Michael Pearce - The Snake Catcher’s Daughter

“Mustapha Mir thought he needed help.”

“Had he not men of his own?”

“No. Well, yes, but they were special men. He needed someone inside the Police Force.”

“Why did he choose you?”

“I had worked with him before. He trusted me.”

“Was this authorized by Wainwright Pasha?”

“Oh yes.”

“And known by Garvin effendi?”

“He knew I had worked with Mustapha Mir before, yes, but he did not know about this operation. That is why I was worried, why I telephoned Mustapha Mir-”

“I do not understand this,” said Mahmoud. “If it was as you say, why was not the matter quickly cleared up? Surely, all Mustapha Mir had to do was get in touch with Garvin?”

“He knew he wouldn’t believe him. That is why he went to Wainwright Pasha.”

Philipides glanced at the transcript.

“Look!” he said, pointing with his finger. “It says there that he is going to see Wainwright Pasha.”

“In that case, why did not Wainwright Pasha speak to Garvin?”

“He did. But Garvin effendi did not believe him.”

“Did not believe him?” said Mahmoud incredulously. “But surely Garvin effendi was Wainwright Pasha’s deputy at the time?

“He was. There was a terrible argument. And then Garvin effendi went over Wainwright Pasha’s head.”

“To the Ministry of Justice?” said Mahmoud, puzzled. “But that is not in my files.”

He looked at the big pile of folders on his desk.

“Not to the Ministry of Justice,” said Philipides. “To the British Consul-General.”

“Ah! Oh, I see.”

“Wainwright Pasha spoke up strongly for Mustapha Mir. He said it was an injustice. But it was no good. They wanted Mustapha out, you see. That was what it was all about. He saw it at once. That was why he kept asking me if there were others or if it was just Garvin effendi alone. I did not understand, I was just a lowly inspector, I do not know about these things. But Mustapha Mir was clever, he did know about such things and he saw at once what was happening-”

“Just one moment,” said Mahmoud. “What is it exactly that you are saying?”

“That there was a plot,” said Philipides determinedly, “a British plot. That Garvin effendi saw an opportunity to discredit Mustapha Mir and force him out.”

“Why would he do that?”

“So that,” said Philipides bitterly, looking at Owen, “his place could be taken by an Englishman.”

“A lot of nonsense,” said Owen, when they were alone.

“Is it?” said Mahmoud.

“Yes,” said Owen, “it certainly is.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Mahmoud. “Garvin is an ambitious man.”

“It wouldn’t have been Mustapha Mir’s job that he wanted,” Owen pointed out. “It would have been Wainwright’s.”

“And he got it,” said Mahmoud.

“That was later. That was nothing to do with this.”

Mahmoud, however, looked thoughtful.

“There are obvious weaknesses in the story,” said Owen.

Mahmoud nodded.

“Yes, but I will have to check them. I will have to investigate his accusations too, though.” He looked at Owen. “That means going through the files.”

“Whose files?”

“Yours, perhaps,” said Mahmoud. “Or rather, Mustapha Mir’s.”

Owen was silent. There was a lot of secret material in the Mamur Zapt’s files. Would the Administration agree?

“More to the point,” said Mahmoud, “I shall have to go through the Commandant’s files. Did Wainwright authorize Mustapha Mir to conduct an investigation into corruption in the Police Force? If he did, there ought to be some reference to it in the files.”

“Garvin’s sitting on those files now,” said Owen.

“I shall have to ask him to release them.”

Owen was silent again. Garvin, he felt sure, had nothing to hide, but he might well object to opening his files to the Parquet. It was the principle of the thing, he would say. The Commandant of the Cairo Police was such an important post that its incumbent was appointed directly by the Khedive, not by the Minister of Justice. There was a reason for that. The Ministry was responsible for the administration of justice; but the Commandant was responsible for maintaining order, and the Khedive cared a lot more about maintaining order than he did about justice.

It could be put, too, another way. The Khedive appointed the Commandant on the direct advice of the British Administration, and the British were even more interested in maintaining order than they were in the administration of justice. The niceties of the legal administration they were quite happy to leave to the Egyptians; the exercise of power, though, they wished to keep to themselves.

The British Administration was advisory only. In theory, the Khedive and his ministers could reject that advice. In practice, because of the Egyptian Government’s financial dependence on Britain, and because of the large British army stationed in Egypt, the advice was not something the Egyptians could easily disregard.

The British were punctilious in observing the advisory form. On the one hand it gave them something they could shelter behind; on the other, it saved the Khedive’s self-respect.

Up to a point. As the years went by, and memory of the financial crisis receded into the background, the Khedive became increasingly restless. So did ambitious ministers. And so, much, much more so, did the growing forces of Egyptian Nationalism. There were many now, especially among the young professionals, who were eager to challenge the advisory form, to bring matters to a head over whether the British were here as advisers only or whether they were here to rule by force. The young lawyers of the Parquet, for instance. Mahmoud.

Like Garvin, Mahmoud might well see this as an issue of principle. Was the Commandant of the Cairo Police Force subject to the same judicial process as everyone else in Egypt or not? Did he answer to the Khedive and the National Assembly and the Ministry of Justice? Or only to the British?

“It may be necessary to interview Wainwright Pasha,” said Mahmoud.

“Wainwright? He left the country years ago!”

“He is still alive? These are grave charges,” said Mahmoud. “He will have to come back.”

“Come back?” said Paul incredulously.

“Wainwright? Fat chance of that! He’ll be too busy watering his roses, or whatever you do to roses.”

“If we cover his expenses.”

“Mahmoud’s very free with my money,” said Paul.

“He might jump at it. A holiday in Egypt at the Government’s expense.”

“Wainwright may be daft,” said Paul. “But he’s not as daft as that!”

“Mahmoud seems very determined,” said Owen. “I think the Ministry might make a formal request.”

“Well, it will get a formal answer,” said Paul. “Plus an informal one: Ha! Ha!”

“It’s an issue of principle.”

“Is it hell!” said Paul. “It’s a matter of practice. How do you compel a chap to come back if he doesn’t want to? Appeal to his better nature? Anyone who’s served in the British Administration hasn’t got one. Compel him legally? That would mean working through the Egyptian legal system, which is some task, I can tell you, especially when you get lawyers on to the job. And then it would have to go through the British legal system, which is even worse. It would take years. Wainwright would have died by the time it got to court. Of course, you could always bribe him, but that, given the nature of the investigation, hardly seems the appropriate thing to do. It might be worth trying, though. Since he’s on a Government pension, he’s bound to be short of money.”

“I’ll put the suggestion to Mahmoud.”

“Actually,” said Paul, thinking, “there’s another issue of principle involved, too. It is; once you’ve retired, ought they to be able to get you for the things you’ve done? Assert that as a principle and the prisons will be full of old age pensioners. No administrator will ever take a decision on anything. It’s only because they think they’ll be retired by the time there’s any comeback that they take the decisions they do. No,” said Paul, shaking his head, “this will not do. Mahmoud is tampering with sacred things. The principle of wiping the slate clean when you retire is fundamental to our society. Abolish it and the Western way of life falls apart.”