When its hard earned, its not easily given.
That, too, is true, said the man. Well. Ill think about it.
While youre thinking, said Owen, I could be doing something. If you would just give me a start.
What is it you want to know?
The name.
The gangs usually left their name. It was normal, for example, to sign extortion notes. Not that the name in itself meant much. Arab taste for the lurid produced such names as The Red Sword, Hand of Blood or The Red Eye; but the readiness of the groups to give their names made it easy to ascribe activities to the group and Nikos now had a file on most of them.
The name would probably be enough to tell Owen what kind of gang he was dealing with. He would probably be able to tell, for example, whether the gang was a straightforward criminal one or whether it was a terrorist one arising out of a political club.
Cairo seethed with political discussion, most of which took place openly in the cafes. You could have a good argument any night of the week almost anywhere. Some of it, however, took place privately in clubs specially formed for the purpose. These still met in cafes-that was what Cairo cafes were for! but now it was in an inner room where members could more properly indulge their taste for the melodramatic. There were dozens of such clubs in Cairo and no dashing young effendi could afford to admit that he had never been to one.
Most of the clubs were heavily Nationalist and some were revolutionary. Of these, a small minority was committed to violent action now and sought to finance their activities by engaging in the protection racket.
I dont know their name, said the cafe owner.
It would help me a lot. It could help you a lot.
Help me to get my neck broken. No thanks.
Another cafe, later. This was the life, Owen decided. It had always been a desire of his to obliterate completely the line between work and play, so that work would seem like play and play would carry the moral justification of work. In Cairo, where business was habitually transacted in cafes, that was easy. You had to meet a colleague? Where better than in a cafe? Offices were hot and hard edged, uncongenial to the Arab, who liked to pour the syrup of emotion over everything. They lacked conviviality, whereas to the Arab, conviviality was all.
At the table next to him two men stood up, shook hands, picked up their decorated leather briefcases and left. They had been discussing a contract for the delivery of sesame. The man remaining turned immediately, greeted some acquaintance at another table, pulled his chair across and lunged into an animated discussion of the merits of some Ghawazee singers at a place near the Clot Bey. So easily did business turn to pleasure. So, too, did it turn to politics. At the table on his other side some young effendi were arguing hotly about Egypts place in the world, asking why cultural importance, as evinced by the constant flood of tourists, was not reflected in political significance.
Across the tables he suddenly caught sight of Mahmoud and waved an arm. Mahmoud, however, had already seen him and was weaving his way through the tables to join him.
A relief! he said, dropping into a chair. I was in court all morning. And then some papers I need for tomorrow hadnt arrived so I spent the afternoon chasing them. And then when they did arrive they werent what I wanted, so I had to start all over again. Ive only just got away!
No other lawyer, Owen suspected, whether Egyptian or British, would work through the heat of the Egyptian afternoon. Mahmoud, however, was a perfectionist and couldnt imagine going into court unless he was absolutely sure of his ground; and absolutely meant absolutely. They talked for a while about the case Mahmoud was engaged on and then Mahmoud asked him what he was busy with.
Owen told him about the protection racket.
Cafes, now, is it? said Mahmoud. He knew, of course, about the gangs. If Owens work reached the stage of prosecution, it would be the Parquet who would handle it.
Owen nodded.
A new target. Rather a tempting one, he said, looking around. Fat pickings.
Political? asked Mahmoud. He knew about the clubs, too. Indeed, he almost certainly went to one himself.
I dont know. I wish I could find out.
From my point of view it doesnt matter much. Crime is crime.
It matters to me. If theyre doing it for money, it ends there. If theyre doing it for political reasons, you ask what its going to issue in later. Bombs?
You think this new burst of activity might be related to some particular issue that they have in mind?
Im wondering.
Mahmoud, interested, sat thinking.
Yes, he said, I can see it makes a difference to you. That is because you are always thinking about prevention. Well, that is good. Forestalling violence must always be good. So long as you yourself keep within the law. The law must always be supreme. Even expediency, which is, of course, the justification you can always cite, must bow to the law. Otherwise there is injustice, and that is a worse crime than violence, for violence is merely a fault of the individual, whereas injustice is a fault in the society.
