Donkey-Vous (18 page)

“Me?”

“No. Well, not yet. Mahmoud.”

“It’s not his fault.”

“Of course it’s not. He’s an amiable, hard-working soul who does his best for us, which is more than we deserve. We’ll make it up to him later. But the Army’s got to have blood. Well, you’d expect that of the Army, wouldn’t you? Heads must roll. And what better head to roll than that of an Egyptian—the Egyptian in charge of an investigation which is getting nowhere. There would,” said Paul, “be a case for putting someone else on it anyway.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

“You’re bloody right I wouldn’t.”

“I,” said Paul, “am not exactly happy about it.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t matter so much to you as it does to Mahmoud.”

“The important thing,” said Paul, “is not to let the Army take over. If they take over the Administration it would be a disaster. Not just for me, although naturally that is a consideration. For Egypt. For, well, rationality, which is, really, the only thing in the end which can keep the world ticking over without blowing itself apart.”

“What about Mahmoud?”

“He’s got a job. He’ll still have a job. He’s just being taken off this one case. It will probably do him no end of good in his career. Someone who’s been victimized by the British! His bosses will like him, the Minister will smile on him. He will certainly be promoted. He’ll do much better than if he goes on working along happily with you. It is the way of the world, my friend. Just thought I’d let you know.”

Shortly afterward, Garvin called Owen in.

“Mahmoud’s been taken off the case,” he said.

“Yes.”

“You know?”

“Yes. Who’s replacing him?”

“No one from the Parquet. They’re out of it. This is no longer an ordinary criminal matter. It’s a question of public law and order.
Order
.”

“You mean—”

“You’re responsible for order in Cairo, aren’t you? Then you’re responsible for this. Formally, I mean. From now on it’s all yours.”

Owen sat in his office, too numb to think. He wasn’t bothered about the responsibility, in a way he’d accepted that already. All Garvin was doing was landing him with it formally, making bloody sure that he himself was covered. Well, Owen didn’t mind that, it was the kind of thing you expected. Owen didn’t like being landed with formal responsibility, he supposed no one did. What he preferred to do was work behind the scenes, take responsibility, yes, but in an indirect, shared kind of way. Yes, that was it, shared. He liked to share it with Mahmoud. Mahmoud took over responsibility for running the case, Owen chipped in where he could. That worked well. It had worked well in the past.

He couldn’t evade the thought, though, that what he had just told himself was a cop-out. What he was saying was that Mahmoud was the one who really carried the can. Had carried it this time.

Georgiades came into the office. He stopped when he saw Owen’s face.

“OK?”

Owen nodded.

“What is it?”

“I’ve done what I said I would,” said Georgiades, “had a look at the Tsakatellis business. Talked to the family. Not just to the old woman. My God, she terrifies me. Reminds me of my mother.”

“Do all Greek women get like that?”

“Yes. It’s what stopped me from getting married.”

“I felt sorry for the daughter-in-law.”

“Feel sorry for all Greek daughters-in-law. This one particularly.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Yes. And to her daughter. That’s quite an experience. Fourteen years old and already shaping up to be like her grandmother. She’s the one who’s putting stiffening into her mother. Though her mother, in her timid way, is pretty game. Unbeknown to the old lady, they’ve been negotiating with the gang. All by themselves.”

“Negotiating?” said Owen. “What about? What are you saying?”

“Tsakatellis isn’t dead.”

Not dead?”

“That’s right. Or so his wife believes.”

“Well, yes, but surely—”

“She’s deluding herself? She doesn’t think so. And I’m not sure I think so either.”

“Then how—”

“They got the note, remember? Which the old woman showed to the police. The second note, the one with the demand for paying the ransom, never came. The old woman thought that meant they’d found out, about her going to the police, I mean. She thought she’d killed her son.”

“Hadn’t she?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so. You see, the second note
did
come, only this time it was the wife who intercepted it. Or her daughter, that sharp little Rosa. They didn’t show it to the old grandmother. They thought she’d say no. So they decided to handle it themselves.”

“You mean they paid?”

“Have been paying. Are paying. They couldn’t do it in one go. They haven’t the money. It’s tied up in the business and the old woman keeps a tight hold on that. So they had to do it a bit at a time. Sell off some of the wife’s jewels each week. They’re down to the clothes now.”

“Christ! What do they do when the money runs out?”

“You don’t ask that kind of question. In the end they’ll have to go to the old mother. That’s what the girl wants to do. The wife can’t bring herself to just yet. There’s such a lot riding on the outcome that she wants to put off bringing it to a head. She’d rather live in uncertainty than be certain the wrong way. The girl says there’s no question about it going the wrong way. She’ll kill the old lady herself—yes, Christ, and she means it, too! You don’t know these Greek families. What with damping her down and being terrified of the old lady and yet being determined to do what she can for her husband, the wife’s falling to bits.”

“Bloody hell!”

“I thought you might like to meet them.”

“Well, yes, I would.”

“OK. I’ll set it up.”

