia.’

‘Good God!’ said the major.

Shearer looked grave.

‘Things are more serious than I thought, sir. In fact, I’d almost go so far as to say that we are approaching an emergency situation.’

‘You would?’ said Paul.

‘I would. I think we should review our position very carefully. At the very least we should reappraise our objectives.’

‘What had you in mind?’ asked Paul. ‘Killing the Grand Duke ourselves?’

The Fustat was not a part of Cairo that Owen was familiar with, so when he received the message from Mahmoud asking him to come urgently to the Fustat police station, he went first to the ferry to get his bearings. Out on the river he could see Roda Island, where, according to tradition, the Arab saint, Moses, was found among the bulrushes. There were not many bulrushes there now. This side of the island consisted mostly of bare, muddy shoals and looked rather like a building site, which, in fact, it was shortly intended to be. At the moment, they were still filling in the land with the debris from collapsed mud houses, quite a lot of which were in the Ders. A long line of camels stretched out across the flimsy wooden footbridge that connected the island to the mainland, each carrying two heavy boxes, one on either side of the hump. Even at this distance he flinched from the smell.

On the other side of the river, beyond the island, he could make out the low houses of the village of Gizeh and behind them, pink in the sun, the pyramids. If you were a tourist you crossed the river higher up, from the modern city. The Babylon ferry was for the humble poor, most of them fellahin going to or coming from the fields on the other side. The ferry was a battered old gyassa, its days of glory on the river now done, sailing, when it was fully loaded, suspiciously low in the water.

Although there were plenty of boats about, gyassas, feluccas and even the occasional dhow, the Old Cairo Landing was not really a port. Vessels bringing grain would go on to Bulaq to unload. Nevertheless, it had something of the air of a dock. There were jetties and mooring posts, boats bobbing on the end of ropes, and, here and there, spindly against the sky, the spars of some larger vessel looming above the houses.

Over to his right was Babylon, but he wasn’t going there today. The Fustat police station was in the Arab, not the Coptic, part and inland some way from the ferry.

Mahmoud was sitting in the local Mamur’s office. He sprang up as Owen came in and embraced him warmly.

‘We’ve got them all, I think,’ he said. ‘That little man from the café was very useful. He led us to a café which served as a kind of headquarters for them, or at least a base. I got him to identify as many of the gang as he could. He did very well. He had seen them when they raided Mustapha’s. Of course, he’s not very keen to give evidence but your man, Selim, will probably do that, won’t he?’

‘In so far as he can. I don’t know at what stage he got hit.’

‘The café owner?’

‘Mustapha? Hm, I’m not sure…He won’t want to stick his neck out. His wife, perhaps.’

‘Identification is important,’ said Mahmoud sternly. It was one of the crosses he had to bear. Nothing happened unobserved in Cairo; but after the event few would acknowledge that they had seen anything, particularly where a gang was concerned and there was the possibility of reprisals.

‘There may be other cafés,’ said Owen. ‘I’ll give you a list. At least of the ones down in the Fustat that have suffered. This gang keeps, I think, to the Fustat for the most part.’

‘Yes,’ said Mahmoud. ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You said you’d like to know who’d commissioned the job at Mustapha’s. Well,’ he said, ‘I think I’ve found out. Or found out something.’

He went to the door and called out: ‘Bring Omar!’

A door slammed somewhere away in the recesses.

‘I’ve been examining them all morning,’ said Mahmoud. ‘We picked them up last night. This man, Omar, was present when the job was discussed. He says that the gang was approached first through an intermediary and that when they indicated they might be interested, a meeting was arranged with the principal. He was present at that meeting.’

Feet were heard along the corridor. Owen sat down in a chair over to one side of the room, where he could watch Omar but would not interfere. This, now, was Mahmoud’s case.

Mahmoud made a sign to the two constables and they stepped back.

‘Well, Omar,’ said Mahmoud pleasantly; ‘just a few questions. Nothing new, just going over ground we’ve covered. I want to make sure I’ve got it right. This job, now, at Mustapha’s: out of the usual run for you, I think you said?’

‘That’s right. And I wish we’d never heard of it.’

‘You should have stuck to the Fustat.’

‘We should. I said that at the time. Stick to what we know, I said. I mean, we weren’t even getting any money out of it!’

‘Not getting any money? But, Omar, you were hoping to get money, surely? Why else were you working the café?’