Mahmoud was a great legalist. He believed passionately in the law, which, of course, left him in rather an isolated position in Egypt. It even created difficulties for him as a Nationalist because, while it was easy enough to oppose the illegal British and the corrupt regime of the Pashas which had preceded it, he also opposed extra-legal action, such as violence. Peaceful demonstrations, he believed in; but then, as Owen frequently said to him (they spent many happy hours in cafes arguing the point), what demonstration in Egypt ever stayed peaceful?
Everyone is subject to the law, repeated Mahmoud stubbornly. Even the British, he said sternly.
It gave Owen an opportunity.
About those complaints he said.
Complaints?
Those bloody fools in the cafe the other night.
There was more than one complaint?
Oh, yes. Not that it matters, now that theyve both been withdrawn.
Withdrawn? I didnt know that the complaint had been withdrawn.
Oh, yes.
Have you been leaning on them? said Mahmoud, his cheeks beginning to tauten.
I wouldnt say leaning; it was more confused than that. He wondered whether he should tell Mahmoud about the two conversations.
Anyway, it is prejudicing the inquiry, said Mahmoud. And that is interfering with the cause of justice.
These people were pretty prejudiced already.
Mahmoud was silent. He was used, of course, to this kind of situation. But it made him angry.
The investigation continues, he said coldly.
Even if the originating complaint is withdrawn?
Its on the files now. Besides, we dont need a complaint. We can proceed without it. It was a clear breach of public order.
No ones denying that. Its just a question of whats the appropriate action. Is it a matter for the civil courts? Or for the military ones?
This was a mistake, for Mahmoud knew a lot more about the law than he did.
Both, said Mahmoud. However, what the Army does is no concern of mine. I do not have any say in it. Nor do I expect the Army to have any say in whether there is a civil prosecution or not.
Not say, said Owen. Request, more like. The Army requests the Parquet to leave the action in this case to its authorities.
Well, if it cares to put in a formal request I shall oppose it, though the decision, in the end, will not be up to me. It will go to the Minister. And I daresay, said Mahmoud bitterly, if you are wondering, that your Legal Adviser will be able to persuade the Minister, as usual, that it is not in his interests to allow the matter to proceed. But I, he added furiously, shall lodge a complaint.
Thats four, said Owen.
Four? said Mahmoud, startled.
One from you; one from Shearer-thats that difficult Army captain; one from the Mingrelians, and one from the Russian Charge.
Is he in it?
He was in it. Now hes withdrawn. In view of the Grand Dukes visit, he explained, thinking this might mollify Mahmoud.
Grand Duke? said Mahmoud.
Owen told him what he knew about Duke Nicholass visit. Mahmoud shrugged his shoulders.
Excuse me, said one of the young effendi at the next table, but I couldnt help overhearing: this visit of the Russian Duke, what is its nature?
Well, I gather the Khedive hopes to replicate an earlier visit, when the Dukes uncle came to open the Suez Canal.
Would you say it was cultural in purpose? Or political?
Bit of both, I suppose. But cultural, mainly.
There you are! The young man turned back triumphantly to his colleagues. Cultural recognition leads to political recognition!
What the earlier visit led to, said one of the young mans colleagues, was bankruptcy. And that led to the British taking over.
Chapter 4
'Oh, no! said the cafe owner.
But yes! said Owen brightly, looking around for a place to sit and finally choosing one right next to where the owner was sprawled against a table, bandaged legs stretching over a chair in front of him. I like your coffee!
Mekhmet!
A small, frightened-looking man scuttled in.
Mekhmet, some coffee for our guest!
Right, Sidi Mustapha! said the man, touching his brow. At once!
He made for the door.
And put some poison in it! shouted the owner.
The little man stopped in the doorway, confused.
Go on, you fool! Its only a joke.
He clapped his hands impatiently.
The little mans eyes rolled, panic-stricken.
Oh, my God! said the owner. Get on with it, you fool. Get some coffee!
A woman stuck her head out of a door at the back. Dont shout at him! she said indignantly. Hes a poor, afflicted creature! Hes doing his best!
Hes not doing anything at all! shouted the cafe owner. Hes just standing there!
Youve confused him! Come on, Mekhmet, love, she said kindly. Take no notice of him!
The owner groaned and put a fist to his head.
Its impossible! he said. The mans a halfwit. Tell him anything and he gets confused. You cant run a cafe business like that! Im only employing him because hes her sister-in-laws cousin.
The woman emerged from the back with some coffee for Owen.
Youre only employing him because hes cheap! she said tartly. You thought you could get something for nothing.
I was wrong, then, wasnt I? I havent even got something!