“Why,” said Ramses admiringly, “you’re beginning to think just like an accountant! Yes, in principle it could be done. I could get a few Copt bankers to club together to find a sufficient sum. It would have to be a loan to the Government, mind, not to the Khedive personally. A special loan so that, say, all the statues in Cairo can be cleaned on time for the Khedive’s birthday. They wouldn’t be cleaned, of course, but no one would know. A public loan like that would have the added advantage of showing the Khedive what loyal subjects we Copts are and how greatly we admire him.”
“You think you could stitch that up?”
“Yes. On condition that the levy were withdrawn. Patros would have to become Prime Minister, too, so that we could be sure that the money would be repaid. Incidentally, I see problems there.”
“The Consul-General will agree.”
“Yes, but some of our side won’t be very happy. As you probably know, there’s a strong party among the Copts who are utterly opposed to any Coptic participation in the Government, even on a personal basis.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Owen, “I think you may find that in future that party is not quite as strong as it has been.”
Before leaving the Ministry, Owen rang Paul at the Consul-General’s Residency.
“Oh yes,” said Paul. “I think that can be managed. I’ll have a word with the Old Man. But do you think the Copts will really deliver?”
“I think they will if you can get the Old Man to twist the Khedive’s arm enough to persuade him to withdraw the levy.”
“OK,” said Paul. “I’ll see he gets twisting.”
Instead of going to the Club as he usually did for lunch, Owen went to Zeinab’s apartment. She was surprised and pleased to see him. Afterwards, as she lay drowsily in his arms, she said:
“How is your little Nonconformiste?”
“All right, I think. I haven’t seen her since the opera.”
“I’m not jealous,” Zeinab assured him. “If you want her, you can have her.”
“She may have her own views about that.”
“Are you taking her to the Moulid?”
“Paul wants me to.”
Zeinab was quiet for a moment or two.
“Have you ever been to the Moulid?” she asked.
“Not this one.”
“Ah. Then you must take her. Yes, you must certainly take her.”
“Perhaps I will,” said Owen innocently.
Later, as Zeinab sat brushing her hair, she said:
“How is Yussuf?”
“In the cells.”
“Poor man. It is time you let him out.”
“I would if I was sure he wouldn’t go straight back and do it again.”
“He ought to remarry Fatima.”
“That’s what I’m trying to achieve.”
“Have you talked to the man, the one who married her?”
“Suleiman? No. I’ve talked to Fatima, though. She says that Suleiman will want money.”
“Of course.”
“Yes, but I haven’t any. The Compensation Fund is exhausted. Anyway, it’s a bad accounting principle.”
“Accounting principle?” said Zeinab, surprised.
“Yes. Give him some and they’ll all be doing it.”
“That is accounting principle?”
“More or less. Financial control, anyway.”
Zeinab shrugged. One of her shoulders emerged from her gown and Owen went across and kissed it.
“I have been thinking,” said Zeinab, laying down her brush. “Has Fatima any family?”
“I don’t know. I expect so. Why?”
“It is one thing taking a woman into your house,” said Zeinab. “It is another thing taking her family.”
“So?”
“If she has a large family and some of them are unprovided for, say, for instance, she has unmarried sisters and aunts and nieces, then it is only right, since her husband has married into the family, that he should provide for them, too.”
“Yes, but will he see it like that?”
“It is a duty to provide for your wife’s family as for your own. Why don’t you suggest it to Fatima? She sounds the sort of woman who wouldn’t like to let things slip.”
“I might do that.”
“Yes. If you did,” said Zeinab, “you might even find Suleiman ready to think again.”
Owen had taken a house in the old part of the city not far from the Mar Girgis. Through the heavy fretwork of its top windows he could see the towering minarets of the Bab es Zuweyla, and from the box window of the storey below, where he was standing when Sesostris approached, he had a good view along the street in both directions.
It was dark and the lamps were lit and they might not have seen Sesostris if he had not had to step aside to avoid a porter with a heavy bundle on his back and stand for a moment in the light from a shopfront. They watched him come to the door.
Owen had had the house cleared and the servant who let Sesostris in was one of his own men. They heard the door close and the footsteps begin to climb the stairs.
In the room Andrus twisted his hands nervously. He was a shell of the man he had been previously. Owen gave him a warning glance. He did not want things to go wrong at this stage.
He glanced round the room to make sure all was in order. It was a modest but comfortably furnished room with a divan, low tables and large leather cushions on the floor. The walls were covered with fine red carpets. Georgiades held one of these aside and stood waiting.
Behind the carpet was a shallow recess in which the bedding was normally stored. When Georgiades and he were standing inside it and the carpet replaced, the wall looked like any other wall.
Sesostris came into the room.
“Well, Andrus?” they heard him say.
“Greetings, Sesostris,” Andrus said with difficulty.
“Why have you brought me here?”
“Because it is safest,” said Andrus, as they had agreed. “They are watching our houses. My house-and yours.”
“Mine?”
“They have found out. The Mamur Zapt knows.”
“What does he know? And how do you know that he knows?”
“I have a man in his office. Nikos.”
Owen winced. He thought that an unnecessary touch of Georgiades’s.
“He has told me.”
“How much does the Mamur Zapt know?”
“He knows about the money. And to whom it goes.”
“If he knows, why has he not moved?”
“To know is one thing. To be able to prove is another. That is why he is having the houses watched.”
“So he is not confident yet. Well, that is useful to know.”
Sesostris did not speak for some time. They heard him moving. He seemed to be walking up and down.
“It gives me a chance,” they heard him mutter, as much to himself as to Andrus. “The question is whether to stop now or go on.”
“I think we should stop, Sesostris,” Andrus squeaked uneasily. This part had not been in the script.
“It would be a pity to stop now, just when we are nearly there. A few more days, a week perhaps, would be sufficient. Two weeks at the outside.”
“The Mamur Zapt knows.”
“But cannot prove. Let us make sure that for the next two weeks he still cannot prove.”
“How can we do that?”
“We will not meet. I will get the money to you in some other way.”
“That is all right for you,” said Andrus with an unexpected flash of his old spirit, “but what about me? He knows I am the organization.”
“The church house is watched too?” Sesostris was silent for a moment. “Then you must move somewhere else,” he said with decision.
“They will find out.”
“But not at once. A week is all we need.”
“Is it so close?”
“The Khedive has to decide this week. While there is trouble between Copt and Moslem he cannot offer it to a Copt nor a Copt take it.”
“So he will have to offer it to someone other than Patros?”
“Yes.”
“That will be a Moslem,” said Andrus doubtfully.
“That suits us,” said Sesostris with extra definiteness.
“He will impose the levy.”
“And that suits us too. It is the only thing that will stir our sleeping brethren, the only thing that will make them fight and not cooperate. It is time,” said Sesostris, “to make a stand.”