Owen looked around at the crowded cafe and thought: if other cafes, why not this one?
He knew the proprietor of the cafe and beckoned him over.
Tell me, Yasin, he said. Do you pay protection?
Owen looked around at the crowded cafe and thought: if other cafes, why not this one?
He knew the proprietor of the cafe and beckoned him over.
Tell me, Yasin, he said. Do you pay protection?
Not yet, said the proprietor.
Is that because they have not asked? Or because you have not agreed?
If they asked, said Yasin, diplomatically but evasively, I would reply: I need no protection, for the Mamur Zapt sits every night at my tables.
The first stage of the cafe evening was coming to an end and at several tables people were standing up and shaking hands. It was time to be firm about that bill. Or perhaps, just before he left, an aperitif?
How about an aperitif? said a familiar voice, and Paul dropped into a chair beside him.
I reckon you owe me one, said Owen, after that meeting this morning.
Bloody awful, wasnt it? Its high time the Army went on manoeuvres. Preferably at the bottom of the Red Sea.
Whats all this business about unifying the policing? I dont like the sound of it.
It wont get anywhere. The Old Man will kill it dead.
Paul was one of the Consul-Generals aides and frequently, as this morning, chaired meetings on his behalf.
Will he, though? If they really push?
Theyll only get his back up. Hell see it as trespassing.
Yes, but-
It wont get anywhere. At the end of the day, the Old Mans a politician, and the one empire politicians will really fight for is their own. You can go back to sleep.
Paul sipped his aperitif.
All the same, he said reflectively, on something like this it might be best if you didnt.
The gangs? Owen was surprised. I really dont think, Paul, you need worry too much about the guns. Its pretty small-
Guns? said Paul, so steeped in the ways of the city that he considered himself a born-again Cairene. Who the hell cares about guns? Its the cafes Im thinking of.
Chapter 2
Later the same day Owen had moved on to the second stage of the cafe evening and was comfortably enjoying an after-dinner coffee outside a crowded Arab cafe when an orderly, who knew his habits, brought him a hurried message from the Deputy Commandant of Police. It said:
Can you get down to the Ezbekiyeh quick? Trouble at a cafe. Ive got my hands full at the Citadel. McPhee.
Trouble at a cafe, thought Owen. Christ, theyre keeping on the go. But when he got to the place he found it was nothing to do with protection but just an ordinary common or garden incident such as disfigured Cairos streets most weekends. The Ezbekiyeh contained a number of houses of ill repute and was much frequented by British soldiers. Opposite the balconies from which scantily dressed ladies suggested their all were some very low-class cafes in which yet insufficiently aroused clients could sit and gaze.
And drink. Which was exactly what a bunch of Welsh Fusiliers had been doing until they had spotted at the next cafe a group of the Duke of Cornwalls Light. Relations between the regiments were not cordial, a matter, apparently, of the condition in which the DCLI had once left some barracks when the Welsh were due to move in, and merry banter was exchanged. As the evening wore on, and more drink was consumed, the banter became less merry. Remarks were made which, the Welsh considered, reflected on their nation (Couldnt kick a ball near the posts, never mind through them) and they had risen to defend theirs and their countrys honour. In the ensuing fracas a surprising number of bottles had been broken and a considerable amount of furniture damaged; so, too, had been a considerable number of soldiers.
The police had been summoned and a constable had indeed arrived but had wisely confined himself to the role of a spectator. When he saw Owen he fell in-behind him-with considerable relief.
Owen had no great desire to get involved in a brawl either. He doubted very much if the contestants were in a condition in which they could respond to the voice of command, much less a civilian voice of command; and then what would he do? He advanced slowly down the street towards them.
The fighting seemed, fortunately, to have reached a slight lull. Those still on their feet paused for a moment, breathing heavily. They were just about to resume, however, when a voice came sharply from the other end of the street: Stop that at once!
The combatants looked up, surprised.
A slight, smartly dressed man came out of the darkness towards them.
Stop that at once! Stand apart!
Blimey! said one of the soldiers incredulously. A Gyppie!
Bloody hell!
Ere, said another voice, what do you think youre doing? Ordering us around?
He needs bloody straightening out.
He bloody does!
They began to move towards him.
Owen, in a fury now, and forgetting himself, started forward.
Cut that out! None of that! Get back! Get back at once!
Christ! said one of the soldiers. Heres another one!
Hes bloody British, though.
I am bloody British, snapped Owen, and tomorrow morning Ill have you bloody lot on jankers. Ill have you bloody running round and round the parade ground until your bloody balls drop off-
He speaks a bit like an officer, said one of the men doubtfully.
Whats he in civvies for?