‘We were doing it for someone else.
We
weren’t making any money. It was all going to go to him!’

‘But, Omar, if it was all going to go to him, what was there in it for you?’

‘Well, that’s what I said. Only Narouz said, “We’re doing this as a favour. It’s exceptional, see?” And I said, “Well, I don’t see. Why should we be doing anybody a favour?” And he said: “Because we owe Hussein al-Fadal one, that’s why, and Hussein is not the sort you don’t pay back when you’re asked.” Well, I knew about Hussein, of course, everybody knows about Hussein, and I wasn’t going to argue too much, not with Hussein. So I went along with it. But it was a mistake. I know we didn’t have much choice, you’ve got to do people a favour when you owe one, but it was a mistake all the same. Look where it’s got us!’

‘Let’s get this straight: you were going to squeeze money out of Mustapha and then give it to—?’

‘Hussein’s friend. Don’t ask me why. Maybe Hussein owed
him
a favour.’

‘Can you tell me about this friend?’

‘Well, yes, I certainly don’t owe
him
a favour. We met him at Ali’s. It’s a little coffee house not far from the ferry. It was all set up, really. I mean, there wasn’t any bargaining about terms. He knew that we were going to do what he asked. All he had to do was tell us what he wanted.’

‘And what did he want?’

‘Just to call on Mustapha and get the money.’

‘Have you any idea why it was Mustapha you were to call on? Was there anything special about him?’

‘I don’t think so. I think he had just seen this place and thought it would be a good one to call on. The important thing was the money. He wanted it quick. I said: “Why don’t you break in somewhere and steal it?” But he said no, that wouldn’t do, protection was easier. And then he named the sum he wanted. I said: “That’s ridiculous!” And he said: “That’s what I want.” And I said: “Look, you’re not going about it in the right way. A little at a time but lots of times, that’s what you want. It makes it easier for everyone.” But he said no, he needed the money now. It had to be upfront in a lump sum. Well, it didn’t matter to us, it was easier in a way because it meant we only had to do the café once. But it was a bit odd, if you know what I mean. It’s not the way you usually go about business like this, not the way we do it, at any rate. It’s sort of, well, amateur.’

‘But that’s what he wanted?’

‘That’s what he wanted, so that’s what he got. Or would have got.’

‘What sort of man was he?’

‘Ah, well, now, I’m not sure. I…well, that would be telling, wouldn’t it?’

‘You could tell me a bit. After all, you don’t owe him anything. It’s the other way round if anything. He owes
you
something.’

‘Well, maybe. But I don’t know that I could tell you much, anyway. I only saw him the once.’

‘But you saw him. So what sort of man was he?’

‘Well, he wasn’t an Arab, for a start. That’s another thing I didn’t like. “Let’s stick to our own,” I said. “Then we know where we are.” ’

‘A Copt, was he?’

‘Oh, no, no. Not as bad as that.’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t know what he was, really. But Sayeed—he was with me— said that he thought he was one of those funny people, Christians, you know, thin faces, dark hair—’

‘Armenians?’

‘No, no. The other side ofTurkey.’

‘Georgians?’ said Mahmoud.

They took Omar to the Der. He looked around him uneasily. ‘Don’t like these places much,’ he said.

‘Keep your galabeeyah over your face,’ advised Mahmoud. ‘Then no one will recognize you.’

‘It’s not that,’ said Omar. ‘It’s the place. All tunnels. All darkness. Like being in a grave.’

Al-Mo’allaka was dark, too. The lamps had been turned down and the air was dense with incense. In one corner there was a small light where the man was working. They went across.

‘I come again,’ said Owen. ‘I have brought someone who would like to see your work.’

The man bowed acknowledgement, then lifted the lamp so that Mahmoud could see the ikon better. The gold seemed to stand out in the darkness, to glow with a deep, remarkable light. Mahmoud examined it attentively.

‘This, here…’ he said, pointing.

The workman peered at the spot. His face showed clear in the light of the lamp.

Owen, holding on to Omar, felt him shake his head.

They went downstairs to the workshop.

‘Still at it?’ said Owen.

‘For another week,’ said the workman.

Mahmoud picked up a piece of board with paint on it and stepped out into the sunlight to see it better.

The workman looked up.

‘Just trying out the colours,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to get them right.’

