Michael Pearce - The Mamur Zapt and the Night of the Dog

“He’s obviously just an intermediary.”

“He gets the money from someone else and passes it on to Osman?”

“That’s right. That’s my guess, anyway.”

“Have you talked to the Jew?”

“Not yet.”

“Will he talk?”

“He might.”

“It would be interesting to know who he gets it from.”

“Want me to ask?”

“Might be better to wait. Have you got a man on him?”

“Yes.”

“Leave it like that for a day or two.”

Nikos had been busy too, and he summoned them to show them the result of his labours.

On the wall in his room was a large map of Cairo. Pinned to it were a lot of little paper flags. Each flag stood for an “incident,” green for Moslem-inspired ones, red for those initiated by Copts.

“Notice anything?”

The geographical pattern was clear. Four-fifths of the flags were within half a mile of the Bab es Zuweyla, the Old Gate, near which was both the Blue Mosque of the dervishes and the old church of the Copts, the Mar Girgis. Nikos had marked the church in white, the mosque in blue.

“Osman territory,” said Owen.

“And Andrus territory?” asked Georgiades.

Owen looked at Nikos.

“Mar Girgis territory, at any rate,” said Nikos. “A church is the centre of any Coptic network, and all the incidents fall in the territory that the Mar Girgis covers.”

“Someone at the church, then. Not the priests-”

Uncomfortable memories of what had happened on his last visit to the Mar Girgis flooded into Owen’s mind.

“No, no, no. They don’t go in for this sort of thing. Someone else. Someone in the congregation. They’re in the congregation so they naturally think of using the network. It’s the sort of thing a Copt would think of, the sort of way they think.”

“Zoser was in the congregation,” said Owen.

“Yes,” said Nikos, “that’s one of the things I had in mind.”

“And Andrus.”

“That too.”

“The Zikr,” said Georgiades, “was in Osman’s congregation. In a manner of speaking.”

“Is that it, then?” asked Owen. “Is that what’s happening? Andrus and Osman are slugging it out?”

"It’s hotting up again,” said Garvin.

“Yes,” said Owen, “I know.”

“Pity. I was hoping you’d got it under control.”

“It was just a lull.”

“It didn’t take long for him to bounce back.”

“Someone’s feeding him money.”

“Any idea who?”

“Not yet. We think we know how but we don’t know who.”

“Only a question of time, then. The trouble is,” said Garvin, “that time is exactly what you haven’t got.”

“It’s still two weeks to the Moulid.”

Garvin brushed it away.

“Not that. The Consul-General’s been on to me. He would like things to quieten down.”

“Well…”

“Yes, I know,” said Garvin. “Wouldn’t we all? Only I gather he’s got a special reason for wanting it just now.”

“Are we allowed to know what it is?”

Owen waited while Garvin thought it over.

“No,” said Garvin finally. “I don’t think so. Political. At the top.”

“These things have a way of working down.”

“And then a way of leaking out.”

“The effect, I meant. Not the information.”

“The information won’t help you. Still,” said Garvin, relenting, “I could tell you something, I suppose.”

He liked to remind Owen that, out on a privileged limb though the Mamur Zapt might be, he, Garvin, had access to levels that Owen could only aspire to.

“It’s to do with the succession,” Garvin said. “The Consul-General wants the Khedive to reshuffle his Cabinet. And he has a particular person he would like to see become Prime Minister.”

“Patros?”

Garvin looked at him in surprise.

“You know?”

“I had an inkling.”

“Well,” said Garvin, recovering, “I suppose it’s the sort of thing you ought to have an inkling of. Though it’s meant to be secret. Well, then, you’ll know why just at the moment the Consul-General doesn’t want trouble between Moslems and Copts.”

“There’s always trouble between Moslems and Copts. It’s a fact of life.”

“Yes, I know. But at some times it’s apparent and at other times it’s not. I want this one to be one of the times when it’s not.”

“You can’t just damp these things down.”

“Can’t you? I thought you just had.”

“I was lucky. And it earned us a lull, that was all.”

“Earn us another one, then,” said Garvin, “only a bit longer this time.”

Owen wanted to say it couldn’t be done. Wisely, he didn’t.

“OK?”

“How much longer?”

“It’s hard to say. A month?”

“The Moulid’s in two weeks’ time.”

“Ah yes,” said Garvin. “I was forgetting.” He frowned and fidgeted with his pencil. “I’ll talk to the CG,” he said. “Mind you. I’m not promising anything. There’s a complete log-jam at the moment.”

“The levy business?”

“Yes. The Khedive won’t agree to anything until he’s got that.”

“Why is he insisting on that?”

“Because he wants the money.”

“Yes, but why does it have to be raised by means of a levy?”

“Because otherwise it would have to be financed through a general increase in taxation. That would increase the Khedive’s unpopularity, and he’s unpopular enough already. Whereas if he raised it through a levy on Copts that would be wildly popular with everyone else. His ministers are telling him it’s a masterstroke. They’re Moslem, of course.”

“So he’s not going to give way?‘’

“No. And nor is Patros.”

“So it could take some time?”

“That’s right.”

“And the Moulid is in a fortnight’s time.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“If the Khedive got his money in some other way,” said Owen, as he turned to go, “would that help?”

“If I were you,” said Garvin, “I’d stick to the Curbash Compensation Fund.”

Mahmoud rang, puzzled.

“What’s going on?” he said. “They’ve put me back on the Zikr case.”

“I’m still on it,” said Owen.

“I thought that one had been settled. Didn’t Zoser-?”

“Yes.”

“Then why-?”

“It might be part of a bigger picture.”

“Connected with what’s going on at the moment?”

“Possibly.”

“Have you found a connection?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t suppose I shall. Still, if that’s what they want, I’ll go through it all over again.

Afterwards Owen wondered why Mahmoud was back on the case. Could it be that someone had an interest in keeping it alive? Probably not in the Parquet itself. Higher up, almost certainly. The Minister? Anxious that no opportunity for keeping relations between Copts and Moslems on the boil should be lost?

“Don’t you have a guilty feeling?” asked Paul.

“No,” said Owen. “What should I have a guilty feeling about?”

“Jane Postlethwaite. You’ve been neglecting her.”

“No, I haven’t. I’m always seeing her.”

“You haven’t seen her this week.”

“I’ve had one or two things on this week. Like the whole of Cairo up in arms.”

“Keep these things in perspective. Remember what I told you. Jane Postlethwaite is important.”

“Her uncle is important, I see that. Our jobs at stake, etc.”

“More than that. Your whole life, for instance. Aren’t you missing a chance?”

“What chance am I missing?”

“Jane Postlethwaite.”

“Look, she’s a nice girl, but-”

“She’s a nice girl and. And her parents are dead, and her uncle is rich and influential, and for some strange reason he is quite attached to you, and Jane Postlethwaite is quite attached herself, and it’s time you got maried-”