Must be off duty.
-and drop on the ground and lie there till they fry- raged Owen.
The men, impressed, stopped fighting.
That was lovely! said one of the Welshmen. A bit poetic!
A group of men in uniform suddenly appeared at the end of the street.
Christ! said one of the soldiers. Were for it! Its the jelly-babies!
Whats going on? shouted a voice that was vaguely familiar.
The Military Police came down the street.
Whats going on?
Owen recognized the voice now. It was Shearer.
These men have been disturbing the peace, said the Egyptian.
Oh, have they? Well soon see about that! Get their names, sergeant!
I would like a copy, please, said the Egyptian.
I beg your pardon?
It would save me having to do it for myself.
Im handling them, said Shearer. Its no concern of yours.
Im afraid it is, said the Egyptian.
Oh? said Shearer. And who the hell are you?
Can I introduce you? said Owen, stepping forward. Mr. Mahmoud El Zaki, Captain Shearer. Mr. El Zaki is a member of the Parquet and is, presumably, the officer investigating this case.
If so, it would be very speedy. In Egypt the police had no powers of investigation. They merely reported a case of suspected crime to the Department of Prosecutions of the Ministry of Justice, the Parquet, which then assigned one of its lawyers to conduct the investigation.
There is no case, said Shearer. Its an internal matter for the Army.
Im afraid not, said the Egyptian. Since the incident has been formally reported a file will have been already opened.
I suggest you close it, then.
That will not be possible.
Shearer looked at Owen.
Im afraid not, said the Egyptian. Since the incident has been formally reported a file will have been already opened.
I suggest you close it, then.
That will not be possible.
Shearer looked at Owen.
Im afraid hes right. Once the process has been formally initiated it rolls on until its formally closed.
How do I go about getting it formally closed?
A request has to go in from the administration. Get your people to contact Paul Trevelyan.
Shearer made a note of the name.
Hes the chap who was chairing the meeting this morning, said Owen.
Shearer frowned.
Meanwhile, said Owen, pointedly, you are obliged to cooperate with the Parquet.
The names, please, said the Egyptian.
Shearer gave in with an ill grace.
Give him a copy when youve finished, he said to the sergeant. You lot, he said, turning on the soldiers, had better get back to barracks. Youre a bloody disgrace. Ill deal with you in the morning.
Better send them separately, advised Owen. Otherwise theyll start fighting again.
Theyd better bloody not! Youre right, though, its best to make sure. You lot, he said to the DCLI, get started. Sergeant, take half your men and go with them. You shower, he said to the Fusiliers, start in ten minutes. Corporal, see they dont cause any more trouble.
The list, sir, said the sergeant, giving it to the Egyptian. He did not normally reckon to say sir to Egyptians but this situation seemed a bit complicated, and then there was the other funny bloke standing by whom Shearer seemed to listen to.
Thank you. The Egyptian hesitated. Are you not going to take the names of witnesses? he asked, puzzled. You spoke of Army legal processes.
Not necessary, I think, said Shearer.
The Egyptian raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. He took out a notebook and went over to the owner of the Fusiliers cafe.
Will you want to talk to me? asked Owen.
If you wouldnt mind, said the Egyptian, over his shoulder.
Shearer frowned.
I dont think thats right, he objected. You ought not to be called on to give evidence against our own people. It puts you in an awkward position.
Ah! said Owen. Im used to that!
Shearer hesitated and then, as the Egyptian did not appear to be disposed to go at once to Owen, which was what Shearer half expected, said good night and went after the departed DCLI.
Owen found himself standing next to the Fusiliers.
Excuse me, sir, said one of them, recognizing a countryman. Where are you from?
Machen.
Are you, indeed, sir? Im from Caerphilly.
And Im from Llanbradach, sir, put in another of the Fusiliers.
I know it well, said Owen.
And I know Machen, sir. My aunt is Mrs. Roberts, of the Post Office, sir.
Mrs. Roberts? It was a hundred years since Owen had been in Wales. But vague memories of his childhood began to stir. I remember her, I think. How is she?
Not very well, sir. Shes getting on a bit now. Shes more or less given up the Post Office. She leaves it mostly to Blodwen now.
Blodwen?
Her daughter, sir. You remember her?
I think I do. A tiny little thing?
Not so tiny, now, sir.
Shes married, sir, said another of the Fusiliers.
Heavens! Well, it was a while ago. I left for India when I was eighteen.
We thought youd been in the Army, sir. It was the way you spoke.
The corporal came up.
All right, you lot, he said. On your way!
Sorry about the bother, sir, said one of the Fusiliers as they left. Those English bastards called us Welsh bastards!