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

“Too true. That’s only too true,” John Postlethwaite agreed enthusiastically. “That’s what I’m always saying. However you look at it, it costs money. These colonies are millstones around our necks, as a noble lord of my acquaintance once said. Mind you, he’s a millstone round our necks too, him and all the other lords.”

Owen thought that Paul might not like the turn the conversation was taking so hastily shifted tack.

“The real problem is the levy,” he said.

“Levy?” said John Postlethwaite sharply. “I’ve not heard about that.”

Owen explained.

“A levy is a mistake,” said John Postlethwaite. “It’s bad accounting principle. It’s a one-off business, you see. You do it once and then that’s an end to it. What you want is a charge on something that regularly recurs. You can go on forever then.”

“The Khedive’s insisting on it. He needs the money.”

“What does he need it for?”

Owen thought he hadn’t better mention Monte Carlo.

“Oh, a special function he has in mind, I think,” he said vaguely.

“If it’s an unusual item, then maybe the best thing is a straightforward loan,” said John Postlethwaite. “I don’t normally approve of loans, unless I’m lending, of course, but sometimes they’re the answer.”

At the other end of the corridor Owen saw Ramses come out of a door. He began to edge away.

“Come and see us sometime,” said John Postlethwaite. “I know Jane would like to see you. She gets a bit cooped up in that hotel.”

“Hello,” said Ramses. “What are you after? Still in trouble with the Compensation Fund? I might be able to do something for you next year but there’s not much chance this year, I’m afraid. We’re still stuck in our log-jam.”

“Postlethwaite thinks the levy’s a bad idea.”

“Same here. Unfortunately-”

“He thinks a loan might be better.”

“So it might,” said Ramses, “if anyone could be found stupid enough to lend to the Khedive.”

“I was wondering,” said Owen, “if, in return for the levy being abandoned-”

“A loan? You wouldn’t get your money back.”

“Suppose,” said Owen, “somebody made a loan, and the idea of the levy was withdrawn, and Patros became Prime Minister, couldn’t he raise taxes?”

“He certainly could and almost certainly will.”

“Then the loan could be repaid out of the increase in taxes.”

“Why,” said Ramses admiringly, “you’re beginning to think just like an accountant! Yes, in principle it could be done. I could get a few Copt bankers to club together to find a sufficient sum. It would have to be a loan to the Government, mind, not to the Khedive personally. A special loan so that, say, all the statues in Cairo can be cleaned on time for the Khedive’s birthday. They wouldn’t be cleaned, of course, but no one would know. A public loan like that would have the added advantage of showing the Khedive what loyal subjects we Copts are and how greatly we admire him.”

“You think you could stitch that up?”

“Yes. On condition that the levy were withdrawn. Patros would have to become Prime Minister, too, so that we could be sure that the money would be repaid. Incidentally, I see problems there.”

“The Consul-General will agree.”

“Yes, but some of our side won’t be very happy. As you probably know, there’s a strong party among the Copts who are utterly opposed to any Coptic participation in the Government, even on a personal basis.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Owen, “I think you may find that in future that party is not quite as strong as it has been.”

Before leaving the Ministry, Owen rang Paul at the Consul-General’s Residency.

“Oh yes,” said Paul. “I think that can be managed. I’ll have a word with the Old Man. But do you think the Copts will really deliver?”

“I think they will if you can get the Old Man to twist the Khedive’s arm enough to persuade him to withdraw the levy.”

“OK,” said Paul. “I’ll see he gets twisting.”

Instead of going to the Club as he usually did for lunch, Owen went to Zeinab’s apartment. She was surprised and pleased to see him. Afterwards, as she lay drowsily in his arms, she said:

“How is your little Nonconformiste?”

“All right, I think. I haven’t seen her since the opera.”

“I’m not jealous,” Zeinab assured him. “If you want her, you can have her.”

“She may have her own views about that.”

“Are you taking her to the Moulid?”

“Paul wants me to.”

Zeinab was quiet for a moment or two.

“Have you ever been to the Moulid?” she asked.

“Not this one.”

“Ah. Then you must take her. Yes, you must certainly take her.”

“Perhaps I will,” said Owen innocently.

Later, as Zeinab sat brushing her hair, she said:

“How is Yussuf?”

“In the cells.”

“Poor man. It is time you let him out.”

“I would if I was sure he wouldn’t go straight back and do it again.”

“He ought to remarry Fatima.”

“That’s what I’m trying to achieve.”

“Have you talked to the man, the one who married her?”

“Suleiman? No. I’ve talked to Fatima, though. She says that Suleiman will want money.”

“Of course.”

“Yes, but I haven’t any. The Compensation Fund is exhausted. Anyway, it’s a bad accounting principle.”

“Accounting principle?” said Zeinab, surprised.

“Yes. Give him some and they’ll all be doing it.”

“That is accounting principle?”

“More or less. Financial control, anyway.”

Zeinab shrugged. One of her shoulders emerged from her gown and Owen went across and kissed it.

“I have been thinking,” said Zeinab, laying down her brush. “Has Fatima any family?”

“I don’t know. I expect so. Why?”

“It is one thing taking a woman into your house,” said Zeinab. “It is another thing taking her family.”

“So?”

“If she has a large family and some of them are unprovided for, say, for instance, she has unmarried sisters and aunts and nieces, then it is only right, since her husband has married into the family, that he should provide for them, too.”

“Yes, but will he see it like that?”

“It is a duty to provide for your wife’s family as for your own. Why don’t you suggest it to Fatima? She sounds the sort of woman who wouldn’t like to let things slip.”

“I might do that.”

“Yes. If you did,” said Zeinab, “you might even find Suleiman ready to think again.”

Owen had taken a house in the old part of the city not far from the Mar Girgis. Through the heavy fretwork of its top windows he could see the towering minarets of the Bab es Zuweyla, and from the box window of the storey below, where he was standing when Sesostris approached, he had a good view along the street in both directions.

It was dark and the lamps were lit and they might not have seen Sesostris if he had not had to step aside to avoid a porter with a heavy bundle on his back and stand for a moment in the light from a shopfront. They watched him come to the door.

Owen had had the house cleared and the servant who let Sesostris in was one of his own men. They heard the door close and the footsteps begin to climb the stairs.

In the room Andrus twisted his hands nervously. He was a shell of the man he had been previously. Owen gave him a warning glance. He did not want things to go wrong at this stage.

He glanced round the room to make sure all was in order. It was a modest but comfortably furnished room with a divan, low tables and large leather cushions on the floor. The walls were covered with fine red carpets. Georgiades held one of these aside and stood waiting.