The Men Behind (24 page)

“Yes,” said Mahmoud. “I’d say that too.”

He took up a position in the center of the room, directly in front of the bed, and began to look systematically about him.

“Yes,” he said, after a moment. “That’s what I would say. Clean, simple cut from left to right done from behind by someone who knew how to do it. No sign of struggle, all over in a moment, very expert. Professional, as you say. And that I find a little puzzling.”

“Why?” asked Owen.

“No sign of struggle, door locked. Rashid must have let him in. Why, I ask myself, would Rashid let someone like that into his room?”

“Because he wanted to employ them.”

“A throat-cutter? Guman, yes; a potential thrower of bombs, yes. But a throat-cutter? That’s not the way political assassination works. At least, not in Cairo. I don’t think Rashid knew he was a throat-cutter and I don’t think he meant to employ him. I think he let him in because he came from somebody else. Somebody important.”

“Yes,” said Owen. “That’s where I was, too.”

“What if I did?” said Ali Osman. “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” said Owen. “You can’t take the law into your own hands.”

“The hand of the law is not always entirely consistent in Egypt,” said Ali Osman. “It’s much better to settle these things on a personal basis.”

“So you did send him?”

“As I said, the law is not always consistent. You cannot count on it seeing things the way you do. The injustices that can come about, my friend! And so I think we should leave the matter in doubt. You should be satisfied that Rashid is dead. I, well, when a man has attempted to kill me, I—” Ali Osman smiled like a hungry wolf—“would not expect him to live long.”

“The trouble is,” said Owen, “that unless we find the actual killer and get him to confess, there’s not much we can do.”

“I take it the Parquet are looking into it?” said Paul.

“Yes. The case has been put in the hands of one Mohammed Bishari. Mahmoud says it is bound to take a long time.”

“Is that entirely an accident, would you think?”

“I would think some of Ali Osman’s gun-running money has found its way into the Parquet.”

“Well,” said Paul, “it’s not strictly your business any longer, is it? The terrorist attacks have stopped, the Army is safe on the streets, God’s in his heaven and all’s right with the world.”

“I wouldn’t say that. The Khedive still hasn’t made up his bloody mind and Ali Osman still think’s he’s going to be the next Prime Minister.”

“It’s between him and Sa’ad.”

“In that case it’s likely to be Ali Osman. Unless we can stop him. Can’t you get the Government to do something about the gunrunning?”

“No. It needs someone more powerful at home. Powerful in Whitehall.”

“Does it?” said Owen thoughtfully.

“Good God!” said the Army. “Gunrunning!”

“I’m afraid so. Regular caravans. Shipments in bulk.”

“Bloody hell!”

“And all going to the south as far as we can tell.”

“The Sudan? Hmm, that’s dangerous. We could have another war on our hands.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“The Khalifa’s dead, of course, but there’s bound to be someone else they could rally to.”

“Pretty tricky down there.”

“Like tinder, old man. All it needs is a spark.”

“And guns.”

“By Christ, yes. And guns!”

“Thought I’d better tell you.”

“Absolutely right, old man. Absolutely right.”

“The trouble is, I can’t touch him. Too powerful. Powerful friends—” Owen dropped his voice—“back at home. We need someone on our side. Someone who can speak up for us. Powerful voice. Whitehall.”

“You can rely on us. On to it right away. Oh, and, Owen—well done! Damned smart work!”

And so Ali Osman fell from power. The efficient political machine of the Army—efficient at politics if nothing else—had gone to work, whispering in the clubs, arguing in the corridors, questioning in the House.

Was it true that the Khedive was proposing to appoint a notorious slave-dealer as his Prime Minister? Nonconformist souls in the Government’s ranks rose in wrath.

And a gunrunner to boot? Some Nonconformist souls pursed their lips and muttered “Business.” Others, the pacifist conscience of the party, recoiled.

Arming the south? That meant war. Sound Conservative heads wagged. Had our Army’s glorious conquests gone for nothing? Was the Mahdi to march again? The rot must be stopped.

The delegation made an early return to London. Its report was unaccountably long in appearing and when it did appear its recommendations were innocuous. There were, alas, fewer opportunities of commercial benefit than had been supposed.

Roper appeared some time later in South Africa.

The Minister sent a telegram to the Consul-General. The Consul-General had a word in the Khedive’s ear. And Ali Osman retired speedily to his estate, this time, if not quite permanently, at least for several years. The Mamur Zapt made a point of ensuring that his years of retirement were not interrupted by further commercial considerations.

The Pasha took his banishment hard. “It is so uncivilized down here,
mon cher
,” he complained in a letter to Owen, “and so uncomfortable. Cannot you intercede for me? You know I have always been a supporter of the Khedive, and of the British, of course. And, after all, didn’t I do you a favor?”

One day Soraya claimed her desserts.

She came up to him as he was waiting outside the Continental Hotel.

Unfortunately, Zeinab came down the steps just at that moment.

[scanned anonymously in a galaxy far far away]

[A 3S Release— v1, html]

[April, 2013]