Michael Pearce - The Mingrelian Conspiracy

It was a relief when at last they got to Suez and he was able to climb down into the fresher, saltier air of the docks.

Abdul Shafei, the local Head of Customs, was still in his office. He shrugged.

‘We’ve got a couple of boats coming in,’ he said.

He knew Owen by repute and eyed him curiously.

‘It’s not often that the Mamur Zapt appears in these parts,’ he said.

‘Cairo’s my beat,’ said Owen. ‘It’s not often that I have the chance to get away.’

Water had been brought with the coffee and he drank copiously. Although the air seemed fresher, he found himself sweating profusely. The humidity, he supposed.

He put the glass down and turned to business. Abdul Shafei pulled a pad towards him.

‘It should be declared on the certificates,’ he said. ‘If they do that, there’ll be no problem. But what if they don’t?’

‘Do you open everything?’

‘No. There’s so much coming in. We open a sample. If it’s not in the certification we’ll need other identification.’

‘Could be difficult.’

‘The name of the consignee?’

‘It was Dhondy at one time.’

Abdul Shafei made a note.

‘But it could have changed. The supplier of the order is a firm named Herbst-Wickel. But, of course, they may be using a shipping agent.’

‘You don’t know the agent?’

‘I could find out the ones they normally use.’

‘Please. Anything would help. I’ll make a note of the supplier. There may be old labels. Anything else you can tell us?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

Abdul Shafei looked doubtful.

‘We’ll do our best,’ he said. ‘But-’

‘If you could. This is important.’

‘Explosives!’ Abdul Shafei grimaced.

‘Not very nice.’

‘Not very nice for us, either,’ said Abdul Shafei, ‘when we’re unloading them and don’t know we’re handling explosives.’

‘The dockers, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

Abdul Shafei hesitated.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I shouldn’t be saying this, but…have you thought of talking to the dockers? They know most of what comes into the port. In fact, they probably know it better than we do.’

‘I was hoping to keep this fairly quiet. Then I might be able to pick up whoever-it-is when he comes to collect the explosives.’

‘Which is more important? Catching the men or catching the explosives?’

‘Catching the explosives, I suppose. You reckon it might be worth talking to the dockers?’

‘If you really want to be sure,’ said Abdul Shafei, ‘then talk to the dockers and offer a reward. They open most things that come into the port. There is,’ he hesitated, ‘well, quite a lot of pilfering. Not more than at other ports, but…I mean, at any port you’ll find…’

‘Is there some person I should talk to?’

Abdul Shafei looked at him.

‘I’m sure there is,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know him.’

Owen walked down to the waterfront, enjoying the smell of sea and tar, the scrunch of pebbles, a different sand. The sea sucked around great wooden posts, gulls cried overhead. As the heat of the day lifted he felt part of a newer, fresher world.

In theory, the Mamur Zapt’s writ ran even to Suez. In practice it was confined to Cairo. Cairo was where it all happened. There was a buzz, a life about the city that Owen found it hard to tear himself away from. It was part of an older, more Arab world; cosmopolitan, it was true, but not in the way of Alexandria or the port cities. Suez was hardly a city, still not much more than a bunker port, although growing rapidly. He had no agents here.

He would have to find someone. Nikos normally looked after that side and no doubt would find someone in time. But had they got time?

He sat down on a bollard and watched some dockers unloading a large, seagoing dhow. They were carrying sacks up out of the hold, huge, heavy sacks that bulged. Filled with grain, probably. But why was Egypt importing grain when it had all the fertile land of the Delta?

The men’s faces were streaked with sweat. It was hard, hot work. Everything was done by hand. There was an intimacy between the men and the load. That was why they knew the goods so well.

A small boy appeared beside him.

‘Effendi, I have a beautiful sister. So ve-ery beautiful!’ The boy’s hands described improbable shapes. ‘Would you like to meet her?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Ve-ery good! She make wonderful bump-bump. You like?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘You prefer boy? I have brother. Handsome! Not like me, Effendi.’

‘No, thanks.’

‘No boy?’

‘No, nor girl, either.’

The urchin was temporarily silenced, while he considered the restricted possibilities.

‘Effendi,’ he said at last, ‘I know a special house. All sorts. You want something different, can do. Dog, perhaps? Donkey? You want donkey?’

Owen turned to give the urchin his full attention.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Sidi, Effendi.’

‘Sidi, I am surprised at you. Is this the only way you can make money? I would have thought a resourceful boy like you would be growing fat on the pickings from the docks.’

‘Effendi,’ said the boy indignantly, ‘I am. I get my share. But it is only a small one. Ibrahim says it will be bigger when I can carry a load myself. The men who carry the loads get first choice of the pickings. It wouldn’t be fair otherwise. But, Effendi,’-(confidingly)-‘I would prefer not to carry the loads. The sacks are heavy and in the sun it is hard work. I would prefer to share in the pickings and not carry the loads.’

‘Wouldn’t we all. Tell me about your friend, Ibrahim.’

‘He carries the loads, Effendi, two, perhaps three, times a week.’

‘I would like to meet him. It could be to his advantage.’

‘Effendi, I don’t know-’

‘And yours.’

Owen put his hand in his pocket and jingled some coins. ‘Oh, well, Effendi, that’s different!’

The boy slipped away and returned some ten minutes later with a thin, wiry man in an embroidered skull cap. Sweat was running down his face and he was mopping his neck with a dirty handkerchief.

‘Hard work!’ said Owen sympathetically.

‘Effendi, I will not deny it.’

‘And for not much money.’

‘That, too, I will not deny.’

‘Even with the pickings.’

‘They are few, Effendi. A burst sack, a broken packing case. And then, besides, most of the regular work is with coal and there is not much reward in that.’

‘I think I could add to your rewards.’

‘What is it you had in mind, Effendi?’

‘I need to know if a certain consignment comes in.’

‘Will not the office tell you?’

‘The consignment I speak of is not likely to be known in the office.’

‘It is hidden goods, then?’

‘It is likely to have been concealed.’

‘That may make it difficult.’

‘The reward will be commensurate.’

‘I could not do it on my own, Effendi.’

‘If the word were spread,’ said Owen, ‘and what I seek, found, you would take your share. For the finder, the reward would be great. So great that he might not even have to carry loads any more.’

‘That indeed would be a reward worth earning.’

Ibrahim stood for some time considering the matter. The sweat was still running down his face. From time to time he dabbed at it with his handkerchief.

‘Well, Effendi,’ he said at last, ‘there is nothing to be lost by doing what you ask and there could be much to gain. I will do it. What is it you ask?’

After he had gone, Owen became aware that the urchin was still standing by him.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said, and put his hand in his pocket.