HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1990
Copyright © Michael Pearce 1990
Michael Pearce asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9780008259389
Ebook Edition © JUNE 2017 ISBN: 9780008257231
Version: 2017-08-30
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Keep Reading
About the Author
Also By
About the Publisher
CHAPTER 1
Owen arrived at the hotel shortly afterwards.
McPhee came down the steps of the terrace to meet him.
Thank goodness youre here! he said.
A cobra stretched lazily in the dirt at the foot of the steps stirred slightly. McPhee paused in his descent for a second and in that second its charmer thrust out a bowl at him. McPhee, flustered, dropped in a few milliemes.
For heavens sake! protested Owen. Youll have them all on to us!
The crowd surged over them. Hands reached out at McPhee from all sides. Owen found his own hand taken in soft, confiding fingers and looked down to see who his new friend was. It was a large, dog-faced baboon with grey chinchilla-like fur.
Imshi! Imshi! Get off! shouted McPhee, recovering. One of his constables came down from the terrace and beat back the crowd with his baton. In the yard or two of space so gained a street acrobat in red tights suddenly turned a cartwheel. He cannoned heavily, however, into the snake-charmer and ricocheted off into a row of donkeys tethered to the railings, where he was chased off by indignant donkey-boys. Taking advantage of the confusion, Owen joined McPhee on the steps.
Whats it all about?
You got my message?
Youd better tell me.
McPhee had sent a bearer. The man had run all the way and arrived in such a state of incoherence that all Owen had been able to get out of him was that the Bimbashi was at Shepheards and needed Owen urgently.
A kidnapping, said McPhee.
Here? Owen was surprised. Kidnapping was not uncommon in Cairo but it did not usually involve foreigners. Someone from the hotel?
A Frenchman.
Are you sure it was a kidnapping? said Owen doubtfully. They dont usually take tourists. Has there been a note?
Not yet, McPhee admitted.
It could be something else, then.
Thats what I thought, said McPhee, at first.
If its just that hes gone missing, said Owen, there could be a variety of explanations.
Its not just that hes gone missing, said McPhee, its where hes gone missing from.
He took Owen up to the top of the steps and pointed to a table a couple of yards into the terrace. The table was empty apart from a few tea-things. A proud constable guarded it jealously.
Thats where he was sitting when he disappeared.
Disappeared? said Owen sceptically.
Into thin air!
Surely, said Owen, trying not to sound too obviously patient, people dont just disappear.
One moment he was sitting there and the next he wasnt.
Well, said Owen, and felt he really was overdoing the patience, perhaps he just walked down the steps.
He couldnt do that.
Oh? Why not?
Because he can hardly walk. He is an infirm old man, who gets around only with the aid of sticks. Its about all he can do to make it on to the terrace.
If he can make it on to the terrace, said Owen, he can surely make it on to the steps. Perhaps he just came down the steps and took an arabeah.
There was a row of the horse-drawn Cairo cabs to the left of the steps.
Naturally, said McPhee, with a certain edge to his voice, one of the first things I did was to check with the arabeah-drivers.
I see.
I also checked with the donkey-boys.
He surely wouldnt have
No, but they would have seen him if he had come down the steps.
And they didnt?
No, said McPhee, they didnt.
Well, if hes not come down the steps he must have gone back into the hotel. Perhaps he went for a pee ?
Look, said McPhee, finally losing his temper, what do you think Ive been doing for the last two hours? Theyve turned the place upside down. They did that twice before they sent for me. And theyve done it twice since with my men helping them. Theyre going through it again now. For the fifth time!
Sorry, sorry, sorry! said Owen hastily. Its just that He looked along the terrace. It was packed with people. Every table was taken. Was it like this?
Yes. Everyone out for their tea.
And no one saw what happened?
Not so far as I have been able to discover.
Youre sure he was there in the first place? I mean
He was certainly there. We know, because a waiter took his order. It was his usual waiter, so theres no question of wrong identification. When he came back the old man was gone. Disappeared, said McPhee firmly, into thin air.
Naturally youve been along the terrace?
Naturally Ive been along the terrace, McPhee agreed.
Friends? Relations? Is he with anyone?
His nephew. Who is as bewildered as we are.
He wasnt with him at the time?
No, no. He was in his room. Still having his siesta.
Theres probably some quite simple explanation.
Yes, said McPhee. Youve been giving me some.
Sorry! Owen looked along the terrace again. Its just that
I know, said McPhee.
This is the last place you would choose if you wanted to kidnap someone.
