The Men Behind (23 page)

“Will Rashid be there?”

“In person, you mean? I don’t know.”

“I’ll put someone on him. We want to know where he is so that we’ll be able to pick him up immediately.”

“Someone good.”

“Someone very good,” said Owen.

He thought for a moment.

“Is the shooting still going to go ahead?”

“Ali Osman? Yes. But that’s just a decoy. They are going to see that his arabeah gets delayed so that he arrives last. The others will all have assembled. They will hear the shots and then when everyone is rushing around I will be able to get close and throw the bomb. But I throw the bomb anyway.”

“Are there any other permutations?”

“Not as far as I know,” said Mahmoud.

Owen made his dispositions carefully. There would be handpicked men in the crowd, four of them, two for each gunman. They had been given descriptions of the gunmen and had rehearsed all morning. Now they were walking up and down the street which led up to the Citadel, familiarizing themselves with the street, getting used to operating in a crowd.

There were other men, too, only they would be held back. Owen didn’t want them getting in the way. They were there in case things went wrong. Once Ali Osman’s arabeah had gone by they would move quietly into the streets, not sealing them off—Owen didn’t want the gunmen to panic and try shooting their way out, not when there were ordinary people about—but ready to intercept as they tried to escape if things went wrong in the main street.

Owen would join them just before things started to happen. He did not want to go down before as that would increase the chance of someone seeing him and recognizing him. He stayed in his office, quietly checking arrangements, especially those for disposing of the bomb afterwards. He wanted no accidents.

He was just able to set off for the Citadel when the phone rang.

The voice was so agitated that at first he could not tell who it was. Then he realized: Elbawi.

“They’ve found out!”

“What have they found out?” said Owen with sinking heart.

“About Mahmoud.”

“Tell me.”

“That he’s—he’s working for you. They are going to kill him.”

“I’ll get on to him right away.”

“He’s at the Citadel.”

“I know.”

“That’s where it will happen. After he’s thrown the bomb.”

“He’s not going to throw any bomb.”

“I know. But he’ll be there. They’ll find him. And even if he doesn’t throw the bomb they’ll kill him.”

“Who are ‘they’? Do you know?”

“The two men.”

“The ones who are going to kill Ali Osman?”

“Yes. But they’re not going to kill Ali Osman now. They are going straight for Mahmoud. You’ve got to stop him before he gets there.”

“I can’t. He’s already gone.”

There was a silence. And then the voice said shakily: “The two men. They’ve—they’ve already gone too.”

O wen couldn’t find Mahmoud.

There on the terrace of the mosque of Mehemet Ali were the Pashas, a little group talking quietly among themselves, pausing occasionally to look out over the marvelous view at their feet, old Cairo with its hundred minarets, the broad, gleaming sweep of the Nile, the Pyramids dyed to royal purple by the advancing sunset.

The group was almost complete now, waiting only for Ali Osman. Owen saw Nuri glancing impatiently at his watch. The arabeah was obviously late. That part of the terrorists’ arrangements at least was going to plan.

Mahmoud must be somewhere about. But where the hell was he?

He wouldn’t be too far away because he had to be near enough to be able to throw the bomb. Mahmoud, stickler for accuracy that he was, had insisted on carrying out his role to the letter. That was, he had said, the only way to make sure that things happened the way they were meant to happen. Rashid would certainly have planted an observer in the crowd and if he, Mahmoud, deviated from the plan, this might alert them and cause them to deviate too.

But where the hell was he? Owen had circled all around the terrace and he wasn’t there. He had tried the neighboring En-Nasir, a ruined mosque with a forest of pillars, all good for hiding behind, but Mahmoud was nowhere to be found.

He walked back to the Bab el Azab gate and stood for a moment looking down at the crumbling steps which fell down to the houses below, and then up at the steep ramparts which hemmed the gate in.

The Bab el Azab was where the Pashas’ act of remembrance would actually take place. It was there that Mehemet Ali’s troops had waited for his signal to fall on the Beys and massacre them. The gate had seen the end of an old regime. It was hoped—by the assembled Pashas—that this symbolic gathering would see the beginning of a new.

Owen climbed up onto the ramparts to get a better view. A hundred yards away he could see Georgiades moving among the pillars of the En-Nasir. He could see others of his men. But no Mahmoud.

He climbed down off the ramparts and walked across to Georgiades.

“I’m going down into the street. Handle things up here, will you?”

“They’ll be moving soon,” said Georgiades. The Pashas were beginning to stir, giving up hope of Ali Osman’s arrival.

“Keep looking,” said Owen.

He started walking down the street. He was looking for the two gunmen as well as for Mahmoud. He tried to recall their image to his mind, that brief glimpse he had had of them at the start of all this.

At the bottom of the street he saw Elbawi. His face was grey and miserable and he leaned shattered against a wall. He looked up dumbly as Owen arrived.

“Have you seen him?”

