Michael Pearce - The Mingrelian Conspiracy

‘I’m not giving anything away,’ said the cafe owner. ‘But I’m still thinking.’

‘Think on. Take the long view. You’ve had to take the long view, haven’t you, all your life? Otherwise you’d never have got where you are. Think long now. My way is hard at first but then there’s an end to it. The other way is easy today and hard tomorrow. And tomorrow goes on for a long time.’

‘The only thing is,’ said the cafe owner, ‘that I like the idea of there being tomorrows.’

‘The man I put in is always there. He sleeps under the table. He doesn’t go home at night.’ Owen had a sudden pang of conscience. Selim wouldn’t care for this bit. ‘He never leaves you,’ he said, nevertheless, determinedly.

‘And he works?’

‘A big, strong man.’

‘You’re not doing this for my sake,’ said the cafe owner.

‘Of course not. There are other cafes.’

‘Why don’t you ask them?’

‘I’m asking you. I need someone like you.’

‘Stubborn?’

‘Greedy,’ said Owen. ‘Greedy to cling on to his own.’

The cafe owner laughed.

‘Well, you’ve got the right man,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe in giving money away.’

‘When it’s hard earned, it’s not easily given.’

‘That, too, is true,’ said the man. ‘Well. I’ll think about it.’

‘While you’re 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 don’t 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 Egypt’s 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 hadn’t arrived so I spent the afternoon chasing them. And then when they did arrive they weren’t what I wanted, so I had to start all over again. I’ve 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 couldn’t 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 Owen’s 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 don’t know. I wish I could find out.’

‘From my point of view it doesn’t matter much. Crime is crime.’

‘It matters to me. If they’re doing it for money, it ends there. If they’re doing it for political reasons, you ask what it’s 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?’

‘I’m 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 they’ve both been withdrawn.’

‘Withdrawn? I didn’t know that the complaint had been withdrawn.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Have you been leaning on them?’ said Mahmoud, his cheeks beginning to tauten.

‘I wouldn’t say leaning; it was more confused than that.’ He wondered whether he should tell Mahmoud about the two conversations.