I know. The terrace at Shepheards!
About the most conspicuous place in Cairo!
The manager of the hotel came through the palms with two men in tow. One Owen recognized as the Chargé dAffaires at the French Consulate. The other he guessed, correctly, to be the nephew of the missing Frenchman. The nephew saw McPhee and rushed forward.
Monsieur le Bimbashi
He stopped when he saw that McPhee was in conversation.
McPhee introduced them.
Monsieur Berthelot
The young man bowed.
Captain Cadwallader Owen.
Owen winced. The middle name was genuine enough but something he preferred to keep a decent secret. McPhee, however, had a romantic fondness for things of the Celtic twilight and could not be restrained from savouring it in public.
Carwallah? The young man struggled and then fell back on the part he recognized. Capitaine? Ah, you are of the military?
Cest le directeur de lintelligence britannique, said the man from the Consulate.
Not at all, said Owen quickly. I am the Mamur Zapt.
Mamur Zapt?
The Mamur Zapt is a post peculiar to Cairo, Monsieur Berthelot, McPhee explained. Captain Cadwallader Owen is, roughly, Head of the Political Branch. Of the police, that is, he added, looking at the Chargé dAffaires reprovingly. He wasnt going to stand any nonsense from the French.
Politicale, murmured Monsieur Berthelot doubtfully, only half comprehending.
We hold you responsible for Monsieur Moulins safety, the Chargé said to Owen.
I will do everything I can, said Owen, choosing to take the remark as referring to him personally and not the British Administration in general. The French had previously shared, under the system of Dual Control, in the administration of Egypt and had been edged out when the British army had come in to suppress the Arabi rebellion, something they unsurprisingly resented. However, I doubt whether this is a political matter.
Politicale? The young man was still having difficulties.
I only deal with political matters, Owen explained. Assassinations, riots, that sort of thing. I suspect this will turn out to be a routine criminal investigation. The police, he simplified, seeing that Monsieur Berthelot was not entirely following.
The police? Ah, the Bimbashi
Well, no, actually.
Owen wondered how to explain the Egyptian system. The Egyptian police fell under one Ministry, the Ministry of the Interior. Criminal investigation, however, fell under another, the Ministry of Justice. When a crime was reported the police had to notify the Department of Prosecutions of the Ministry of Justice, the Parquet, as the Department was called. The Parquet would then send a man along who would take over the investigation from the police and see it through.
He looked at the Chargé for help. The Chargé shrugged his shoulders.
Its like the French system, he said, quite.
Egyptian criminal procedure was in fact based upon the Code Napoléon, a product of an earlier French administration.
Ah! Monsieur Berthelot was clearly relieved.
Has the Parquet been notified? asked the Chargé.
Yes, said McPhee.
Id better get on to them, said the Chargé, and make sure they send along someone bright.
He started back into the hotel.
Tell them to send El Zaki, Owen called after him. Mahmoud el Zaki.
Thanks, said the Chargé, and disappeared indoors.
And now, Monsieur, said Owen, turning to the bemused young man, about your uncle
Monsieur Berthelot was in fact able to tell them very little. Like his uncle and in common with almost everyone else in the hotel, he had taken a siesta after lunch. His had been more protracted than his uncles and he had still been in his room when the Assistant Manager had knocked on his door. He had gone at once to his uncles suite but found that he had not returned there after going down to the terrace. He had then gone down to the terrace and walked right along it, thinking that perhaps his uncle, unusually, had been taken up by some acquaintances.
Unusually? His uncle did not care for companionship, perhaps? Well, it wasnt so much that, it was just that his uncle generally preferred to be on his own when he got up from his siesta. He was like that in the morning, too, preferring to breakfast alone. He was always, the nephew said, un peu morose after waking up. That was why he, the nephew, took his time about joining him, both in the morning and in the afternoon. It worked out better that way.
And he always went to the same table? Yes, that was part of it. He didnt like to take decisions when he was still waking up. He preferred everything to be automatique. Besides, that particular table was the one nearest the door of the hotel and he had less far to walk.
His uncle suffered from some disability? He had had a stroke two years previously which had left him semi-paralysed down one side. He was recovering, he was much better now than he had been, but he walked with difficulty. Twenty or thirty metres was all he could manage.
They didnt go to the bazaars, then? No, there was no question of that. They had seen some of the sights but always from an arabeah.
And always Monsieur Berthelot had gone with him? Well, that was the point of him being there. His uncle liked to have someone perpetually by him whom he could call on for support. Monsieur Berthelot looked a little glum.