At the hotel Jane Postlethwaite made it worse by inviting them to tea on the following afternoon.
“I know you’re busy in the morning,” she said to Owen.
“Her or me,” said Zeinab.
“What?”
“Either her or me. Not both.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I don’t care if you have an affair with her but-”
“I’m not having an affair with her.”
“Then how does she know you’re busy in the morning?”
“Everyone knows I’m busy in the morning. I work.”
“You took her to the polo.”
“I had to take her to the polo. Paul made me.”
“You shouldn’t have taken her like that.”
“Like what? Christ, there’s no other way of taking her.”
“Without telling me.”
“Look. I don’t tell you everything I do.”
“No,” said Zeinab, “you don’t.”
“I tell you the things I think will interest you.”
“If you go out with another woman that interests me.”
“I’m not going out with another woman. Not like that.”
“Not like what?”
“Not like you’re supposing.”
“What am I supposing?”
“For Christ’s sake!”
Zeinab started on another tack.
“She is cunning, that girl.”
“Nonsense.”
“Why is she here? Tell me that.”
“She is here to accompany her uncle. And besides, Egypt is an interesting place to visit.”
“She is here to get a husband. Like the others.”
Zeinab had no high opinion of the scores of English girls who flocked over to Egypt during the Cairo season and flirted with the deprived and well-connected young army officers.
“She is not like them,” said Owen.
“Oh? And how is she not?”
“You can tell it straightaway.”
“Well, tell it then.”
Owen found this unexpectedly difficult.
“She is more modest,” he said lamely, “more shy and retiring.”
“More cunning,” said Zeinab.
“She is a Nonconformist.”
Zeinab was stopped in her tracks.
“What is this? This ‘Nonconformist’?” Under the strain of the occasion Zeinab’s accent was becoming more and more French. “She is Socialiste? Nationaliste? Her? I do not believe you.”
“It is religious.” It suddenly struck him that this was not perhaps the best time to go into the history of the Established Church in England. “A sort of sect.”
“Ah. Like the Copts.”
“No,” said Owen, “not like the Copts.”
“If I were you,” said Zeinab, “I would have nothing to do with Copts. Or Nonconformists.”
Things were indeed hotting up again; and they seemed to Owen to be hotting up chiefly on the Moslem side. Osman had recovered from his put-down and seemed bent on recovering the ground he had lost. There were incidents everywhere, in the bazaars, in the street markets, outside the churches, in the squares. The incidents were beginning to involve more people, too. That took organization; and that took money.
“He’s got more money than I have,” complained Owen after four largeish simultaneous demonstrations had stretched his resources to the utmost. “Where the hell does he get it from?”
“He must have powerful friends,” said Georgiades, who had just limped in off the streets; not injured but footsore. He wiped the sweat off his face with his sleeve and looked around hopefully. Nikos took pity on him and went out into the corridor and called for Yussuf. After a very long time Yussuf appeared. Since the debacle of the wedding/divorce he had become very morose, hardly responding to outside stimuli at all, sunk in his pain and brooding on his wrongs.
“Coffee at once!” said Nikos sharply. He was not one to make allowances.
Yussuf shuffled off and Georgiades waved a grateful hand.
“I thought you had powerful friends too,” he said to Owen. “Where are they?”
“They’ve got problems,” said Owen, “and I’m beginning to wonder whether their problems and our problems are connected.”
He told Nikos and Georgiades as much as he could about the current political log-jam, leaving out the Patros bit.
“You think there’s someone on the Moslem side who’s got an interest in keeping things on the boil?” asked Georgiades.
Owen nodded.
“There’s a lot of money washing around,” said Nikos. “Do you think it could be the Porte?”
Egypt was still in principle a province of the Ottoman Empire; and while the Khedive’s allegiance to the Sultan of the Sublime Porte was in practice nominal, the Turks took a keen interest in Egyptian affairs.
“No real sign of that so far. I think it’s internal.”
“Well, one thing’s for sure,” said Georgiades. “It’s not the Khedive. He hasn’t any money.”
“Not many of them have, at least not on the Moslem side. That’s why I think it could be a group of them acting together. Ministers, perhaps, who don’t like the way things are going.”
“Any evidence of that?”
“Well,” said Owen, “I don’t know if this is evidence, but…
He told them about Mahmoud being put back on the case.
“It must be someone high up,” said Nikos. “The case has been formally closed.”
“The Minister?”
“Could be. He’s new and ambitious.”
“Any money of his own?”
“Not of his own. He might be able to lay his hands on some.”
“Especially if he was doing it with a few friends.”
“It’s a bit out of our range, isn’t it?” asked Georgiades. “I mean, if it’s a minister?”
“The Consul-General’s in this particular political game too,” said Owen, “and I think he would be interested.”
“How do we find out?”
“The only line we’ve got is through Mordecai,” said Nikos.
“The Jew?”
Nikos nodded.
“In any case it would be interesting to find out where the money’s coming from,” said Owen.
“Find out,” said Georgiades, “and stop it. Because if you don’t, there could be big trouble. A few more demonstrations like those last night and the whole place could get going.”
“I think,” said Owen, “it’s time I had a word with Mordecai.”
The workers in gold spilled out of the Goldsmiths’ Bazaar and into the surrounding streets and alleyways. As you approached the bazaar you passed their showcases, full of the flimsy and barbaric workmanship which the native Egyptians admired. There were bracelets and anklets of great weight and solidity made of the purest gold. These were investments and the form in which less-educated Egyptians stored their savings. There were, too, rings and earrings and charms, charms especially, which the Egyptians loved.
Mordecai’s stall was on the very edge of the bazaar. You stepped down into it out of the street. It was lit by candles, and in the soft light the gold in the showcases round the walls shone three-dimensionally, given depth by the shadows. Mordecai himself was so much part of the shadows that at first when you stepped into the shop you did not see him. Then a little move, a little cough, made you aware of his presence.
He led Owen into a recess behind a recess. There was hardly room for the two of them, let alone for Georgiades, who followed them in but had to remain stuck in the doorway. In the confined space Owen was powerfully aware of the heavy smell of body oil which, like many Egyptians, Mordecai used in abundance. As the moments went by he became aware of another smell, that of sweat. For Mordecai was sweating profusely. He was scared.
“You know who I am?”
Mordecai moistened his lips.
“Yes, effendi. The Mamur Zapt.”
“Very well, then. You know what I can do. You need not fear, however. You are only a little player in a game in which there are big players. I am not interested in little players. When you have told me what you know you can go. Provided that you tell me truly.”
“Effendi.. Mordecai hesitated.
“Yes?”
“What of the big players? What will they do to me?”
“I am here. They are not.”