They met in a public gardens by the river where the Greek girls were practicing their dancing. They were rehearsing for Easter Monday when they would be joined in the traditional national dances by the young men, at present rehearsing elsewhere, and the older young women, who didn’t need to practice because they knew the dances so well already.

Georgiades pointed out Rosa to Owen. She was one of the oldest and tallest of the girls, imperious with the littler girls, demanding equality with the adult young women assisting the teacher. There was a slight gawkiness about her which showed up in the dance they were presently performing, which involved them ebbing and flowing in a long line and required a girlish gracefulness. The teacher pulled her out and made her dance the part of the boy, which suited her better, demanding assertion and retreat against the withdrawal and advance of the line of girls.

The pattern of the dance suddenly changed and now the initiative came from the boys. The music became staccato, fiery. Rosa responded at once. Gracefulness was clearly a strain; of fire she had plenty.

When the dance ended she rejoined her mother, who was clapping her hands rhythmically in the shade of a bougainvillaea bright with flowers. Owen could tell at once that she was the girl’s mother. Both were tall and thin and had the special fairness of the Greeks. As he came up to them he saw that both had gray eyes. The mother was beautiful, the girl showed promise of it.

Georgiades introduced them. There was a general break for picnic. Mothers and daughters sat down on the grass and opened baskets with lemonade and sweet cakes. The littlest children ran off and played games among the bamboos. The dance had been accompanied by a bass viol and two fiddles played by men in national costume, who sat down under a cabbage tree and thankfully pulled off their boots.

The mother could hardly bring herself to look at Owen. She stared down into the basket and played nervously with the contents. She had long, thin, pale fingers which were never still.

“It is a long time now,” said Owen gently.

“Yes.”

“During that time, have they ever shown you your husband?”

“No.” She knew what he was thinking. “But I know he lives,” she said defiantly.

“I wondered if by chance they held him in the place to which you take the money.”

“I do not think so,” she said softly.

“Could you ask to see him? It is just that if they agreed to bring him, he might be freed.”

“No!” she caught her breath. “It’s too risky! He might be killed!”

“It is a long time and growing longer.”

“They would not bring him,” said the daughter definitely.

“You are sure? Have you tried?”

The mother could not manage to speak. Her fingers tightened round one of the bottles and she shook her head determinedly.

“You see,” said Owen, as gently as he could, “they go on asking for money until they are stopped.”

“What have you done to stop them?” asked the girl.

“Too little. That is why I am trying now.”

“It is too risky,” said the mother.

“I shall not press you.”

Two small boys ran up and plunged into the basket. The mother tried ineffectively to stop them. The girl leaned across swiftly, grabbed both of them and hauled them back.

“One biscuit each!” she said warningly. “Then you must go away!”

The boys, clearly used to sisterly firmness, stood obediently, received their sticky biscuit and ran off shouting happily into the bamboo thicket.

“They are good boys,” said Georgiades.

“Yes,” said the mother, with automatic pride. “They are growing up so quickly.”

“We have not told them,” said Rosa. “They think our father is away on business.”

“Sometimes they ask,” said the mother. “Sometimes they ask when he is coming back.”

Rosa laid her hand on her mother’s. Although it was smaller, not so long, it was recognizably the same hand. “Do you take the money yourself?” asked Owen.

“I did at first.” The mother’s voice was barely audible. “And now?”

The woman did not reply.

“We have made other arrangements,” said Rosa.

“Can you tell me what they are?”

“No.” Rosa looked him fiercely in the face.

“I wondered if you had seen them,” Owen said to the mother. “I thought perhaps you could tell me what they looked like.”

“It was dark,” said the mother faintly.

“It is always dark,” said the girl.

“And always the same place?”

“It has changed,” said the mother, “twice.”

“You must have talked with them a little. Is there nothing you can tell me? I ask only to stop them taking others.”

“You are not to speak like that,” said Rosa. “It is hard enough for her already.”

The mother gently waved her daughter down.

“I would tell you if I could. I haven’t been there for some time. The first time there was a man. I could not see his face. It was dark and he held a galabeah over it.”

“What did he say?”

“Only that if I wished to see my husband again I must pay. I told him,” her voice faltered, “I told him all. About our mother. The business. I said, ‘I will bring you what I have.’ He pressed me but I could say no more. Then he told me to go away and come again the next day. And so I did. When I came again there was another man. He questioned me fiercely but seemed satisfied. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘bring us money every three weeks. Do not miss a payment or it will go hard with your husband.’ I said: ‘If I pay you, will you give me back my husband?’ ‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘We have no quarrel with your husband, nor with you. Except that when you have finally paid and get back your husband, then you must go. You must leave Cairo and go. Egypt is Arab and is not for you.’ ”

The woman lifted her head and looked Owen in the eyes for the first time.

“He would not have said that if he had not meant to return my husband. That is why I know he is still alive.”

The men had put on their boots and were tuning their instruments. The line of girls in their fine lawn chemisettes was starting to form.

“Go away,” said Rosa, “and do not come back!”

There came a squeal from inside the bamboo thicket. The mother hesitated, muttered a goodbye, and then as another squeal came dived after it.

Owen and Georgiades turned to go.

