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

“It’s not quite all,” said Owen, “but it will do for a start.”

“If you think I’m going to do any of these things,” said Andrus, “let alone all of them, you must be crazy.”

“I think not.”

“Well, I’m not going to do them. Not any of them.”

“Oh, but you are.”

“If you think you can frighten me,” said Andrus, “you are mistaken.”

“I don’t.”

“Then what makes you think I am going to do them?”

“Because if you don’t,” said Owen, “I shall let it be generally known that Andrus has been giving money to the Moslems for them to use against Copts.”

“No one would believe you,” said Andrus, but his face went pale.

“Won’t they? Even when they hear the evidence?”

“They will believe it to be a trick.”

“Even when they hear the evidence? Mordecai?”

“Mordecai would never dare.”

“Mordecai has already agreed.”

“But-but it wasn’t like that.”

“Will anyone believe you? Anyone?”

Andrus licked his lips.

“I cannot,” he whispered. “I cannot.”

“You can,” said Owen, “and will.”

“Take me to prison.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“If I take you to prison,” said Owen, “people will say: ‘There goes Andrus, the enemy of the Moslems.’ But you are not their enemy. You are their friend. You give money to them to use against Copts. Therefore go free.”

Andrus looked at him, stunned. He sat like that for a long time. Then he buried his face in his hands.

“Very well,” he said in a choked voice. “Very well. I will do it.”

He stood up and almost tottered. He had suddenly aged.

“That is not all,” said Owen.

“Not all?”

Andrus seemed totally bewildered. His hands trembled.

“Sit down.”

It was as if Andrus’s legs had given way under him.

“What more do you want?” he whispered.

“You are to send a message to Sesostris. You are to tell him that you have to see him urgently. You will tell him that it must be in secret and that it is very, very important. And then you will tell him to come to a place that I will tell you of and at a time that I will tell you. And there you will meet him and say what I tell you.”

As realization dawned, Andrus blanched.

“I cannot,” he said. “You ask too much.”

“Think of this,” said Owen, “as payment. Payment for the two men who died because of you and the many who might have died.”

“I cannot. I would be ashamed.”

“If you do not, the shame will be not just on you but on your father’s house. ‘There is Andrus,’ they will say, ‘the man who gave money to the Moslems to use against the Copts.’ ”

Andrus buried his face in his hands again.

“Either way there is shame,” said Owen, “but one way the shame is yours and yours alone. The other way the shame is on your father too.”

Andrus sat for a long time. Owen let him sit. When at last Andrus looked up, his face was haggard.

“I will do what you wish,” he said.

“What do you want?” said Osman suspiciously.

“I want you to withdraw all your people from the streets, to send them home and to tell them to stay at home. That is, at least until after the Moulid. They are not to let themselves be provoked by the Copts. After today the Copts will be very anxious not to provoke you, but should some foolish man do so then you are to instruct your people not to respond.”

“What?” said Osman, unbelieving.

“You are to confine yourself to a mosque until after the Moulid. You will not go out in the streets and you will not say anything in public. There are to be no speeches and no sermons. Not until after the Moulid.”

“I shall say what I like and go where I like,” said Osman. “As for the Copts, I will cut their throats and dance in their blood.”

“You will not,” said Owen, who took an equable view of Arab rhetoric.

“No?” said Osman belligerently. “Why won’t I?”

“Because if you do,” said Owen, “I will tell everyone that you are the man who receives money from Copts.”

“I?” said Osman. “I? I receive no money from Copts.”

“You go to Mordecai, don’t you?”

“He is not a Copt. He is a Jew.”

“And where do you think he gets the money from?”

“Not from Copts?” said Osman, with a sinking heart.

“He is just the man in the middle. The Copts bring the money and Osman takes it. Every Friday. On the Sabbath.”

Osman reeled.

“Do you swear this?” he said thickly.

“On the Book.”

Osman shook his heavy, turbanned head from side to side as if bemused.

“I did not know it came from them!” he muttered. “How was I to know? A man came to me and said there were friends with money. They wished to keep themselves secret and therefore I was to go to Mordecai. But how can they be Copts? Copts would not give money for use against Copts. Unless-”

He smashed his great fists on the table.

“They have tricked me. It was a trap. And I fell into it. Fool that I am!” He buried his head in his arms and rolled about the table in his agony. “Fool! Fool!”

“Osman takes money from Copts. So it will be known.”

“Fool! Fool!” groaned Osman. “Oh, the cunning devils! They have beaten me. How shall I show my face? Osman takes Copt money! Oh, the shame of it!”

“If you do as I say,” said Owen, “you will be able to show your face. No one will know about it.”

“The Copts will tell,” groaned Osman.

“They won’t,” said Owen.

Something in his voice made Osman look at him.

“How do you know?”

“I have talked with them.”

“Do not believe them. They are cunning devils.”

“On this occasion,” said Owen, “I think they may be believed.”

“You do not know them like I do,” said Osman.

“They have no choice,” said Owen. “They are in a trap as deep as yours.”

“A trap?” Osman began to sound hopeful. “Of your devising?”

“Yes.”

Osman pounded the desk joyfully.

“They are in a trap. The Mamur Zapt has tricked them. They have tricked me but have themselves been tricked.”

“That’s about it.”

“You swear it? On the Book?”

“On the Book.”

“Then I will go happily to prison.”

“You are not going to prison. You are going to take your people off the streets. Remember?”

“I can’t do that,” said Osman in consternation.

“You must do it. Or I will see to it that everyone in Cairo knows who is the sheikh who takes money from Copts.”

There was a short silence.

“If I do what you ask,” said Osman, “can I be sure that the Copts will do the same?”

“You can be sure.”

“I do not like it.”

“Nor do they.”

“No,” said Osman, beginning to smile. “Of that one can be confident.”

He struck his fist on the table.

“I will do it!” he said.

“At once. Tonight,” said Owen.

Osman nodded.

“At once,” he agreed. “So it shall be.”

He left looking quite pleased. Owen was not sure that whatever lesson Osman had learned had been quite the right one.

Later in the morning Owen paid one of his infrequent visits to the Ministry of Finance. As he was walking along one of the long, green-painted corridors he ran into John Postlethwaite.

“Hello, lad,” said John Postlethwaite. “What are you doing here? Come for a bit of pocket money?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Owen. “Not personally, but for the office.”

“You’ll be lucky. What have you been up to?”

“Not been up to anything. It’s all this trouble between Copts and Moslems. It costs money.”