“Yes,” said Elbawi.

“Did you tell him?”

“No,” said Elbawi wretchedly. “I—I couldn’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“He just reached out and took the bomb.”

“Bomb!”

“I had it. They gave it to me and I took it up the street. You told me I was to do exactly as had been arranged!”

“OK, OK. But why the hell didn’t you speak to Mahmoud?”

“He was behind me. He just reached past me and took it out of my hands. I looked up and he was gone.”

“When was this?”

“A quarter of an hour ago.”

“Bloody hell.”

Owen wheeled away and hurried back up the street. It had become more crowded.

Another thought struck him. Suppose Mahmoud was actually carrying the bomb when they reached him? Suppose it exploded as he fell in a crowded street?

He saw one of his marksmen.

“What the hell are you doing? I thought you were supposed to be by the Pasha?”

The man pointed.

A little further up the street, completely hemmed in by people, was Ali Osman.

“You’ve got to be
near
him!” Owen exploded.

“Hassan and Abdul are near him. Mahboub and I stand back a little that we may watch.”

His eyes were scanning the crowd continuously. It made good sense.

“OK,” said Owen. “Keep going.”

He followed Ali Osman up the street. The little knot surrounding the Pasha seemed to have come to a halt. There were cries of “Make way for the Pasha!”

Owen squeezed past along the wall. He hadn’t envisaged it being as crowded as this. There was nothing he could do, however. He had to leave it to his marksmen. And Ali Osman did not really matter.

As he passed an open doorway someone pulled at his arm. He spun around. It was Soraya. She drew him through the door.

“Not now,” snapped Owen.

Soraya pouted.

“It is never now with you,” she said. “What is wrong with you?”

“I have to find a man. Quickly!”

“Men can wait.”

“This one will be killed.”

“Who is he? The fat Pasha?”

“No. My friend.”

“If it is your friend the Englishman, why worry?”

“It is not my friend the Englishman. It is the Egyptian, Mahmoud.”

“The one I saw with you yesterday? The nice one?”

“Yes.” He pulled himself away.

“I have seen him.”

“Mahmoud?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Ten minutes ago.”

He caught hold of her. “Where? Where did you see him?”

“Climbing up the steps by the Bab el Azab.”

“Climbing up the steps?”

“Yes.”

“But I was there then!”

Soraya shrugged. “I saw him.”

“That must have been just after I’d left.”

“Do you want me to find him?”

“Yes. Tell him his life is in danger. They have found out.”

In an instant the small form was gone. Soraya, used to slipping through crowds, and knowing the street, found gaps where the bulkier Owen could find none. He pushed his way up laboriously. All the time he was looking for the gunmen.

Where the hell was Mahmoud? And why the hell had he got the bomb with him?

A thought struck him, a stupid thought, which he dismissed at once but which would not go away.

Why did Mahmoud have the bomb with him? Because he meant to use it.

Ridiculous! Stupid! Mahmoud was his friend, on his side, responsible, loyal.

But a Nationalist.

And he
had
been wronged. It wasn’t just pretense. He
had
fallen foul of the British authorities, he had been publicly dismissed from a case. Those in the know knew it wasn’t quite like that. But…

Ridiculous. The man’s life was in danger because he had put it at risk. Because he felt it was his duty.

Ridiculous. Shameful, to think such a thing. Owen reproached himself.

He was nearly at the top of the street now. Ahead of him, yes, outlined against the beautiful twilit sky, he could see the little group of Pashas gathering at the Bab el Azab.

They were looking down the street. One of them suddenly began to wave a hand. Then they all began waving, beckoning. Ali Osman! They must have seen Ali Osman.

There was a shout behind him.

Where the hell was Mahmoud? And where the hell were the two gunmen?

Immediately in front of him there was a sudden commotion. An onion-seller’s stall had been upset by the swirl of the crowd, the stall had collapsed and the onions spilt all over the street.

The onion seller rushed out into the crowd to recover his wares. Sundry small boys, street urchins, rushed out to pilfer. Neighboring stall-holders and shopkeepers rushed out to prevent them. The upward movement of the crowd came to a halt.

Owen found himself stumbling over onions. He bent down and put his hand against the wall to recover his balance. A slight gap opened in front of him.

And then he saw.

A little way ahead, moving purposefully up the street, two men, one on one side of the street, one on the other. They were in shirt and trousers and there was nothing to distinguish them from many others in the crowd. Except that they were familiar.

He had seen them before, once briefly, when he had looked back up the street and caught, just for a second, a glimpse of the men who had been following; a second time, more clearly, much, much more clearly, when they had been following Jullians.

He pushed a stooping stall-holder out of the way and forced a passage along the wall, behind the stalls, pushing the stall-holders firmly aside. He came clear of the crowd and stepped out into the street and fell in behind the men.

They were almost at the top of the street now. Above, the ground flattened out and became the Citadel plateau.

