The Men Behind (21 page)

His attention had been on the estate. What was it there, he had asked himself, which had led to local boys on two separate occasions, considerably separated by time, to become involved with extremist groups in the city?

He had thought initially that perhaps there was some group of zealots there, maybe even a conscious group of radicals. The thought had not survived his visit to Hamada. The villages were ordinary, sleepy, not very zealous about anything so far as he could see, and the very reverse of radical.

Could there then be, he had asked himself, some one person who had influenced the boys, someone in a position to influence them, a schoolteacher perhaps? But the schoolteacher at Hamada had not been that sort of person, nor did there appear to be any other person in the villages who could fit the bill. There was no one there sophisticated enough, knowledgeable enough, political enough, to be involved in terrorist politics in Cairo.

Except Ali Osman himself.

And Ali Osman
was
sophisticated,
was
knowledgeable and
was
most definitely in politics, right up to the hilt.

But
terrorist
politics? Weren’t they opposed to everything Ali Osman stood for?

Well, were they? What did Ali Osman stand for?

That, surely, was abundantly clear; he stood for himself. His sights were on the highest position in the country, after the Khedive, and he had made it plain, very plain now that Owen came to think about it, that he would stop at nothing to get there.

Discount the mask of foolishness. The man Owen had talked to the previous day had been very far from a fool and had toughness and determination to go with his sharpness.

A man who dealt in slaves and guns might well be prepared to deal in terrorism also—if it suited him.

If he could use it for his own purposes.

In the labyrinthine web which was Egyptian politics Ali Osman might have spotted some advantage to be gained by playing the terrorist card; not in the obvious way that Sa’ad was playing the Nationalist card but more deviously, more secretly, an insider’s way, out to outflank the interloper from outside the old, charmed circle.

But if he had, if he had decided to play the terrorist card, he would play it for all it was worth. The man who exchanged guns for slaves was not someone who was going to be held back by scruple: scruple about, for instance, the lives of students, whether they came from his own estate or somewhere else.

The two boys from Hamada had been just weapons.

But they were not weapons to be used by Ali Osman himself, not directly, that was. They were weapons to be placed in the hands of others.

Rashid’s, for instance.

I know you,” said the man. “You are the Mamur Zapt.”

“And I know you,” said Owen. “You are Ali Osman’s man. And you came to me once bringing a message from him.”

“That is true,” agreed the man, pleased to be remembered.

They had met under the trees beside the souk, where many of the servants of the great houses went after they had made purchases for their masters, to sit and drink tea and talk.

Owen dropped into a sympathetic squat beside the man.

“I remember too,” he said, “that although you were in the Pasha’s house at Hamada, that was not where you came from in the first place.”

“I am a Sudani.”

“From Dongola.”

The man was surprised, and pleased.

“Yes,” he said, “from Dongola.”

“Are there many Sudanis in the Pasha’s household?”

“Quite a few.”

“Slaves?”

“Not all of us. Some of us were born in the Pasha’s house. Though of course our parents were slaves.”

“And you?”

“I came up as a child in one of the great caravans.”

“So you have been in the Pasha’s service a long time.” Owen looked at him. “Twenty years?”

“And a little more. But it was not at first this Pasha. It was his father.”

“The caravans have, then, been coming for a long time?”

“Oh yes. Since as long as my father could remember.”

“Is your father still at Hamada?”

“No. He died many years ago.”

“But your wife is at Hamada,” said Owen, “and your children. I remember.”

“You remember well,” said the man.

“I remember you saying that it was a long time since you had seen them.”

“Four years,” said the man, with a sigh.

“The children will be growing up.”

“The eldest is already working in the fields.”

“Do you want him to work in the fields?”

“I would prefer him to work in the house. And perhaps he will one day.”

“He may follow his father,” said Owen. “That is the way it should be.”

“I have hopes.”

Owen sipped his tea, the black, bitter tea of the servants. “If I had a boy at Hamada, though,” he said, as if considering, “I would be worried.”

“Why so?”

“In my work I have met boys from Hamada. They are dead.”

The man went perfectly still.

“Be easy. It does not happen to all the boys from Hamada. Only to some.”

“Why does it happen to some?”

“It happens to some who are chosen by the Pasha. And that is what troubles me.”

“I have not heard of it.”

“I think you have. You were at Hamada, were you not, when the two boys were killed by the bomb?”

“Only one was from the village.”

“And you were here in the city when the second boy was killed. Again with a bomb.”

“I did hear of it.”

“Again from Hamada. Why is it,” asked Owen, “that boys from Hamada are killed by bombs?”

“Each time there was another with them. And they were not from Hamada.”

