“And the Moslems too.”
Osman looked at him.
“See that it is so,” he said.
Owen did not reply. After a moment Osman said: “Why have you taken me?”
“While I am pursuing the offender I do not want blood on the streets.”
“If you take me, there will be blood on the streets.”
“It will be Moslem blood,” said Owen, “and I would not have it so.”
“What do you want?” asked Osman.
“I want you to hold your hand,” said Owen, “for a time.”
“Why should I do that?”
“I suggest you go to some holy place, preferably out of the city, and pray for forgiveness for the levity which started this business.”
“What if I don’t?”
“You will stay here. And if there is blood you will have to pray for forgiveness for that also.”
Owen sent him back down to the cells to think about it. He did not expect Osman openly to agree but he thought it quite likely that the sheikh might indicate his willingness to accept Owen’s proposition. He thought he saw in Osman, beneath the intransigence and fanaticism, a certain uneasiness as to his own role in the affair. “Lightness” was not an easy charge for a religious sheikh to bear, especially if he felt there was some justification for the charge; and in his heart of hearts, away from the public arena, Osman might well accept the need for some self-examination. Owen hoped so. He would probably try releasing Osman even if he gave no outward sign of acquiescence. That might, in fact, make it easier for him. And, of course, if he did stir up trouble he could always be put inside again. However, Owen did not want to do that if it could be avoided. It would be better if the sheikh went away quietly by himself.
The attacks on the Copts brought, as Owen had expected they would, bitter representations from the Coptic community. Among the leaders who came to complain was Andrus.
“If you do not take action,” he said, “we shall.”
“You have said that to me before.”
“And you took no action.”
“I took action. But so did you.”
Andrus looked shaken.
“What do you mean?”
“Did you not take action?” Owen pressed him.
“If we did,” said Andrus, “who can blame us?”
“I blame you,” said Owen. “Without your action there would not have been blood, Coptic blood, on the streets.”
“I do not know what is this action you refer to.”
“Don’t you?” said Owen, looking him straight in the eye.
“No,” said Andrus, returning the look.
Owen was not sure. The contradiction was direct and on the whole he believed Andrus to be an honest man. But he sensed an unease beneath the directness. Perhaps although Andrus had not been personally involved, he knew more than he pretended.
Andrus returned to the burden of his present complaints. They were the same as last time but with, probably, more justification. And whereas previously, under the shock of the immediate offense, he had been fiercely indignant, now there was a savage bitterness which was in a way more alarming.
He answered Andrus, as he had done the other Copts, with assurances and counsels of patience; and with a touch of iron.
“Do not be drawn into reprisals,” he said as Andrus left, “or there will be trouble.”
“Do you think we should just sit back and take it?” asked Andrus.
“There won’t be any taking it. I’ll see to that.”
“I hope you will,” said Andrus. “I hope you will.”
Andrus’s name, of course, appeared on the list that Nikos compiled. Owen was surprised to see how extensive the list was. The church seemed to be a microcosm of Coptic society, with representatives of all social layers. Perhaps because it was conveniently placed on the edge of the Old City closest to the modern, developed parts where the more well-to-do lived, there were surprisingly wealthy people in its congregation. The Zosers rubbed shoulders with men with a hundred times their income. Another way in which the church was comprehensive was in the range of cultural levels among its members. Primitive fundamentalists like Zoser stood alongside sophisticated civil servants like Sesostris and Ramses. Sesostris Owen could understand; he was a fundamentalist too. But Ramses?
He asked Nikos about it.
“It’s a very old church,” Nikos said. “Lots of people prefer it.”
Georgiades had another explanation.
“They all stick together,” he said.
Owen could also understand that. A minority which believed itself to be persecuted might well stick together. It would look after its members, even erring ones like Zoser, especially if the grounds for the offence were ostensibly religious ones. Zoser appeared to be a man of few friends. Even so, in the diffuse community which centered on the church there might be those willing to shelter him.
It was worth checking. But he would have to go through them all one by one. That was a task to stretch even the Mamur Zapt’s resources (especially with the Curbash Compensation Fund so depleted). There were so many of them. Where to start?
The obvious place to start was with the known agitators and trouble-makers. But when he asked Nikos to check the congregation against his other lists, Nikos said:
“That’s no good. You won’t find any. They’re all respectable people.”
“How do you know?” asked Georgiades.
“They’re all Copts,” said Nikos, but went to look in his files.
Georgiades sighed.
“Unfortunately, he’s right,” he said.
Copts were law-abiding. Their crime rate was far lower than that of any other community. Even with Owen’s political definition, they came out below other national and ethnic groups. On the whole they saw the British as allies from the point of view of protection, as insurance against massacre, and as offering opportunities for advancement. They flocked into government service. Just as Jews, in other countries, were traditionally identified with financial services, so the Copts, in Egypt, were identified with the civil service. Their critics said there was no need for them to break the law; they made it. They were on the inside.
Like Nikos. A thought struck him. Nikos made the lists. He had drawn up the list of church members and he maintained the other lists too. Any name that was on the list was there because Nikos had put it there. Would it be surprising if some names were not on the lists?
A feeling of helplessness came over him. All investigations, no matter what the books said, depended on bureaucratic processes. Especially his kind of investigation. It was only partly the men he had out on the streets and in the bazaars, the special agents like Georgiades. All these would be useless without record-keeping and, more than that, record-keeping of the intelligent sort that Nikos provided. If you couldn’t rely on that, how could you even start?
He came to a decision. He would start with Nikos’s list. Until Nikos was found wanting Owen would continue to trust him.
But he might ask Georgiades to do a little independent checking.
Because of the heat all work stopped about lunch-time and the city came to a halt. The streets emptied, the shops shut, the donkey boys retreated into the shade, and government offices closed. Most people took a siesta. A few British officials, however, in whom northern habits died hard, preferred to go to one of the clubs and have a drink and lunch there. Owen was one of these.
He was unable to sleep during the day, and used the dead time to keep up with the newspapers and journals in the reading-room and to swim in the club pool while it was comparatively empty. Afterwards, about five, when the club started to fill up with people arriving for the daily hockey and cricket matches, played always, by personal decree of the Consul-General, in the cool of the evening, he returned to his office. The buildings were empty except for the occasional orderly and the Assistant Commissioner at the other end of the corridor, and sometimes Nikos working late, and he was able to get a lot of work done.