“We don’t know he’s still alive,” said Owen, as they set off along the path. “They may just be conning her.”

There was a noise behind him. He looked over his shoulder. Rosa was about three yards behind.

“Don’t ever say that again!” she said. “Don’t ever say that! Don’t you dare even whisper it! She still believes.”

They stood abashed and awkward.

Rosa came up to them.

“You keep out of it!” she said to Owen. “You keep right out of it!”

Owen called Berthelot in to the Bab el Khalk. This was to be no cozy tête-à-tête in the hotel. He wanted him in his office.

“Monsieur!”

They shook hands.

Nikos went out again, leaving the door open. It was late morning and the shutters of Owen’s room had been closed to keep out the sun. That made it airless if the door was closed. Having the door open had another advantage. Nikos could hear.

There was something different about Berthelot. After a moment Owen realized what it was. Berthelot was braced.

He sat down expectantly on the edge of his chair while Owen took his hat and stick and put them in the corner. Owen came back to his desk and sat down.

“I have asked you to come, Monsieur, because I hope you may be able to help us.”

Berthelot suddenly looked relieved.

“Thank God!” he said.

“
Comment?
”

“Your pardon, Monsieur. I was afraid that…I thought that perhaps you were going to tell me…my uncle…”

“No, no.”

Berthelot’s relief seemed genuine.

“
Mille pardons
. It is just that—”

“Nothing new has come through.”

Berthelot visibly relaxed.

“Thank God.” He took out his handkerchief and made to mop his face, then wiped his hands instead. Owen switched on the fan. The great blades above began to whirl noisily, making all the papers on the desk flutter.

Berthelot stopped his wiping and looked at Owen.

“It is strange,
n’est-ce pas
, to be thankful for that? But one is grateful for small mercies.”

“Not so small.”

Berthelot nodded.

“They will deal in the end,” said Owen.

“Will they? They do not seem anxious to.”

“That is part of the dealing.”

“If one could be sure—”

“I think you can be sure.”

“But if they should lose their heads—”

“This lot,” said Owen, “are unlikely to lose their heads.” Perhaps some bitterness came through, for Berthelot gave him a quick glance.

“Of course!” he said. “You are against us dealing. That is proper of you. But…” He shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t mind if you deal.”

“You don’t?” Berthelot was surprised. “But I thought…the first time…”

“I don’t mind you dealing. It’s just that I’m still going to try to catch them.”

“Of course, of course.” Berthelot looked at his hands. He was still holding his handkerchief. He put it away. “Our interests are different,” he said. “My chief interest is in getting my uncle freed. After that, well, anything I can do to help.”

“Tell me about your dealings with Izkat Bey.”

Berthelot looked startled.

“That is nothing to do with the—the disappearance of my uncle.”

“Tell me about them, nevertheless.”

“They are perfectly normal business dealings. Confidential, of course.” He stopped. “Are you saying—? Well, I did wonder about it myself. But then I couldn’t see why— Well, only in general terms. And, besides, how could they have known about it?”

“Tell me.”

“Very well. Only it is in confidence, of course. Normally, I wouldn’t—but in the circumstances—”

“Yes,” said Owen. “In the circumstances.”

“Well—how much do you know?”

“Just tell me.”

“Very well. Izkat Bey is helping us to buy some land. I won’t say where the land is—”

“On the other side of the river.”

“Well—”

“Sidky’s land.”

“You obviously know all about it.”

“Why Izkat Bey?”

“He was our contact.”

“With Sidky?”

“Of course.”

“Other people would have done for that. Why Izkat Bey?”

“He was also a contact with other people.”

“I won’t ask you to name them.”

“I wouldn’t tell you their names.”

“Just tell me the nature of their interest.”

Berthelot looked puzzled.

“Their interest wouldn’t be commercial, would it?”

“Yes.”

“I thought the person we were talking about wasn’t the sort of person to have commercial interests?”

“Well, call it a financial interest.”

“He expected to make some money out of it?”

“Yes. Not out of our side, of course, the building side. But when it was up and running. Privately, of course. Very privately.”

“He wouldn’t be running it himself?”

“Oh no!” Berthelot was shocked. “He couldn’t possibly.” He hesitated, and then said, “That was, in fact, where we came in. You see, we could offer not just construction facilities and not just the necessary finance, but also a management team. We provided a complete package.”

“What was the nature of the management team?”

“Well, they had to know how to run a business like that. They had to have the Khed—the confidence of the person we are talking about. That wasn’t so easy, actually, because he knows a lot of the people in the business and knows them only too well.”

“Tell me about the business.”

“You know about that.”

“Tell me all the same. The scale, for a start.”

“Oh, big.”

“How big?”

“Well, bigger than Anton’s.”

“
Antons?
” Owen tried too late to keep the surprise out of his voice.

There was a little silence.

“You didn’t know? We were going to Anton for the management team. His syndicate would be putting up some of the necessary finance. We didn’t need them, actually, but we thought it was best to cut them in. Local interests, you know. It always works better that way. It’s bad to upset rivals. And then the Khedive knew him and our contact in Cannes knew him.”