“Nor did they come from the same place. What is special about boys from Hamada that they are made to be killed by bombs?”

“There is nothing special about boys from Hamada.”

“What is special about Hamada, then, that two of its sons, on two separate occasions, are killed by bombs?”

“There is nothing special about Hamada either,” said the man, troubled.

“Then there is something else that is special,” said Owen, “and I want to know what it is.”

“That is why you have come to me?”

“You are a father,” said Owen, “of a boy at Hamada.” The man stared down at the dust in front of him. He stared for a long time. At last he lifted his head.

“I would help,” he said, “if I could. But I cannot think of anything.”

“Perhaps it is not at Hamada,” said Owen. “Perhaps it is when the boys come up to the city. Who meets them?”

“They come to the Pasha’s house.”

“And then what happens?”

“They are given food and a place for the night. The next day they are sent to the Great School.”

“Who sends them? Who tells them what they are to do?”

“Mohammed. But it is not Mohammed you are looking for. He does as he is told.”

“And who tells him?”

“I do not know. Word comes.”

“Who does it come from?”

“The Pasha’s people. The people who handle such things.”

“Who are these people?”

“They are from outside. They are not in the Great House.”

“They are at the School?”

“No, no. They are the people who handle the Pasha’s business.”

“Do you know their names?”

The man was silent.

“You told me,” said Owen, “when we spoke before, that it was you the Pasha sent when there were messages of importance. Have you been sent with messages to these?”

“I have,” the man said reluctantly.

“You would not tell me what the messages were, would you?” said Owen. “Because you are the Pasha’s servant and one he trusts.”

“You are right. I would not tell you.”

“I shall not, then, ask you. But I shall ask you the names of the Pasha’s people, because if you do not tell me, there are others who will.”

“I shall not tell you.”

“Very well. Tell me this, though. Think of those boys and tell me this: did the Pasha ever send you to someone at the School of Law? Someone named Rashid?”

The man hesitated. He hesitated for a long time.

“He sent me to no one at the School of Law.”

“Think of those boys; and think of your son.”

“He sent me to no one at the School of Law. But—”

“Yes?”

The man’s eyes met his.

“I am the Pasha’s man. And I am loyal to him. I would tell you nothing. But I think of those boys. So I will tell you. The Pasha sent me to no one at the School of Law. But he did send me to people called Rashid.”

“They are a firm of lawyers,” said Nikos. “They act for the Pasha in legal matters.”

“Other matters too?”

“General affairs. They are in a sense his business agents.”

“So they would handle things like fixing up a place at the School of Engineering for a boy the Pasha was interested in?”

“That’s right.”

“And our Rashid is part of them?”

“A cousin. He’s the bright one of the family.”

“The other ones must be pretty bright.”

“Once a family has made the breakthrough they look after the next generation. Rashid—our Rashid—is one of the next generation. It was his uncle who got them established as lawyers.”

“When did they take on the Pasha’s business?”

“Well, that was it, you see. That’s what got them started in the first place. Rashid the elder was a boy on the Pasha’s estate, and obviously a bright boy. The Pasha sent him up to be educated.”

“I thought they all went to the School of Engineering?”

“That’s
this
Pasha. I’m talking about this Pasha’s father.”

“I see. They did things differently then.”

“You only need a limited number of lawyers.”

“Especially as they tend to get dangerous ideas.”

“Not Rashid the First. He steered clear of anything like that. He was too busy making money and consolidating his position. Besides, he wasn’t, strictly speaking, a free agent. Although he was a qualified lawyer, he was still the Pasha’s man.”

“Slaves?”

“Don’t think so. Fellahin, rather. Much the same, I suppose. Mother a slave, perhaps. All the Rashids have a touch of black in them. But they’ve been in the Pasha’s service for generations. And when the elder Rashid set up as a lawyer, he was still in the Pasha’s service. Handled all his business and only his business.”

“What’s the position now?”

“Pretty much the same. The firm is bigger now, of course. He’s got his sons in it, two of them, and a nephew or two. It looks after them all. They do pretty nicely.”

“And they’re still the Pasha’s men?”

“Yes.”

“What about our Rashid?”

“He’s the independent one. He’s the only one to strike off on his own.”

“How independent is he?”

“I don’t know. He certainly keeps in touch with the firm. Maybe he does a little business on the side for them. A lecturer doesn’t make much money.”

“That’s not quite what I was asking.”

“What were you asking?”

“Is he still the Pasha’s man?”

“Ah!” said Nikos. “That’s the question!”

Mahmoud rang.

“I’ve been approached,” he said.

And put the phone down.

“It is you again,” said the man.

“It is me again,” Owen agreed.

