Michael Pearce - The Mamur Zapt and the Donkey-Vous

‘Where is he?’

‘At Reception.’

‘That might be useful.’

‘It was where the first message was left.’

Owen thought about it. ‘If we could get a look at it—’

Nikos nodded. ‘That’s what I thought. Note the contents and pass it on.’

‘It could all go ahead.’

‘They would pay.’

‘Moulin would be released.’

‘And with any luck,’ said Nikos,’ we would be watching and could follow it up.’

‘I’d go along with that,’ said Owen, ‘I’d go along with that.’

Later in the morning, Nikos came into Owen’s room just as he was about to go out to keep his appointment with Mahmoud and Madame Chévènement.

‘I’ve been checking through the files to see if I could find anythying on Zawia. There’s nothing on any group of that name.’

‘It’s a new group,’ said Owen.

‘Yes. But often new groups are re-forming from members of old groups, so I looked through to see if there were any references to groups with associated names.’

‘And did you find any?’

Nikos hesitated.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘this kind of stuff is just conjecture. But what about the Wekils?’

‘The Wekils?’

‘Came on the scene last year. Two known kidnappings. One, a Syrian, notified to us in June. Case went dead, family left the country. My guess is they paid and got out. No point in us going back over that case. But we might look at the other. A Greek shopkeeper, taken about six months ago. Again the case went dead, so they probably paid. But I think the family is still here, so we might be able to find out something.’

‘Why is “Wekil” an associated name?’

‘It’s a Senussi name. The Wekils are those Brothers who take charge of business matters and so are permitted to have dealings with Christians. As I said, it’s just conjecture.’

Mahmoud was waiting for him at Reception.

‘Room 216,’ he said.

They climbed the stairs together. The door of 216 was open and suffragis were coming out carrying suitcases. Mahmoud and Owen went straight in. A row of already packed suitcases stood by the bed. The doors of the wardrobe were hanging open. It was quite empty. A man was bending over the suitcases. He turned as they came in. It was the French Chargé d’Affaires.

‘Madame Chévènement?’ asked Mahmoud.

The Chargé spread his hands apologetically.

CHAPTER 3

‘But she’s a material witness,’ said Mahmoud.

‘Sorry!’ said the Chargé.

‘You can’t do this!’

The Chargé shrugged.

‘I—I shall protest!’

‘We will receive your protest. If it’s made through the proper diplomatic channels.’

Mahmoud looked ready to explode.

‘She’s not really a material witness,’ said the Chargé. ‘She doesn’t know a thing.’

‘Then why are you removing her?’ asked Owen.

The Chargé looked at his watch.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘perhaps I owe you something. How about an apéritif downstairs?’

Mahmoud, furious, and strict Moslem anyway, refused. Owen accepted. The Chargé ordered two cognacs.

‘And a coffee for my friend,’ he added.

He led them over to an alcove.

‘Sorry about this,’ he said. ‘I can assure you it was necessary. Absolutely necessary.’

‘Why?’ asked Owen.

The Chargé hesitated.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s like this. We heard the wife was coming. The old lady. Madame Moulin. I ask you: would it be proper for her to find …? Well, you know.’

‘You did this out of a sense of propriety?’

The Chargé looked at him seriously.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We French are very proper people.’

‘Monsieur Moulin too?’

‘Sex doesn’t come into it. That’s quite separate.’

‘Well, where have you put her? Can we talk to her?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said the Chargé. ‘She’s on her way home. With a diplomatic passport.’

‘For reasons of propriety?’

‘For reasons of state.’

‘Reasons of state?’

‘Madame Moulin’s a cousin of the President’s wife. That’s quite a reason of state.’

‘Come on!’ said Owen. ‘Why did you do it?’

‘That’s why we did it. I’ve just told you. We couldn’t have the French President’s wife’s cousin coming out and finding some floozie in her husband’s bed. It wouldn’t be decent. The President would get to hear about it and we’d all get our asses kicked. The last thing I need just now, I can tell you, is a posting to the Gabon. I’ve a little friend of my own here.’

Mahmoud fumed.

The Chargé patted him on the knee ‘Don’t worry about it! These things happen.’

‘That’s why I worry about it,’ said Mahmoud sullenly.

The Chargé signalled to the waiter. ‘Another two cognacs,’ he said. He looked at Mahmoud’s coffee. ‘I wish I could put something in that.’

‘No, thanks,’ said Mahmoud.

The Chargé sipped his cognac and put it down.

‘Didn’t I know your father?’ he said. ‘Ahmed el Zaki? A lawyer?’

‘Yes,’ said Mahmoud, surprised. ‘That’s my father.’

‘I met him in a case we had when I first came out here. He acted for us.’

Owen was surprised too. Mahmoud had never spoken about his father.

‘How is he?’ asked the Chargé.

‘He died three years ago.’

‘Ah. Pardon. These things happen.’ The Chargé shook his head sadly. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good man. You’re very like him in some ways.’ He finished his cognac.

‘I’ve got to go. Look, I’m sorry about all this. We’re thinking of the family. That’s all. Reasons of the heart, you might say.’

‘You might,’ said Owen.

The shop was in the Khan-el-Khalil, the part of the bazaar area most familiar to tourists. Some of Cairo’s best-known shops were there, places like Andalaft’s or Cohen’s. The Greek’s shop, however, was not in their class. It was one of dozens of smaller shops all catering in their different ways for the tourist trade. Most of them sold a mixture of old brassware, harem embroideries, lacework, enamels and pottery. In the height of the season the Khan-el-Khalil would be packed with tourists, though the extent to which they made their way to a particular shop would depend on the extent to which the proprietor had greased the palms of the dragomans with piastres. It was now past the peak of the season but there were still plenty of small parties of tourists, each guided by a knowing dragoman. Traffic was growing less now, though, and this was the time when greasing was all-important. Some of the shops were almost deserted while others still hummed with business.

The Greek’s shop was one of the latter. As Owen ducked through the bead curtain he almost collided with an English couple, a mother and daughter, who were just emerging.

‘Why, it’s Captain Owen!’ said Lucy Colthorpe Hartley delightedly.

Her mother looked at Owen with less pleasure and would have gone on if Lucy had not firmly stopped.

‘Look what I’ve bought!’ she said, and showed Owen her purchase. It was a small heap of turquoise stones. ‘Aren’t they lovely? I’m going to have them made up when I get back. Or would I do better to have them made up here?’

‘Here, but not in one of these shops. Get Andalaft to advise you.’

‘I like them because they’re such a beautiful Cambridge blue. Daddy went to Cambridge. Did you, Captain Owen?’

‘No.’

‘Gerald didn’t, either. He’s rather sore about it.’

‘Lucy, dear, we must not detain Captain Owen. He has business, I am sure.’

‘Business among the bazaars. What is your business, Captain Owen? It’s obviously something to do with the police, but Daddy says you’re not a proper policeman. Gerald says you’re not a proper soldier either. So what are you, Captain Owen?’