“He would have been angry. He might have spoken with a lot of force. Enough to attract attention.”
“I’ll get it checked.”
Owen, who had had a long, hot day too, had proposed a walk along the river bank before finding a cafe. It was dark by this time and the street-lamps were on. It ought to be getting cool. They turned along a promenade beneath the palms.
“If someone heard him,” said Owen presently, “they were there, too. Who else was at the meeting?”
“The whole village. It was one of a series of meetings the Nationalists have been holding in that area.”
“Not just the village,” said Owen.
“No? Who are you thinking of?”
“The Nationalists must have sent some people.”
There was a little pause.
“Yes,” said Mahmoud, rather distantly, “yes, they must have.” “We ought to find out who they were.”
Then, as Mahmoud did not reply at all, Owen looked round at him. Mahmoud’s face had gone wooden.
Something had upset him. Owen wondered if it was anything he had done. Perhaps Mahmoud was fed up with Owen telling him his business.
“Just a thought,” he said apologetically. “I dare say you’ve got it all in hand.”
Mahmoud did not respond. Owen racked his brains to see what he’d done wrong.
“Not my business, perhaps,” he said. “Sorry!”
In the poor light of the street-lamps he could not see whether Mahmoud acknowledged his apology. He began to grow a little irritated. Mahmoud had been all right when they met. A little hot and bothered after his day in court, perhaps. Why had he suddenly become all huffy?
A thought struck him. Surely Mahmoud did not think he was trying to use him? That Owen wanted him to compile a list of active Nationalists which the Mamur Zapt might then make use of for other purposes?
“I hope you don’t think I’m trying to get some names out of you,” he said angrily.
Mahmoud grimaced. It was clear that was exactly what he did think.
Owen was furious. How could Mahmoud suppose that! After the friendship that had sprung up between them! It was unjust and unfair. He had taken Mahmoud to be a reasonable man. But this was so unreasonable…
Just like a bloody Egyptian. He had met this sort of thing before. You would be getting on all right with them one minute and then the next minute something would happen and they would be quite different. They would go all wooden, just as Mahmoud had done, and you wouldn’t be able to get any sense out of them. He hadn’t thought Mahmoud was like that, though. He had seemed all right. Why was he getting himself in a stew over something as trivial as this? It wasn’t as if it was going to make any difference. If Owen wanted the names he would bloody well get them. His own men would get the lot within twenty-four hours. Why was Mahmoud being so absurdly stuffy?
Then another thought struck him. Perhaps it wasn’t so trivial to Mahmoud, after all. Owen remembered his earlier speculations about Mahmoud’s politics. He had admitted he was a Nationalist himself. Whose side was he on?
And then a faint warning bell began to tinkle. It manifested itself as a growing unease which started just at the time that he said to himself, “Just like a bloody Egyptian.” As soon as you started saying things like that you were talking like an Old Hand. Owen had not got on with the Old Hands in India and when he had transferred to Egypt he had sworn to himself that he would never become like them. And here he was! “Bloody native” would be next.
In this case, too, natural antagonism was reinforced by family upbringing. Owen was unusual among Army officers in having been brought up as a Welsh Liberal; and he could hear his mother’s soft voice in the background saying firmly: “Not a native, dear; an Eastern gentleman.” His Welsh Liberalism had been somewhat tempered by the Army but, having lost his parents early, he adhered all the more strongly to his mother’s teaching, especially when it came to personal relations. Every man, from the highest to the lowest, of whatever race or colour or creed, was to be treated as a gentleman; every woman as a lady.
Except bloody Brooker, he told himself.
He began to simmer down. Perhaps he was overreacting. Mahmoud had made perfectly clear what his political position was, and it was a completely respectable one. And it was not unreasonable that he should be worried about putting a list of Nationalist sympathizers into the hands of the Mamur Zapt. He might even have used it.
That thought quite shocked him. Would he really have used it? he asked himself. Well, yes, he might, he was forced to admit. It was his job, after all. In that case Mahmoud was not being so unreasonable. In fact, he was not being unreasonable at all. Just properly cautious.
He stole a glance at Mahmoud. His face was stiff and unyielding. This was an issue of principle for him and he was not going to give way.
Owen could see the bridge ahead of them. That was where the promenade came to an end, and unless something happened that was where the walk would come to an end.
Owen knew that he was the one who would have to do something. The trouble was that he couldn’t think what.
Just before they got to the bridge he stopped and turned, forcing Mahmoud to look at him.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said.
“Yes?” Mahmoud was wary but not completely distant.
“I’ve been trying to think of a way forward,” Owen said, “one acceptable to both of us.”
Mahmoud was interested, and because he was interested his face lost some of its woodenness.
“Let me try this on you: my people make a list and your people make a list. You check everyone whether they are on my list or on your list. If they’re on your list and not on mine you don’t have to tell me-unless you want to.”
Mahmoud’s face cleared at once.
“I would be happy with that,” he said. “I would be very happy with that.”
“Of course,” said Mahmoud, “it may not be political anyway.”
They were sitting in a cafe, one of the few Arab ones in this European part of the city.
“What else could it be?”
“Well, let me try something on you,” Mahmoud said. “Someone besides Mustafa has got a personal grudge. Perhaps even for the same reason-Nuri can’t leave women alone.”
“And set Mustafa up?”
“Yes. That way they would get their revenge and not get caught. If it worked.”
“No real evidence,” said Owen.
“No real evidence for it being political,” Mahmoud pointed out. “Yes, but-”
“You’ve got a feel?” Mahmoud laughed. "So have I. I’m just being a good boy and checking out all the possibilities. Like they taught me in college.”
Owen laughed, too, more comfortable now.
“There you are!” he said. “That’s where you have the advantage!” Mahmoud looked at him curiously.
“You didn’t go to college? They didn’t train you?”
“Not for this,” said Owen.
“The English prefer amateurs,” said Mahmoud.
He meant it consolingly, Owen knew, but the remark jarred. That was how many Egyptians saw it, he knew. Most of them, if they were in the professions, had received a formal training, either in Cairo or in France.
Mahmoud, quite at ease now, took a sip of coffee and then sat thinking.
“There’s no real evidence for either,” he said, going back to his original line of thought. “Like you, I incline to the political. But there’s one thing that bothers me. If it's political. Ordinary politicians are not going to be involved. It’s got to be extremists. But if it’s them there’s something funny about it. Why are they using Mustafa?”
“If it’s a ‘club’ they’ll have people of their own, you mean.”
“Yes. People who know what they’re doing.” “Not all the ‘clubs’ are as professional as you imagine,” Owen pointed out. He was something of an expert on such matters. “The ones based in the universities, for instance. That,” he said, “is why they usually don’t last very long.”
He wondered immediately whether this would upset Mahmoud again and looked at him a trifle anxiously.