“Have mercy, effendi.”
“I might have mercy,” said Owen, “if I thought there was any point in it.”
The woman stopped wailing.
“Why should there be no point in it, effendi?” she asked quietly, in a perfectly normal voice.
“Because his heart would still be troubled.”
“He loves me,” said the woman, slightly with surprise, slightly with satisfaction.
“He loves you and wants you back. Will you not return to him?”
The woman dropped the fold from her face and looked up at him seriously.
“I would, effendi,” she said, troubled. “Suleiman is a pig. All he wants is harem business. He keeps on all the time. A little, I don’t mind. It’s good for a woman. But this pig thinks of nothing else.”
“Yussuf is a good man,” said Owen. “He has his faults, but he is a good man.”
“A woman could do worse,” Fatima conceded, “as I have found, unfortunately.”
“Besides,” said Owen, “he might have learnt his lesson.”
The woman looked up at him. There was a glint in her eye.
“I think he might, effendi,” she said.
“Then what is to be done?”
“Suleiman will not agree to a divorce,” Fatima said, “unless you give him money. A lot of money. He thinks that because you are a good master you will want Yussuf to be happy and so will pay a lot.”
“She isn’t worth it,” said one of the bearers firmly.
“Do not let yourself be beguiled, effendi,” said another of the bearers. “Yussuf will be better off without her.”
“Suleiman will tire of her,” said another, “when he has had his fill.”
“The Mamur Zapt has more wisdom than you,” the woman retorted with spirit.
“I will think about this,” Owen had said.
And thinking was what he was doing, without success.
The trouble at the bottom was money. That was another thing he had to think about. The Curbash Compensation Fund was completely exhausted. He couldn’t pay for Yussuf. He couldn’t pay his agents. And he certainly couldn’t manage any of the substantial bribes on which the Mamur Zapt’s day-to-day management of the city depended. What was he to do? Even if he survived the present crisis with its unusually heavy demands on resources, there were still a few weeks to go before he received his allocation for the next year. He would have to cut back just when spending might be most needed. There was, after all, the Moulid coming up. He would have to pay for the policing of that out of this year’s money. With what?
If only John Postlethwaite would go away things could return to normal and he might be able to get some money as a special case in view of the emergency and the delicate state of politics. But what with Postlethwaite and the political situation there was absolutely no hope.
But if John Postlethwaite went he would take Jane Postlethwaite with him. Would that be a good thing or a bad thing? He was going to be leaving soon anyway so Owen would have to make up his mind about Jane. Oh Christ, there he was going round in a circle again.
Lastly, he thought about Andrus. He thought he understood now about Zoser. There had been no plot. Andrus had gone to Zoser and poured out his heart. Zoser, as rigid as Andrus and far less intelligent, had taken it upon himself to put right the wrong which had been done to his friend and his church. He could have learned who had perpetrated the deed either from Andrus or through the ordinary gossip of the bazaars. And once he had learned, for the uncomplicated Zoser there would have been no gap between decision and action.
Zoser, poor man, had seen to his own punishment. Andrus’s was still to come.
Over the killing of the Zikr, Andrus, though not blameless, was probably not very guilty. On the other matter, however, inciting unrest in the city which had already led to trouble between Moslem and Copt and might still lead to massacre, Andrus was, if not the prime mover, then definitely a prime mover, and for that he must be made to pay.
But that was not what Owen was thinking about. Nor was he thinking about who really was the prime mover, for he thought he knew that already. All he was waiting for was confirmation.
No, the problem which really preoccupied him, which he kept returning to from one direction after another, and one in which he never seemed to make headway, was how to use the information he had to bring the conflict between Copt and Moslem to an end. It had to be soon, it had to be quick, and so far he had seen no way of achieving it.
Not that he had made much progress on anything else. Even Yussuf, the simplest of the problems. He wished he could speak to Zeinab about it. Zeinab was quite good at that sort of thing. Zeinab-oh God, there he went again.
Yussuf. Well, at least he had learned his lesson. He would never do that again. He was absolutely ashamed of himself. And as Owen reflected on Yussuf, and on the effects of shame, the glimmerings of an idea began to come to him.
He became aware of someone in the room. It was Nikos.
“He has come back,” he said.
“Did he see where Andrus went?”
“Yes.”
After the interview Andrus, much to his surprise, had been released; but when he left Mahmoud’s office one of Owen’s agents had followed on behind him.
“Who did he go to?”
“Sesostris,” said Nikos. “As you expected.”
“What do you want?” said Andrus.
“I want you to withdraw all your people from the streets, to send them home and to tell them to stay at home, until at least after the Moulid. You are to instruct them not to respond to Moslem provocation. There won’t be any after tomorrow, but if there is they are not to respond to it. They are to take special pains not to offend Moslem susceptibilities. Above all, they are not to use any violence. If they do, I expect you to tell me their names and I will deal with them.”
Andrus laughed incredulously.
“Is that all you want?” he demanded. “You must be mad.”
“It’s not quite all,” said Owen, “but it will do for a start.”
“If you think I’m going to do any of these things,” said Andrus, “let alone all of them, you must be crazy.”
“I think not.”
“Well, I’m not going to do them. Not any of them.”
“Oh, but you are.”
“If you think you can frighten me,” said Andrus, “you are mistaken.”
“I don’t.”
“Then what makes you think I am going to do them?”
“Because if you don’t,” said Owen, “I shall let it be generally known that Andrus has been giving money to the Moslems for them to use against Copts.”
“No one would believe you,” said Andrus, but his face went pale.
“Won’t they? Even when they hear the evidence?”
“They will believe it to be a trick.”
“Even when they hear the evidence? Mordecai?”
“Mordecai would never dare.”
“Mordecai has already agreed.”
“But-but it wasn’t like that.”
“Will anyone believe you? Anyone?”
Andrus licked his lips.
“I cannot,” he whispered. “I cannot.”
“You can,” said Owen, “and will.”
“Take me to prison.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“If I take you to prison,” said Owen, “people will say: ‘There goes Andrus, the enemy of the Moslems.’ But you are not their enemy. You are their friend. You give money to them to use against Copts. Therefore go free.”
Andrus looked at him, stunned. He sat like that for a long time. Then he buried his face in his hands.
“Very well,” he said in a choked voice. “Very well. I will do it.”
He stood up and almost tottered. He had suddenly aged.
“That is not all,” said Owen.
“Not all?”
Andrus seemed totally bewildered. His hands trembled.
“Sit down.”
It was as if Andrus’s legs had given way under him.
“What more do you want?” he whispered.
“You are to send a message to Sesostris. You are to tell him that you have to see him urgently. You will tell him that it must be in secret and that it is very, very important. And then you will tell him to come to a place that I will tell you of and at a time that I will tell you. And there you will meet him and say what I tell you.”