The man had finished at the souk and was on his way home. Owen dropped in beside him.

“It is important,” he said, “or I would not come.”

The man did not reply. He looked ahead of him as if he were calculating how far he had to go.

“What is it you want to know?”

“I have found the Rashids, and that was helpful. I wish to ask you about one particular Rashid, though.”

Owen described him.

The man shook his head. “I have not seen such a man,” he said.

“He is at the Law School. You have not taken a message to him?”

“I have taken no messages to the Law School.”

“He lives in the Sharia Geheinat. Have you taken messages to him there?”

“No,” said the man.

“You serve your master,” said Owen, “and you serve him well. And that is right. But you are also a father. Remember why I ask these questions.”

The man inclined his head in acknowledgment. Then he looked Owen in the face.

“I have answered you truly,” he said.

Now it was Owen’s turn to bow his head in acknowledgment. He reflected for a moment.

“You answer truly the questions I ask,” he said, “but you do not answer the questions I do not ask.”

“That would be difficult.”

“Not if you knew the big question, the question that lies at the bottom.”

“What is that question?”

“It is about Ali Osman and this Rashid I spoke of. Do they know each other? Have they met? Is Rashid Ali Osman’s man?”

“That is not one question but three. However, I think I understand you.”

He was silent for a moment, thinking.

“I am loyal to the Pasha, so I will answer only the questions you ask. However, I remember why you ask them. So I will say to you that you ask the wrong questions. Does the mountain go to Mohammed?”

Owen thought hard. They turned off the main road and up behind some houses, where the hard dust of the street gave way to soft sand.

The sand pulled at their feet and slowed them down. The man seemed content to dawdle. Owen realized he was being given his chance.

“The Pasha has not sent to him,” he said slowly. “Has he sent to the Pasha?”

“Not sent.”

“Been, then? Has he been to the Pasha?”

“He has come to the Pasha. Many times recently.”

“Thank you,” said Owen. “That is what I needed to know.” He hesitated. “And can you tell me further what was said when he came to the Pasha?”

“I cannot. For they spoke alone.”

They were beginning now to pass along the backs of some tall Mameluke houses. Owen guessed that one of the houses was Ali Osman’s. His guess was confirmed, for the man suddenly stopped and said: “We are approaching my master’s house. It is better if you are not seen with me.”

Owen thanked him and prepared to take his leave. They shook hands warmly. Then, as the man was about to turn away, Owen said: “You have not answered my last question.”

“What was your last question?”

“Is Rashid Ali Osman’s man?”

“That,” said the man, “is something you must answer for yourself.”

“They are a respected firm of lawyers,” said Nikos.

“They are the Pasha’s people. You said it yourself.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean to say they’d get involved in something like this.”

“Not if he asked them? Told them?”

“No. I think they’d draw the line.”

“Would Ali Osman keep them if they drew the line?”

“I don’t think it would come to that. He’s too astute to ask them to do something they might object to. They’re too useful to him as it is. Respectable.”

“So he would ask somebody else?”

“Well—”

“Rashid?”

“It is odd that he should be seeing Ali Osman separately,” Nikos admitted.

“I’d like to know if he was seeing him on their business.”

“That would be hard to find out.”

“You could try the clerks.”

“I would try the clerks. But they tend to be all family in a firm like that, and loyal.”

“You could try them.”

“It’s a risk.”

“Take the risk.”

“I’ve been approached,” said Elbawi.

“Good!” said Owen said satisfaction.

“Well, yes. I suppose so. I was hoping they wouldn’t.”

“It’s what we let you out for.”

“I know. All the same…”

“Who approached you?”

“A man named Hawzi. I’ve seen him about the place before. He sort of hangs about the Law School. He came up to me as I was going home. We went to a café.”

“You knew it was going to be this?”

“Guessed it. He said there were people who were very angry at the way I had been wronged and wished to help me. They had raised some money and wanted to give it to me.”

“In return for—?”

“No, no. Just give it. A sort of, well, testimonial. If I was willing to accept it he would bring it the following day. That was today.”

“And he did?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve got the money?”

Elbawi took a small bag out from under his shirt.

“How much?”

“I’ve not counted it.”

“And that was it? He just gave you the money?”

“No,” said Elbawi. “That wasn’t all. He said the money was just to help me. But there was more to it. They wanted to hit back, to take revenge for what I had suffered. As a matter of justice, so to speak. They were going to do that anyway, quite separately. But they thought I might like to be involved.”

“Let’s get this straight.
They
were going to take revenge.
You
were going to do the dirty work?”

“No. I was just going to play a minor part. I would be in the crowd. There would be arabeahs coming along. When a certain one came along I was to give a signal.”