“Egyptian? I thought you said it was registered in Montenegro?”
“He thinks of it as Egyptian. Anyway, not British, that’s the important thing.”
“It’s a bit risky. It wouldn’t do him any good at all if this came out. The Khedive into gambling! Bloody hell! This is a Moslem country. Gambling clubs are officially banned.”
“I know. That’s why I thought-when my uncle disappeared. I thought someone had found out and wanted to stop it. I half expected them to say that in the note.”
“How would they find out?”
Berthelot shrugged.
“I don’t know. Egypt is a funny country. Half the people are doing things in private and all the people are telling everyone else about it.”
Owen sat thinking.
“The people who would object most are the Moslem fundamentalists.”
“Yes.” Berthelot looked at him. “Does that fit?”
Owen did not reply.
He became aware that Berthelot was casting longing glances in the direction of the jug of water which, as in all Egyptian offices, stood in the window to cool. He went across and passed him some water. With the shutters closed there was little draught and the water was tepid.
“Tell me,” he said, as he handed the glass to Berthelot, “who told you about Anton?”
“Our contact in Cannes.”
“How did you know where to find him?”
Berthelot looked puzzled. “ Comment? ”
“When you got here. The city was new to you. How did you find his address?”
“I took an arabeah,” said Berthelot, still puzzled.
“Can you remember which? No? Well, it’s not surprising. Did you ever send messages to Anton?”
“Yes. I-but nothing important.”
“Who took the messages?”
“I can’t remember.”
“The hotel messenger?”
“Yes. But that was only-a simple note, suggesting an appointment.”
“It would be enough.”
Berthelot was silent. Then he said: “I wish to help you. I sent other messages.”
“How?”
“By dragoman.”
“Which dragoman?”
“I used two. I thought it was better that way.”
“Which two?”
“Osman. Abdul Hafiz.”
“Why them?”
“They seemed sober and reliable. Discreet.”
“Yes,” said Owen, “they are that.”
“I need some advice from you,” said Lucy Colthorpe Hartley.
“Anything I can do-”
“Do I pay? Do I just pay them and get it over?”
Owen was brought up with a jolt.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes. I was thinking.”
“I’ve been doing some of that,” said Lucy. “I’ve been doing a hell of a lot.”
“I don’t know that I am the person you should ask.”
“But I’m asking you. Hello? Are you still there? These phones are a bit funny.”
“I’m still here. I still don’t think I’m the person you should ask. Is no one from the Consulate helping you?”
“They’re all helping me. That’s why I need some independent advice.”
“I’m not independent.”
“You know what I mean.”
“If I were you and not the Mamur Zapt, I’d pay. Let the Mamur Zapt sort out his own problems.”
“Thanks, love. I knew you were unreliable.”
There was a pause.
“Are you still there?” asked Owen.
“Yes. The trouble is, the Mamur Zapt’s problems are not just his own problems. If the French had refused to pay, Daddy might not have been taken. If I pay, someone else might be taken.”
“Your father’s your problem. Leave the other ones to someone else.”
“You don’t help at all,” said Lucy.
“Someone ought to be giving her advice,” said Owen.
“No, they shouldn’t,” said Paul. “No one ought to give advice on this sort of thing.”
“Christ, she’s in a foreign country and she’s on her own.”
“That’s what everyone says and they give her advice. And it doesn’t help.”
“She asked me for advice and I’m the wrong person.”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Will you help her?”
“Look,” said Paul, “I may be the wrong person, too. I shall take a broad political view. It’s my job. The political view is clear. It would look bad if we gave in.”
“Suppose we gave in and people didn’t see we’d given in?”
“How do we manage that?”
“How the hell do I know? You’re the political expert.”
Owen was having difficulty with Mahmoud. He had been trying to contact him all morning. He had finally caught him over the telephone by pretending to be someone else. Mahmoud had been most unwilling to meet. Eventually, ungraciously, he had agreed to come out for a cup of coffee.
It was the only way. They had to meet face to face. Arabs found Englishmen distant anyway: over the telephone they were like aliens from another planet.
But now they were sitting face to face. Owen was still having difficulty. The problem was not just that Mahmoud had been wounded and offended. He was used to knocks and could shrug them aside. What counted far more was the mood he was in. And just now he was in a particularly bleak mood. Far from shrugging aside the blow he had received, he had brooded on it. And once he had started that, all sorts of other things came in: the iniquity of the British in Egypt, the depressed position of Arabs in the world generally, the general hostility of mankind. The world was set against him, Mahmoud, personally. It was all too big for him and he was too small and it was all unfair.
When he was like this it was very hard to prise him out of it. He seemed slumped in despair. He seemed hardly to hear what Owen was saying.
Owen decided he wasn’t hearing what he was saying. How could he break in?
He looked around him and wondered if he could risk it. If anyone had done it to him he would have run a mile, but Arabs were always doing it, it was the way they operated, their style of relation. Their emotions were always so ready to bubble over that they had to find immediate physical ways of expressing them. If you didn’t express them physically they assumed you didn’t have them. The cold English were cold because they kept their emotions locked up inside them, they didn’t let them out in all the rich variety of the Arab language of gesture.
Owen made up his mind, leaned forward and placed his hand gently but familiarly on Mahmoud’s own. Mahmoud looked up. His expression did not change, his eyes barely registered Owen’s presence, but he did not remove his arm.
“I feel for my brother,” said Owen, falling naturally into Arabic. “Let me share my brother’s distress.”
They used all three languages between them, English, French, and Arabic. Normally, when they were on business, they spoke English, though if they were with French-speakers they would speak French. Between them they used Arabic less, perhaps because it was more intimate. Just at the moment, though, the Arabic phrases came more easily to Owen’s tongue.
“How can you?” asked Mahmoud. “You are not my brother.” He replied, however, in Arabic.
Owen moved his chair closer to him. Again, it was not a thing he would have done with Englishmen. But Arabs were always doing it. As a conversation progressed and they became emotionally involved, they would move closer and closer until they were almost touching you.
“I share what you feel. Therefore I am your brother.”
“No one knows how I feel.”
“A brother can guess.”
“They do not trust me.”
“They do trust you. I was talking to Paul. They had to do this for political reasons which were nothing to do with you. Paul says when this is all over they want you involved again. He thinks a lot of you. He says they all do.”
“Then why do this to me?”
“Politics.”
“Politics! Politics ought not to interfere with personal relationships.”
“Quite right,” said Owen. “I absolutely agree.”
“They make too much of politics. They see politics everywhere. You see politics everywhere!” he said to Owen accusingly.