Michael Pearce - The Mingrelian Conspiracy

‘Bloody awful, wasn’t it? It’s high time the Army went on manoeuvres. Preferably at the bottom of the Red Sea.’

‘What’s all this business about unifying the policing? I don’t like the sound of it.’

‘It won’t get anywhere. The Old Man will kill it dead.’

Paul was one of the Consul-General’s aides and frequently, as this morning, chaired meetings on his behalf.

‘Will he, though? If they really push?’

‘They’ll only get his back up. He’ll see it as trespassing.’

‘Yes, but-’

‘It won’t get anywhere. At the end of the day, the Old Man’s 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 didn’t.’

‘The gangs?’ Owen was surprised. ‘I really don’t think, Paul, you need worry too much about the guns. It’s 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? It’s the cafes I’m thinking of.’

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. I’ve got my hands full at the Citadel. McPhee.

Trouble at a cafe, thought Owen. Christ, they’re 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 Cairo’s 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 Cornwall’s 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 (‘Couldn’t kick a ball near the posts, never mind through them’) and they had risen to defend theirs and their country’s 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 you’re 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. ‘Here’s another one!’

‘He’s bloody British, though.’

‘I am bloody British,’ snapped Owen, ‘and tomorrow morning I’ll have you bloody lot on jankers. I’ll 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.

‘What’s 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. ‘We’re for it! It’s the jelly-babies!’

‘What’s going on?’ shouted a voice that was vaguely familiar.

The Military Police came down the street.

‘What’s going on?’

Owen recognized the voice now. It was Shearer.

‘These men have been disturbing the peace,’ said the Egyptian.

‘Oh, have they? We’ll 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.’

‘I’m handling them,’ said Shearer. ‘It’s no concern of yours.’

‘I’m 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. ‘It’s an internal matter for the Army.’

‘I’m 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.

‘I’m afraid he’s right. Once the process has been formally initiated it rolls on until it’s 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.

‘He’s 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 you’ve finished,’ he said to the sergeant. ‘You lot,’ he said, turning on the soldiers, ‘had better get back to barracks. You’re a bloody disgrace. I’ll deal with you in the morning.’

‘Better send them separately,’ advised Owen. ‘Otherwise they’ll start fighting again.’

‘They’d better bloody not! You’re right, though, it’s 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 don’t 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.