‘How do you get this?’ said Mahmoud, pointing.

The man went over to stand beside him. Again, Owen felt Omar shake his head.

As they came out, Georgiades materialized beside them.

‘A leather-worker’s next,’ he said. They followed him through a forest of arches and then into an inner courtyard. Along one wall there was another series of arches, each of which held a small workshop. Several of them were tailors. They sat on the broad counter of their shop sewing by hand. Another was heavy with the smell of spices. As they came to the one at the end there was the smell of burnt leather. Two men were busy at a fire at the back. They looked up as Mahmoud went in. Omar shook his head.

Georgiades led them on.

Towards the end of the morning Owen began to feel that it was a long time since he had seen the sunlight. He sometimes felt like that in the Bab-el-Khalk but there, although the shutters were closed against the heat, the darkness was never quite as absolute and oppressive as it was here. Everyone worked by lamplight. It was as if they were all moles inhabiting some underground gallery.

Omar shook his head to all the Georgians he was shown. Owen began to wonder if this was not after all a wild goose chase, if he had brought Mahmoud and Omar here in pursuit of a mere chimera of coincidence.

Georgiades stopped.

‘What’s this?’

‘A bookbinder’s. It used to be Sorgos’s.’ He looked at Owen. ‘I think you’d better stay outside,’ he said.

Owen shrugged and watched Mahmoud go in with Omar.

‘Why do I have to stay outside?’

‘Because the person in there might recognize you. And wonder.’

It was some little time before the two came out.

‘Interesting books,’ said Mahmoud. ‘They do a lot of work for the Law School Library.’

They walked on round a corner and then up some steps and then, to his surprise, Owen found himself high up on one of the old Roman walls of the fortress and looking down on the small courtyard of the Mo’allaka.

‘Well?’ said Owen.

Mahmoud nodded.

‘Djugashvili,’ he said.

On his way back to the Bab-el-Khalk, cutting through side streets, Owen came upon a riot. The street was jammed with people shaking their fists and shouting. There was a crash of collapsing stalls, agitated shouts, accompanied, strangely enough, by bleating. Two sheep shot out from under the feet of the crowd and ran off distractedly down the road. More agitated shouts and then a small boy shot likewise from under the feet of the crowd and ran off in pursuit. More splintering of woodwork and now some things were being thrown. Small objects, stones? Already red.

Owen came to a halt. He had thought at first that this was merely an ordinary traffic dispute, caused, say, by a man carrying a bed on a donkey, the donkey, small, the bed big and lying flat on the donkey’s back, the ends protruding across the street, the man, again, big, sitting on top of the bed, meeting, say, a forage camel, grumpy, huge loads of berseem slung on either side of its back, so huge that they, too, spread out across the street, both animals unwieldy and neither driver able, or inclined, to go back, the exchange of insults egged on by admiring onlookers, developing partisanship and, in no time at all, tumult. Despite the ferocity of the rhetoric and the postures that the would-be combatants took up, such things usually sorted themselves out peacefully when everybody had had their fun. But this looked different. The blood—

Or was it blood? And were the missiles stones? Or were they—yes, tomatoes! From the upset stall, perhaps. Thrown in rage—was that right?—by the offended stall owner? What
was
all this about?

At the heart of the dispute there appeared to be two men, held back by supporters but straining to throw themselves on each other, insults streaming through foaming lips.

Owen pushed his way through the throng and came out beside them. He found himself in front of an Arab coffee house, the owner of which, his face perspiring profusely, was trying desperately to pacify the two men.

‘What is all this?’ said Owen sternly.

The proprietor grabbed at him with relief.

‘Effendi! Oh, Effendi, these two men—!’

Owen turned on them.

‘Stop that!’ he barked. ‘Any more nonsense from you and you’ll be in the caracol!’

One of them quietened down. The other went on shouting. Owen caught him by the folds of his galabeeyah.

‘Did you hear me?’ he said threateningly. ‘I said quieten down!’

He lifted the man up on to his toes and shook him.

‘That’s better.’ He released the man. ‘Now, what’s all this about?’

The crowd calmed down. The proprietor pushed forward. ‘Effendi, these two men—scoundrels, rascals, vagabonds! They started it.’

The two men turned on him in unison.

‘Liar! Thief!
You
started it!’

‘
I
started it?’ said the proprietor, stepping back hurriedly.