Michael Pearce - The Donkey-Vous

They burst into laughter.

“I’ll tell you what, though,” one of the drivers said to Owen. “Once or twice he went with her.”

“Who went with her?”

“That young chap. The one you were asking about. The one with the eyes. Though what contribution he was going to make I can’t think.”

“You’d better ask Abbas. Abbas!”

Some way along the row of arabeahs one of the other drivers lifted his head.

“What?”

“Suppose a man is with a woman and then another man comes along. What does the other man do?”

A guffaw ran along the line of recumbent arabeah-drivers. The one who had lifted his head sprang to his feet. “I will kill you, Abdullah!” he said, and reached toward his belt. “Be careful!” one of the other drivers warned him: “The Mamur Zapt is along there!” Abbas stopped in his tracks and stood for a moment undecided. “You wait, Abdullah!” he called eventually. “I will come to you later.” Abdullah seemed unconcerned.

Paul rang from the Consul-General’s office.

“Hello!” he said. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, thanks. Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Everyone’s been saying how peaky you look and how you obviously need a rest.”

“It’s this damned heat,” Owen complained. Then it sank in. “Everyone?”

“Everyone who’s rung me this morning.”

“Samira?”

“Samira, for instance. The other one would surprise you.”

“Go on; surprise me.”

“The Khedive.”

“ The Khedive?”

“I knew it would surprise you. It surprised me. He’s never taken an interest in your health before. Nor in the health of anyone else in the Administration. I congratulate you.”

“What’s going on?”

“Something, obviously. That’s why I rang to let you know.”

“Samira was on to me yesterday. She told me to lay off Moulin.”

“And now His Highness is telling you the same thing. Isn’t that interesting? You must be getting warm.”

“Why should he be bothered about Moulin?”

“Why indeed. Perhaps he’s not.”

“What do you mean?”

“Perhaps he’s bothered about something else.”

Owen thought about it.

“Paul,” he said then, “are you trying to warn me off? Is this something I should clear politically?”

“Who would you clear it with?”

“Garvin, I suppose.”

“What would he know about it?”

“The Consul-General, then?”

“Look,” said Paul, “the Consul-General doesn’t have ideas of his own. He only has the ideas I put in his head.”

“And what ideas are you putting in his head at the moment?”

“I don’t think you look peaky at all,” said Paul. “Quite the reverse, in fact.”

“I need your help,” said Owen.

Zeinab, lying on the bed, at first seemed deaf to this plea. Then she turned her head slightly.

“What is it?”

“I didn’t get anywhere with Samira.”

“You were talking to her for a long time.”

“Yes, but she didn’t tell me anything. Not much anyway. She was more concerned with warning me off Moulin. She suggested I take a holiday. Go away for a few days. Take you.”

“That seems a good idea,” said Zeinab, sitting up.

“No, it’s not. It’s just intended to get me out of the way.”

“Well, why not get out of the way? Let them get on with paying for that poor man. You’re not doing anything to help him. You’re just stopping him from being freed.”

“I’m not stopping them from paying.”

“Yes, but they think you are. They think you’re up there like a hawk, hovering, just picking the moment. They don’t know you,” said Zeinab, “like I know you.”

“I don’t care tuppence about Moulin.”

“Then why don’t we go away?”

“Because I think there’s something else going on and I want to find out what it is.”

Zeinab reached for a cushion and stuffed it behind her back. “All right,” she said resignedly, “I’ll help you.” She suddenly brightened. “No, I won’t,” she said.

“Bloody hell!”

“Not unless you promise to take me away for a holiday when this is all over.”

“I promise. Samira said she’d get Haidar to lend us his villa at Luxor.”

“Luxor! I’m not going there! It’s just temples!”

“I’d quite like to go to Luxor.”

“It’s got to be some place I’d like to go to.”

“Oh, very well.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Right!” said Zeinab, snuggling back into the cushion. “How can I help you?”

“It’s Madame Chevenement.”

“Her again?”

“This is definitely work.”

“Like that other woman?”

Owen ignored this.

“I asked Samira how Madame Chevenement came to be at her soirees and she said she was a friend of a friend. I take that friend to be the Khedive.”

“Right.”

“What I want to find out is how she came to be a friend of his. What’s the connection? How did they meet? Samira will probably know but she’ll be on her guard. Is there someone else in that circle who would know?”

“I know,” said Zeinab.

“You know?”

“Yes. Everyone does. He met her at Cannes.”

“When was this?” said Owen, astonished.

“Last year. When he was on holiday. He went to Monte Carlo, if you remember.”

Owen remembered. The Khedive had needed extra resourcing in view of his passion for gambling. The funds had been made available but only after a protracted political tug-of-war in which Owen himself had been engaged.

“What else do you know?” he asked.

“About Chevenement? Nothing much. She’s very dull, really. Just right for him.”

“Did he invite her over here?”

“She invited herself, I think. He was glad to renew acquaintance.”

“He’s kept it pretty quiet.”

“You think so?” Zeinab laughed. “Just because you haven’t heard about it, darling, that doesn’t mean it’s been kept quiet. Still, I agree. It’s been kept quieter than she would like. He’s seen her only a few times and never in public.”

“Still, I ought to have known about it.”

She reached out a hand, caught his, and pulled him down. “You’ll just have to come to Samira’s more often, darling.”

“It’s not just that, though,” said Georgiades. “Remember, she took him with her.”

“Berthelot?”

“Yes. On at least two occasions, according to the arabeah-drivers. If she was just having an affair with the Khedive, why did she do that?”

“I think we can safely disregard the more ribald suggestions of the arabeah-drivers,” said Owen.

“And it’s hardly likely to be just a social call. There’s an etiquette for those things and the Khedive makes a big issue of it. Which leaves business-or politics.”

“It’s not going to be politics. The French are not going to have any amateurs coming in on their patch.”

“That leaves business. What sort of business is the Khedive likely to be interested in?”

“Any business that makes money. For him.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“There’s a bit of a problem, though, isn’t there?” said Owen. “He never engages in these things directly. It’s always through the Ministries. If you wanted anything you’d have to go through them.”

“His influence might be a help. Maybe that’s what they were after.”

“Not much of a help. You’d still have to go through the Ministries.”

“He might be able to get a personal favor done.”

“Chevenement? Then why was Berthelot there? Anyway, he’d be able to get one done only if it was a small one. Anything big would have to go through the Ministries. That’s the system. The whole point is to keep his hands off the money. He can’t spend a penny without the Consul-General okaying it.”