There was the Bab el Azab. And there, coming towards it, was the little group of Pashas, joined now by Ali Osman.

And there, standing quietly to one side, looking aimlessly out over the vista below, right next to the edge of the rock, beside the steep fall, was Mahmoud.

The two men in front paused slightly, exchanged glances, and then moved quickly on.

Owen had brought his gun with him this time. He took it out.

The men ducked suddenly behind a wall. Owen thought for a moment that they had seen him. He slipped into a doorway and then, as nothing happened, slid cautiously along to where they had disappeared.

There was a step down to a drain and then a deep gadwall, a ditch used for carrying water, ran along beside the wall.

The two men had dropped down into the ditch and were creeping along it. As Owen watched, they stopped, straightened up and took out their guns.

Owen fired first.

One of the men spun around and fell back against the side of the gadwall. The other turned. Owen saw for a moment a frenzied face.

And then the face simply disappeared. It was as if a giant hand had reached into the gadwall and plucked it out.

And then, as Owen watched, the second man disappeared. This time there could be no doubt about it. A hand
had
reached in and—plucked him out!

Owen ran up the gadwall, put his hand on the wall, and scrambled out.

There was a little group of people in front of him. One he recognized at once: Mahmoud. Beside him was the slight slip of a figure that was Soraya. On the ground were two men, both still. And towering over them were two outlandish figures that seemed slightly familiar, Berbers from the south.

One of them was holding something in his hand.

They saw Owen and beamed.

“Effendi!” they greeted him. “You spoiled it!”

“Spoiled what?”

He recognized them now: Nuri Pasha’s ruffian bodyguards.

“The fighting. We saw them coming and would have fought with them. But then you fired!”

“Fortunately you did not kill them.”

“So we did.”

“What’s that you’re holding?”

The man looked down at his hands sheepishly. He showed the thing to Owen. A head.

“It seems to have come off,” he said.

The gypsy girl had reached Mahmoud. Warned by her, he had looked up and seen the two men as they were pulling out their guns.

“I dropped flat and missed the next bit,” he said. “When I looked up there was a mêlée going on at the edge of the gadwall. By the time I got there it was all over.”

“They were good,” said Soraya appreciatively. “Nuri picks his men well.”

“I looked for you before,” Owen said to Mahmoud. “Where were you?”

“I took the package from Elbawi,” said Mahmoud. “It really was a bomb. I didn’t know what to do with it. I couldn’t find your man,” he said to Owen. “I knew I had to get rid of it. I couldn’t just carry it around. Not in a crowd. So I went down the steps from the Bab el Azab and crawled around the rock and stuffed it into a crevice. It took longer than I thought.”

“What about the reward?” said Soraya. “I found him, didn’t I?”

Owen took out his wallet.

“Not
that
!” said Soraya scathingly.

Rashid needed to be dealt with first.

He had not come, as Owen had half-expected he would, to the Citadel. Owen sent a man to his lodging. The agent he had posted there said that Rashid was still inside.

“He has been there all day,” he reported, when Owen and Mahmoud arrived. “He did not go to the Law School today.”

“Are you sure he’s there?” asked Owen. He began to feel misgivings.

“He was there last night,” said the agent. “I saw him.”

“He may not be there now,” said Owen. “This is the way he would have come out.”

“Unless he used a back way.”

“It is not easy to use the back way. And then, why should he?”

“We’ll soon see.”

He posted his men to cut off any attempt at escape. Then he and Mahmoud went into the block of flats, climbed up to the third floor and found Rashid’s door.

Mahmoud tried it gently. It was locked.

Owen called up two huge constables. They stood back from the door, braced themselves and looked at Owen expectantly.

“One moment,” said Owen.

He tried the door of the adjoining flat. It opened at once and he went in. A surprised man looked up at him.

“The Mamur Zapt,” said Owen.

He went across to the window. There was no glass, just heavy wooden shutters. He pushed them open.

“Stand here,” he directed one of his men. “That’s his window. See if he tries to get out.”

He went back into the corridor.

“OK,” he said to the two large constables.

They threw their weight against the door. It held for a moment and then burst open, spilling them inside.

Mahmoud and Owen ran in.

The room was empty but there was a door leading to an inner room. Mahmoud threw it open.

Rashid was lying on the bed. There was blood all over it.

“Throat cut,” said Mahmoud. He looked at Rashid’s hand and then under the bed. “No weapon.”

“Someone else,” said Owen.

The shutters were open. Owen went across and looked out.

“Roof, I should think,” he said.

Rashid’s jacket was hanging over the back of a chair. Mahmoud put his hand into the inside pocket.

“Wallet still there.”

“Not money, then.”

“No.”

Georgiades came in from the corridor. He saw the body and stopped.

“Hello!” he said. “What’s this?”

He walked across and looked at it dispassionately. “Professional job, I’d say.”

He turned away and began to search the room meticulously.